A Year Of Living Stupidly

16. Tick, Tick, Tick, Pt. II

What are the chances? Two loud girls from Wisconsin flirt with two French boys as the plane bumps across the channel. I sprint through Charles de Gaulle to get to immigration ahead of everyone else. A dumb shit American who can't understand why he has to answer 'all these questions' holds up the line. He wonders aloud why the Frenchman he's insulting can't just speak English? Shut up, you moron. I've got twenty-four hours. Quit squandering my life.

"Oh, my gaad, France looks just like M'waukee!" The girls from the plane scream behind me, unaware that Europeans settled their hometown. The immigration officer waves me to the window. There's no disguising an American passport. I hand it to him, face up, and speak softly.

"Bonjour." He checks my face against my picture. I roll my eyes in sympathy of his having to deal with this group of people. He stamps a page and hands the booklet back. "Merci."

"Enjoy your stay," he says in perfect English then shouts to the line, "Suivant!"

The train passes through a part of France that has the look of certain scenes I recall from the old British "Avengers" television series: Inhabited, but not a soul in sight. It's lived-in but lifeless and, aside from graffiti, grey. Perfect. Outside Gare du Nord, I hail a taxi to my first stop in Paris—by necessity, the American Express office at 11 Rue Scribe. I hope this bit of corporate bureaucracy doesn't waste too much of my day.

I've had the good fortune to meet some of the most beautiful women in the world. These include movie stars, supermodels, and a Miss America. They are all mangy dogs compared to the French Pastry working the counter at American Express. She puts Willow to shame—a Los Angeles twelve, maybe fourteen. I cannot and will not avert my eyes. She is so beautiful it hurts. I savor the pain and say a silent thank you to Amex administrative employee responsible for the requirement that I book my return flight here, at 11 Rue Scribe. Genius.

As I approach the front of the line, Pastry is finishing with a person who has been a pain in her neck. She makes eye contact with me to acknowledge I would be next and I literally gasp.

"One more thing before I forget," Pain In The Neck says. Pastry and I both wince though she couches hers with a forced smile. I am mesmerized. A mumbled voice tugs at my ear again, disturbing my trance.

"Sir?" The voice comes clear, snapping me to attention. Damn it. The voice belongs to an unattractive Frenchman, who beckons me to his station next to Pastry. Damn.

"I need to book a return flight to London for tomorrow. I'm in Paris just this one night." Please, Pastry, overhear my comment and demand to show me your Paris. Do not take 'no' for an answer. Frenchman types away and produces a ticket in a matter of minutes. I looked away to sign the credit card receipt and by the time I finish, Pastry has disappeared. Ticket in hand, I step away from the counter to pack it somewhere I will find the next day. Between my Pastry-induced stupor and the fumbling through my belongings, I've lost all sense of direction. My confusion leads me to the wrong door.

"Sir?" Someone calls from behind. I turn around and all bodily functions halt. "Can I help you find the exit?" Pastry serenades in English laced with an endearing French accent. That smile. Those eyes. That perfume. Beat, Heart. Inch toward her. Closer. Why is my bladder suddenly about to burst?

"I, no, ah... Do you have a restroom?" Pastry does not understand. Oh, my God, I could stare into her crinkled forehead for days. "A toilet?" I clarify. Pastry's smile returns. The world is right again.

"Ah, yes. Down those stairs." She points over my shoulder. I follow the perfect line of her slender forearm to her gracefully extended index finger, lingering on the view for as long as possible.