It's like losing a friend. I looked forward to reading every page—the baseball scores available nowhere else, the smart editorials culled from papers around the world, Art Buchwald, the Times crossword. It was the last vestige of the snappy NY paper, with its distinctive Bodoni display face. . . As a student, I had Jean Seberg's job for a spell, late nights. The paper was literally fresh off the press—the ink smell was strong. My territory was the 6th arrondissement—blvd Saint-Germain, Montparnasse, the little streets in between. James Baldwin was a regular. Bartenders would pour me a cognac, American kids on teen tours would be snotty, but never buy the paper. Philippe Petit tightrope-walked between the chestnut trees. Rat Man would flash his rat from beneath an overcoat. My piano prof, Michel Sardaby, let me sit in for a tune with him every night (usually John Lewis's "Bluesology," in F) at the club where he gigged just off blvd Saint-Michel. On the way out I'd sell an extra 5-10 papers. Good times. JK
ed note: read about the demise of the IHT here. sdh