How Did You Get This Number Part 8

MY FRIEND EMILY AND I WERE BACKPACKING AROUND Europe together in a lopsided horseshoe path that began in Spain and would end in Turkey. More than any other destination, both of us were eager to reach Paris. How could we not be?

a. Paris is awesome, and we could sense its awesomeness in advance.b. Emily wanted to see Notre Dame before she died.c. Somebody Somebody had misread the train schedule leaving Barcelona, thus resulting in an Alps-obscuring overnight train trip in which we woke up in Geneva, Switzerland, and proceeded to get into a ma.s.sive fight at a train station cafe, which culminated in my saying something about overrated chocolate, looping my arms into my backpack, and storming out of said station to wander the streets of Geneva, thinking it would be less trouble to spend the rest of my life in a Swiss bus shelter than to sort out the next southbound train. had misread the train schedule leaving Barcelona, thus resulting in an Alps-obscuring overnight train trip in which we woke up in Geneva, Switzerland, and proceeded to get into a ma.s.sive fight at a train station cafe, which culminated in my saying something about overrated chocolate, looping my arms into my backpack, and storming out of said station to wander the streets of Geneva, thinking it would be less trouble to spend the rest of my life in a Swiss bus shelter than to sort out the next southbound train.

When I eventually returned, Emily was gone. I thought perhaps she had gone back to Spain. I wouldn't have blamed her. The weather was more pleasant in Barcelona, as was our friendship. But when I reached the appropriate platform, there she was, chin in hand, sitting on her own overstuffed backpack as if it were a giant mushroom. I plopped down next to her.

"I'm sorry," I said, which in retrospect was the right thing to say when you abandon someone in a foreign country with no sign of returning. But which I probably didn't mean at the time. Fatigue had rendered me impervious to Switzerland's neutrality vibes. Emily unstuck her hand, hung her head, and spoke to the platform.

"I tried to buy a bagel, but they won't accept French francs. I offered them fifty francs for a bagel."

"That's just sad."

"Isn't it?" she said, looking up and smiling at me. "How can we have this much difficulty getting to Paris? What would happen to us in Bogota?"

"We'd sell our bodies to the night in exchange for cocaine and corn on sticks."

"That sounds nice."

Since we arrived a day late, the beds in our hostel of choice had been filled by a pair of German lesbian equestrians. They were in town for a convention, though we couldn't say if it was for Germans or lesbians or equestrians. Either way, we didn't put up a fight. Instead, we wandered the streets, checking into the cheapest one-fifth-of-a-star hotel we could find. Located kind of near Les Halles, it was a hotel only in the sense that a lot of people who didn't live there slept there at night. Or, rather, during the day. Like racc.o.o.ns.

Hygienic hostels and grimy hotels are a little like employees in a large corporation. When graduating from entry-level, there's a gap of time in which you are no longer an a.s.sistant and thus stop receiving overtime. Your salary actually decreases. Your quality of life was better before the upgrade. Sitting in this "hotel" on a partially upholstered bench with wool protruding from the edges was like a demotion, with Emily and me doing twice the grunt work for half the perks.

"Do you think they have the Internet?" She straightened up.

"No, I don't think they have the Internet."

Meanwhile, the manager sat behind a bulletproof booth and dug through a drawer of keys. I think if he had escorted us anywhere but a lit hallway, we would have run.

"Look at that." I tapped Emily on the arm and gestured toward a completely naked man down the hall. His puckered slabs of fat folded on top of one another as he bent down to feed two less judgmental cats.

I am a firm believer in not letting disgusting things be witnessed alone. Once, as I watched an old c.o.c.kroach crawl across the back of my living room sofa, I called my squeamish roommate to tell her the precise measurements and trajectory of the roach. If I had to continue living in our apartment knowing where it had been, I was taking her down with me.

When we got to our room, I shut the sliding lock behind us, and Emily propped a desk chair beneath the doork.n.o.b, a move I was pretty sure both of us had seen only in fictional form. There was a dried bar of used soap and a child's dirty sock on the windowsill. We took photos of each other in chalk-outline formation, pretending to be dead on the floor. We slept with our pa.s.sports in our underwear-a double score for any would-be rapist! In a fit of hygiene control, I turned my shirt inside out and used it as a pillowcase, sleeping on what looked like a dismembered pregnant lady. And the next morning, in a spasm of realism regarding weeks of dirty laundry, I put the shirt right back on. We couldn't let the room win.

It didn't matter how many heroin addicts we found slumped in the communal bathroom or prost.i.tutes running drunk through the halls. It didn't matter how many Gauloises we had to smoke to mask the scent of armpits unwashed and dreams deferred. We were going to love Paris. This trip was our cultural vaccination. We'd see and do everything touristy we could so that one day we might come back as real adults and not have to go to a single museum or dead person's mansion. It was like tapas vacation. On day one, Emily planned our first course: a whole day around cathedrals, culminating in her beloved Notre Dame. In pencil, she drew crosses on her map, most of which looked like X's. Which made the map as a whole look like that serial-killer-trailing one on police bulletin boards. I had moved past the Geneva train debacle and was happy to cede control in the matter of churches. Best, I thought, to get G.o.d out of the way as quickly as possible.

It's a strange concept, visiting a cathedral. A park is built expressly for visitors. So is a museum. Even the most avant-garde museums don't hang the art on the walls as it's being painted. But a cathedral has a whole other utilitarian life running parallel to the shrinelike patina of history. It's like visiting a work in progress. And the more elaborate the work, the more one feels as if one is intruding.

Emily's reaction to this was different from mine. Her experience seemed to be bolstered by the presence of real Parisians praying in pews. In one day, we had been to the Basilique du Sacre-Coeur, Saint Pierre de Montmartre, and the stained-gla.s.s light show that was Sainte Chapelle. By the time we hit Notre Dame, Emily had completely detached from the secular world in which she was raised. Maybe it was the b.u.t.tresses. Maybe it was the tiers of votive candles or the embalmed saints. But my companion, a Protestant by birth, decided she wanted to confess.

"Noooo." I shook my head.

"Yessss." She nodded hers.

This seemed like too sudden a leap, just as all of Catholicism always seemed like too sudden a leap, regardless of the board from which one dove. Because we had a Christmas tree, I was never one of those Jewish kids who felt cheated out of the pageantry of an awesome winter holiday. There is a very specific frustration that accompanies an irreparably tangled string of lights, and I am familiar with it. But the downside to this candy-cane familiarity was a heightened curiosity about Christianity in general and Catholicism in specific. So one winter I asked my mother to explain to me the difference between most Christian denominations and Catholics. Which she obliged over cherry frosted Pop-Tarts.

"Protestants, for example," she said, cracking off a piece of Pop-Tart against a piece of Bounty, "believe that when they take the Eucharist, it's the symbol of the body of Christ."

I nodded. Symbolism was something I could get behind. The seder plate was an orgy of murderous a.n.a.logies on a tray.

"Catholics, on the other hand, believe that they are literally taking in the blood and body of Christ."

"So, the cracker turns into Christ when they eat it?"

I imagined the safari-themed sponge capsules we used to get from the toy store. It's all neon-colored horse pills until you put them in the bathroom sink and boom: a hippo.

"Something like that," she agreed, putting the b.l.o.o.d.y toaster pastry between her lips.

Thus began my awe and fascination with the Catholics. The Catholics had magical powers. And d.a.m.n it if they didn't know how to decorate. Christmas? Christmas was nothing. The first time I went to Easter services with a family friend, gilded eggs hung from the rafters. Women wore generously brimmed hats. They had the instincts to duck and weave the way civilians should but didn't with umbrellas. At the end of the sermon, an old man to my right said, "Peace be with you," and spontaneously hugged me.

"Oh," I whispered, and froze.

Eventually I gave in to this man's embrace, leaning into his musk. I had watched him brace against his walker and receive Communion, and now I was encircled by the arms of a person who had eaten Jesus.

There was something admirable about this way of thinking, something attractive about the sure leap into the invisible. An unadulterated bag of crazy? Yes. But admirable. No matter what your own beliefs may be, the mental fort.i.tude required to think that your saliva has Rumpelstiltskinesque powers is something to be respected. Which is why I didn't want Emily f.u.c.king with it.

"I don't know if that's a good idea," I said, pointing at the palm of my hand and nodding toward a statue of the Virgin Mary.

Have you ever covered a flashlight with your fingers just to watch your blood light up? That's how Emily looked at me-right through my skin and into my soul. Her eyes filled with hope.

In all likelihood, they were just irritated from the hotel sheets and watering because we misread the label on contact solution and bought mouthwash instead. But standing there in a cool stone corridor in Notre Dame, I knew we wouldn't be leaving unless she confessed. The power of Christ compelled her.

Of course, confessing in Notre Dame is not quite the same thing as confessing in your standard red velvet phone booth to the Almighty. This sin-purging line was fifteen people deep and at least half an hour long. And what it led to was not a curtain but a tres tres large and large and tres tres see-through gla.s.s office between two of the ancient pillars. From the outside, you could make out the backs of sinners' heads, bowing through a checklist of bad habits. It reminded me of the open cubicles of street-level bank branches in Manhattan, financial pet store windows. I am consistently impressed by their inhabitants' ability to keep their attention focused on their clients and their staplers so neatly aligned with their tape dispensers. Perhaps priests were able to do the same with G.o.d, lay him out on the desk and staple him into each wayward soul. Also like a bank branch, we lined up between slack velvet ropes. Up front was a paper sign slid into a metal frame. It read FRENCH/ ENGLISH. see-through gla.s.s office between two of the ancient pillars. From the outside, you could make out the backs of sinners' heads, bowing through a checklist of bad habits. It reminded me of the open cubicles of street-level bank branches in Manhattan, financial pet store windows. I am consistently impressed by their inhabitants' ability to keep their attention focused on their clients and their staplers so neatly aligned with their tape dispensers. Perhaps priests were able to do the same with G.o.d, lay him out on the desk and staple him into each wayward soul. Also like a bank branch, we lined up between slack velvet ropes. Up front was a paper sign slid into a metal frame. It read FRENCH/ ENGLISH.

"Where do I start?" Emily was giddy with intimidation. I hadn't thought of this-if you are nineteen and have never confessed, do you begin with the cigarette inhaled before noon this morning or the time you stole a package of sparkly pipe cleaners from your second-grade art cla.s.s and kept them in the bottom of your closet for two years, eventually throwing them out because you felt so guilty? Do you mention the lying, the drinking, the cheating, the gambling, the masturbation, the schadenfreude, the disrespecting of your parents, the disrespecting of other people's parents, the doing of the drugs, the shoplifting of the gum, the coveting of worldly goods, the advantage-taking, the responsibility-foisting, the tone you use with food delivery people when you're alone and they're foreign, that time you had a hangnail on your toe so you stuck your foot in your mouth and you bit it off like a monkey? Or is that all kind of a given by now?

As we moved up the line, Emily kicking her giant backpack ahead of her, visitors solemnly but efficiently wove their way between the pews. They seemed disproportionately thrilled to be in a place that allowed flash photography. I feared for my friend's soul. If the End of Days came and it turns out the Catholics were right, would her soul come out like a deformed baby because she confessed only once? Was that not like getting half a piercing? We inched forward, ineffectively attempting to speed time by closing the s.p.a.ce between us and the buxom Brit in front of us. She glared back at me, judge-y and annoyed. I took a step back and looked away. There was tourism and there was religion. Since when was it a good idea to cross the streams?

"Hey." Emily took me gently by the shoulder. "This is what churches are here for. To take people in and redeem them. It's on the Statue of Liberty."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Yes, it does. The Statue of Liberty was a gift ... from France." France."

It was Emily's turn. She stepped up, leaving me to fidget on the smooth stone floor. I looked around at the frozen pageantry of it all. My feet ached from traipsing from G.o.d's house to G.o.d's house all day. This man slept around more than George Washington. Similarly, one got the sense that G.o.d didn't actually live live in all of these places. Sainte Chapelle was breathtaking, but Sainte Chapelle was a pieda-terre. Notre Dame was home base. in all of these places. Sainte Chapelle was breathtaking, but Sainte Chapelle was a pieda-terre. Notre Dame was home base.

"Are you waiting for your friend?" a man behind me asked in a heavy Italian accent. I was wearing very American shoes.

He was hoping I'd go sit in one of the pews. It wouldn't speed up his wait time, but at least it would provide the physical illusion. Which, it dawned on me, is all any of this was about, anyway. Give me your tired, your poor, your G.o.dless ma.s.ses. Give me your tired, your poor, your G.o.dless ma.s.ses. It was then that I made a decision that I'm sure had my grandmother rolling into the fetal position in her grave. I peeked through the gla.s.s to see Emily gesticulating wildly across from the priest. It was then that I made a decision that I'm sure had my grandmother rolling into the fetal position in her grave. I peeked through the gla.s.s to see Emily gesticulating wildly across from the priest.

"No, I'm actually waiting."

Ten minutes later, Emily opened the door. And the priest followed. Oh, lord, Oh, lord, I thought. I thought. What does one have to say to warrant being escorted out of confession? I told her not to mention the toe biting. What does one have to say to warrant being escorted out of confession? I told her not to mention the toe biting. But while Emily met me in line, boasting the gratified look of the blessed, the priest put a new sign into the metal frame behind her. This one read FRENCH/j.a.pANESE. But while Emily met me in line, boasting the gratified look of the blessed, the priest put a new sign into the metal frame behind her. This one read FRENCH/j.a.pANESE.

Even G.o.d's servants need to change shifts.

A new priest appeared. Avoiding eye contact like a bartender on a Sat.u.r.day night, he shut the gla.s.s door behind him and commenced readjusting the swivel chair behind the desk. I felt that internal conflict, that eternal struggle: Do I stay in this line now that I've waited this long or cut my losses and leave the building/movie theater/subway platform? I find it's better to stay and be frustrated than to leave and wonder.

I brushed past Emily and sat across from Priest 2.0. Deducing that I was not j.a.panese, he rattled off something priestly in French. I smiled at him. Don't wink don't wink don't wink don't wink. Don't wink don't wink don't wink don't wink.

"Je suis une Juden!" I blurted out. I blurted out.

This is what comes from seeing too many Holocaust films.

"But," I explained-my two favorite words in any foreign language are "but" and "because," the universal time-buyers-"but I think that it is true that we have the same G.o.d."

The priest put his elbows on the table and leaned forward, studying my face. Was this a prank? Why else would I willingly enter into a situation in which I couldn't function unless it was to mock G.o.d? I wanted to explain to him that I willingly enter into situations in which I can't function all the time, and it rarely has anything to do with G.o.d.

"English?"

"American!" I said, far too proudly. This was during a time when it was common to glue a Canadian flag patch on your backpack so that the natives would be thrown off your Yankee scent. Never mind the fact that anyone with a flag patch glued to their bag should probably have the c.r.a.p beat out of them.

I had been in utero the last time this priest had uttered a coherent string of English, which he explained to me in words that were not only broken but utterly shattered. Like Helen-Keller-and-Jodie-Foster-in-Nell-had-a-love-child shattered. What a rare combination of languages lived in his G.o.dly head. What if it turns out that it's not an issue of beliefs but linguistics, and Saint Peter speaks only French and j.a.panese? b.u.mmer.

The priest cleared his throat. We then proceeded to have the most awkward conversation of my life, potentially of his as well. Through the stilted silences, the rough combination of languages, and the pesky little fact that I did not believe in Jesus or wallpaper in kitchens came the following conclusions.

a. Paris was so beautiful because it made you look up at the sky/G.o.d.b. If G.o.d had meant the French people to make sushi, he wouldn't have given them cows.c. Little things in life can produce a smile on your face, like the pen he mindlessly clicked in his right hand, which he also let me click.

I could sense that our time was running out. I could also sense his feeling self-conscious about chucking me out, afraid I'd think it was because I was Jewish. He encouraged me to come back the next week when he was sure there would be an English-speaking priest manning G.o.d's fort.

"Ah, oui" oui"-I looked at the clock-"but the week that is after this week I will not be here. I will be home."

At which point he got up from the desk and came over to my chair. I stood, and he took my hand.

"G.o.d is always home," he said, grinning.

I felt good, relieved, which is pretty much the equivalent of feeling good in organized religion. Relief. You're alive. G.o.d doesn't hate you. Your livestock is healthy. No one gave you boils today. Plus, the priest complimented my French.

"For how long have you it learned?"

The truth was, my French was atrocious for how long I it had learned. After a lifetime of flash cards and poetry recitation, I should have graduated from my bicyclette rouge bicyclette rouge French. I should have been speaking sound-barrier-breaking Concord Rouge French. Out of my mouth came: French. I should have been speaking sound-barrier-breaking Concord Rouge French. Out of my mouth came: "Deux ans." Two years.

The priest looked at me long and hard.

"Vraiment? Deux ans?"

I gulped and pried my hand away from his. Yup. Uhhuh. Two years.

"Merveilleux. " "

"Oh ... Mercy."

"You're welcome."

I flew out of the gla.s.s chamber and found Emily, who was standing beneath a large b.l.o.o.d.y cross. I pulled Emily's arm as if I were her toddler child and she wanted to go lingerie shopping. I had to get out of there immediately. I was a Jew, and I'd just lied to a priest in confession. In Notre Dame. I was going to get the s.h.i.t smote out of me.

I had incurred G.o.d's permanent wrath and purchased myself a one-way ticket to h.e.l.l. They only sell round-trips to zombies. At the very least, I was going wherever they send Jews who confess to priests and then lie to them. Oklahoma, maybe. But Emily was reluctant to leave. Apparently, her priest was mult.i.talented. Not only was he a fluent English speaker but in her brief meeting with him, he had caused Emily to question her entire religious purpose on this earth, giving her a whole lot more to chew on than a wafer. She wanted to light candles and read pamphlets.

"Are you kidding me?" I said, eyeing the vaulted ceilings for signs of imminent collapse.

A security guard came over and tapped me on the shoulder. He asked me to keep it down.

"I'm sorry," I said, walking back toward the arches of sunlight coming from the main entrance. But when I turned around, I saw that Emily was still standing at the end of a pew. I whistled, the sound echoing in her direction.

Roused from her religious reverie, she picked up her giant backpack and made her way toward me. But not before one of her straps brushed against the table of prayer candles, knocking a corner one to the ground. Emily froze. The mess did not look dissimilar from, say, a jar of French mystery spread dropped out a window. I shut my eyes and exhaled. Surely, I thought, this happens all the time. Who puts a candle so close to the edge of a table? Who is so careless with other people's prayers?

The security guard glared at me. Between the two of us, I had been the first to get in trouble and was thus responsible for all subsequent offenses, even Emily's.

"I do not think you should come to this place again," he said, ushering us out with his eyes.

When we got outside, Emily unfolded her map, running her finger along the fold to find the next X. But I couldn't bring myself to go to another cathedral. We had seen the crown jewel. And I had gotten us escorted away from it. Wasn't the whole idea of a tapas vacation to partake of a little of everything, anyway? I don't think G.o.d would want me to overdo it. I think he would want me to have a crepe. So Emily and I compromised. No more cathedrals with low-lying fire, but we had to check something something off the list. We went to the Luxembourg Gardens, where I stumbled upon my fountain. I stood in front of it while Emily checked out the sculpture garden, growing frustrated not with her map but with the actual sculptures if they weren't where they were meant to be. And because fountains are inanimate, and thus polylingual, I took the opportunity to use this particular fountain as my church. I apologized to G.o.d for everything I had ever done. Except for the stuff that was kind of a given. off the list. We went to the Luxembourg Gardens, where I stumbled upon my fountain. I stood in front of it while Emily checked out the sculpture garden, growing frustrated not with her map but with the actual sculptures if they weren't where they were meant to be. And because fountains are inanimate, and thus polylingual, I took the opportunity to use this particular fountain as my church. I apologized to G.o.d for everything I had ever done. Except for the stuff that was kind of a given.

THE RAIN HAD STOPPED, SO LOUISE SNAPPED THE umbrella shut. The fountain water was calm once more. Louise peered into it, her reflection blotched by the texture of the water. One woman's stagnant is another woman's still.

The remainder of our trip was spent in a less morbid fashion, imbibing the holy trinity of vacation beverages: coffee, wine, and liquor. For all its faults, tapas vacation had worked, and during round two, I felt no pressure to catalog every single Impressionist painter in one day. Instead, I discovered what I had slept through the first time: French nightlife. We accidentally found ourselves in a French strip club, where a Thai stripper named Cali kept touching Louise's hair. We went to bars, where I did the same thing in French as I do in English when people are shouting at me at close range but I still can't understand what they're saying. I shout back in extremely animated gibberish, which invariably results in much nodding and moving along of the conversation. Except I did this in an exaggerated French accent. It's better than the alternative-bellowing "What?" "What?" at thirty-second intervals, in which case everybody loses. at thirty-second intervals, in which case everybody loses.

The last day of my visit, we went to a giant French flea market. I was determined to take a real piece of Paris back with me. For a long time, if people asked if they could bring me anything from their travels, I used to request a rock or a pebble. You shouldn't spend your time obligation shopping when you're on vacation. Plus, picking up a rock from the street was more legitimate than bringing back a snow globe not even manufactured in the corresponding country. I stopped making this request when a friend came back from South America and handed me a cloth sack with a rock-and a stowaway in the form of a dead insect serious enough to have an inch-thick exoskeleton.

At the flea market, I attempted to purchase a giant ostrich egg. I was bolstered by my ability to say l'ouef l'ouef but ultimately thwarted by the but ultimately thwarted by the uber mal uber mal prospect of packing a forty-euro egg that was sure to break in my suitcase. In sixth grade, we conducted a science experiment in which all the students in the cla.s.s had to drop an egg from the top of the school's building, protecting it from breaking using homemade devices. What brand of "science" this fell under, I couldn't say. Some kids cradled their egg in cotton-ball nests, some suspended it with rubber bands between sticks like a canopy bed. I squeezed an industrial-sized bottle of Palmolive into a large plastic bag, adding the egg halfway. Palmolive, as it turns out, is not as viscous as you'd think. Not only did the egg break but the bag exploded. It looked like someone had aborted a green chicken in the parking lot. prospect of packing a forty-euro egg that was sure to break in my suitcase. In sixth grade, we conducted a science experiment in which all the students in the cla.s.s had to drop an egg from the top of the school's building, protecting it from breaking using homemade devices. What brand of "science" this fell under, I couldn't say. Some kids cradled their egg in cotton-ball nests, some suspended it with rubber bands between sticks like a canopy bed. I squeezed an industrial-sized bottle of Palmolive into a large plastic bag, adding the egg halfway. Palmolive, as it turns out, is not as viscous as you'd think. Not only did the egg break but the bag exploded. It looked like someone had aborted a green chicken in the parking lot.

Louise and I were on our way out of the flea market, me resigned to allowing my bicyclette rouge bicyclette rouge French to deflate in the decade ahead, when I spotted a large antique wall thermometer. The dials were many and crafted; the gla.s.s was unbroken. How much could one, in good conscience, charge for a questionably functional wall thermometer? Five ostrich eggs' worth, apparently. It was a very nice-looking thermometer. French to deflate in the decade ahead, when I spotted a large antique wall thermometer. The dials were many and crafted; the gla.s.s was unbroken. How much could one, in good conscience, charge for a questionably functional wall thermometer? Five ostrich eggs' worth, apparently. It was a very nice-looking thermometer.

"Two hundred euro," the antiques dealer repeated as if it were a fact, a number measured using the object in question.

I bristled at the price, again employing "mal, "mal, " but this time it was exactly what I meant. After enough time in Paris my French had actually improved. But I was done talking. The first rule of any negotiation is be prepared to walk away. Or maybe that's the first rule of eating blowfish. Either way, it was a rule and it was out there and it was time to employ it. And then something happened. For the first time since Paris and I had gotten to know each other, one of its citizens asked me to return. " but this time it was exactly what I meant. After enough time in Paris my French had actually improved. But I was done talking. The first rule of any negotiation is be prepared to walk away. Or maybe that's the first rule of eating blowfish. Either way, it was a rule and it was out there and it was time to employ it. And then something happened. For the first time since Paris and I had gotten to know each other, one of its citizens asked me to return.

"One hundred seventy-five euro," said the antiques dealer.

Actually, he didn't say this, he wrote it down, employing the long French 1 1. My French had gotten better but not that better. Large numbers were on the same ring of vocabulary as nutritional information. Once he gave in a little, it was all the bolstering I needed to negotiate down, until it was only two ostrich eggs' worth. There is a bitter-sweet capitalist tingle when one gets too good a bargain. The glee of separating yourself from the idiot who pays full price is quickly replaced by the fact that someone was trying to rip you off in the first place. Everyone's the idiot eventually.

On the crowded metro back to the center of town, I attempted to protect the thermometer. It was wrapped in layers of newspaper and bubble wrap, but I was dubious about its prospects for staying in one piece. I didn't even have any dish soap.

"S'il vous plait," I'd say when jostled, melodramatically cradling the thermometer. I'd say when jostled, melodramatically cradling the thermometer. "C'est un violon. "C'est un violon. " "

Louise whipped around to look at me.

"Ceci n'est pas un violon, " she whisper-shouted. " she whisper-shouted.

"Shut it, Magritte. It is now."

Though "thermometer" surely falls under the ten-letter translation rule, I have no idea how to say "valuable antique wall thermometeuuur" thermometeuuur" in French. Even if I did, I a.s.sume the average person's ability to conjure an image of such a thing is on par with my ability to produce the words to describe it. Plus, there are benefits to lying about such things. If you are over the age of ten and in possession of a cla.s.sical musical instrument, people think you are a genius. They think you have an innate gift that you have harnessed into a tangible life skill. They look admiringly at your hands. in French. Even if I did, I a.s.sume the average person's ability to conjure an image of such a thing is on par with my ability to produce the words to describe it. Plus, there are benefits to lying about such things. If you are over the age of ten and in possession of a cla.s.sical musical instrument, people think you are a genius. They think you have an innate gift that you have harnessed into a tangible life skill. They look admiringly at your hands.

Back in the sublet, the thermometer leaned a good foot beyond my suitcase despite my generous angling of it. This is not a problem! This is not a problem! said my laid-back self, recalling the time it had run through the Miami airport with two carry-ons and an oversized lamp made out of a lawn flamingo and still made the flight. said my laid-back self, recalling the time it had run through the Miami airport with two carry-ons and an oversized lamp made out of a lawn flamingo and still made the flight.

Shut up and eat your Ding Dongs, I thought, and left the room. Ding Dongs, I thought, and left the room.

My flight was the first one out of Paris. Louise and I stayed up all night, eating cheese and drinking the last of the wine. I left for the airport while it was still dark outside, making sure to leave time to call a taxi and then for the taxi not to come. I hailed a cab on the street and loaded my suitcase in the trunk but held the thermometer close to my chest. The streets of Paris were utterly abandoned as the taxi darted through them. I lowered my window to take in my last moments of Parisian air. Then I put it back up as we drove past a garbage dump and a gas station.