The muted beat that opens Rose Kemp's "Tiny Flower" is nothing but modern: It sounds like feet crunching in snow, but had it been mixed higher, it might have sounded like something unleashed by hip-hop producer Timbaland.
When I'd finally arrive at the square of the Louvre, the pickpockets would smile at me in greeting, while the flower seller pushed a nosegay of bruised violets or tiny pink roses into my hands.