Lost time

and the caves of Paris.

Graffiti on a wall in Paris.

Do you have a cave?

If you live in Paris, you might.

In that case, you will pronounce it like what a whale does when it gives birth. Or what Bostonians do to a turkey at Thanksgiving.

Cahhhhve.

It’s kind of a basement but French people will tell you, actually, a basement is a “sous-sol” (literally: under-sun), a place that can also serve as living quarters.

La cave is something else entirely. It’s the cellar, the larder, the storage place. It’s where you keep your extra bits and pieces, dry goods, wine bottles perhaps.

In Paris, my sister says, the caves must be full of treasures. Ski boots and escalade equipment from early attempts up Mont Blanc, maybe. Ancient film reels from the ’30s, rows of dusty vintages. Perhaps a lost Manet, or two.

It’s where people keep all the forgotten, lost bits of themselves.

If you want to go in search of lost time in Paris, you could do worse than starting in a cave.

My sister’s building has a cave, shared by the building’s occupants. You descend into the cave via a coffin-size lift with a folding accordion door.