Interesting concept, Ramadan. And one I knew about but, clearly, had never experienced.

One full month of fasting during the day. From sunrise to sundown. Nothing to eat. Nothing. And it gets more difficult than that.

No smoking, either. And here is the really tough one: No liquids. Not even water. From sunrise to sundown.

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A friend sent me the link late last night, Abu Dhabi time.

Vin Scully would “make an announcement” before today’s Dodgers game with the Cincinnati Reds.

And, of course, anytime Vinny makes an announcement, considering that he’s 82 … it freaks out all Vinny-o-philes.

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It’s an exchange from the 1974 movie “Blazing Saddles.” Always makes me smile.

Sheriff Bart: “Can’t you see it’s the last act of a desperate man?”

Townsman: “I don’t care if it’s the first act of Henry the Fifth.”

So, in our last social act in Paris, here early on the morning of Aug. 21 … we will walk down to the opening of the cul de sac, on Rue de Tresor, about 75 yards …

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This was the day. The one in your imagination. Or your memory. On your movie screens. When Paris is sunny and beautiful and lively and almost dream-like in it scrumptious goodness and magnetic appeal and all those recreational options, options, options!

For two weeks here, it was mostly cloudy. Even rainy. Which suited a couple of people escaping the summer heat of Abu Dhabi just fine. Rain? Temps in the 60s? Bring it on.

Today, however, was what the first-time tourists, the young lovers, the romantics and the epicures want from their Paris vacations. And it isn’t about stubborn clouds and rain.

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I was struck by this last year, and I am again:

Paris has to be the world’s biggest city that cares almost not at all about team sports.

For that matter, nearly the whole of France has escaped the maladie that is sports fandom. Which may actually be healthy, as well as unique. But it certainly is weird.

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Yes, I said it about two weeks ago.

“Even I’m ticked off at Brett Favre.”

This was after all the reports, early this month, of him calling officials and players of the Minnesota Vikings and telling them that his ankle wasn’t sound enough for him to play … that he was going to have to retire.

And it wasn’t just that we had to tear up two inside pages on deadline in Abu Dhabi.

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This isn’t about sports. Nor journalism. Nor sports journalism.

(OK, wait. A tipsy Englishman sitting next to us, who decided to tell us about hedge-fund managers he has known, conceded to being a fan of Newcastle United. I expressed my deepest condolences. He thanked me.)

What this is really about … is just food and pictures thereof. Every dish from our meal at the one-star Michelin restaurant we had dinner at the other night.

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Almost 11 months ago I did a blog post that generated as much hate mail as anything I’ve written at this address. Vile stuff. Unprintable. I posted eight comments, but another 20-plus I did not. Not because I didn’t like the criticism (I read them all), but because I didn’t feel like redacting the vulgarities.

“Matt Kemp Is the Biggest Dodger Dolt”, was the headline, and it was a comparatively mild (in my opinion) critique of the Dodgers’ center fielder, suggesting that he made more dumb mistakes than anyone on the team. Both on the bases and in the field.

That prompted outrage from the Matt Kemp Hugger Battalion, most of them the sort of sabermetric geeks who never let what they can see with their own eyes distract them from the dry, out-of-context statistics.

So, after tracking Matt Kemp’s modest performance this season, so far, from locales ranging from Paris to Italy to Abu Dhabi … I have to ask:

“How do you like Matt Kemp now?”

Let’s review:

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Paris seems to be about eating as much as anything. Sure, culture, history, fashion, ideas, government, all those matter. But most of them seem to amplified or explained or resolved … over a slow, leisurely meal.

I am no gourmand.  But I know what I like, and this is what I look forward to eating when I am in Paris. Counting down.

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“Marais” means swamp, in French (perhaps related to “marsh” or “morass” in English?), and because the ground was less-than-solid, in previous centuries, Le Marais was one of the last parts of the central city to be developed.

Now, curiously, it is one of the oldest parts of Paris, with the sort of narrow, short, non-Haussmannian streets nearly wiped out in the 19th-century overhaul of the capital. The one that gave us the wide boulevards radiating outward from key monuments.

After a week north of Bastille, we moved today to the Marais, downsizing significantly. As we knew we would, considering this is one of the most expensive neighborhoods in the city.

But it’s probably worth it.

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