Nicole Lyons (who fixes my words once a week at the Register) sent a thoughtful email regarding a scene she thought might make a nice photograph.

At the place she mentioned, I struggled with the composition. But Nicole was right. There was a photograph to be made, but maybe not just yet.

As I maneuvered to find just the right angle, I was reminded of a trip I took years ago to Paris with a hopeful side trip to Giverny and Monet's artful turf.

It was a small dream of sorts. I love his paintings.

In France, my car broke down leaving de Gaulle Airport in the middle lane of what seemed like the busiest roadway in the world. I'm glad I don't understand French – the gestures and shouts were extraordinary.

When I finally reached my destination, the small community seemed as quiet as I had anticipated. A bit too quiet.

I asked a gentleman walking along a village street, as best I could, where was Monet's painting place. He replied, “You are an American?” I acknowledged that I was. He continued, “Monet is not here … your cheap air fare did not explain this?”

Too early.

Sort of like this week's photograph.