Paris has much about which to
appreciate, and also the occasional disappointment – traffic, merde de chien, aggressive clochards (most aren’t). But I find
nothing more depressing than to pass on the street a stunningly beautiful 14-15
year old maiden, perfect complexion, long flowing hair, who stops, rummages in
her purse, picks out a pack, lights up, takes a deep drag, blows smoke into
the air with upraised face, and continues on.
Would this were an isolated occurrence,
but it seems that virtually every fair maiden I pass is sucking on a cigarette,
even more apparently so than young men. And at US$ 11 a pack, I bet there are “illegal”
drug habits less obtrusive to the pocketbook.
Mais attend! I
am seeing an increasing number of young local females with broad smiles on
their faces. Can this be? But there is something even stranger. They all seem
to be mumbling to themselves. An explosion of the deranged? Mais
non! They are talking on their cell phones (ear piece and dangling
mic) to someone who obviously brings a smile to their face.
It now seems that tout Paris has a mobile phone, and perhaps to compensate for prior depravation, seem to be constantly engaged in conversation.
When I first encountered Paris,
shortly after the Spanish-American war, I was trying to rent an apartment and
asked my secretary at the American Embassy why none of the available flats had
a telephone.
Shrug!
No problem, I’m here for about 9
months so I’ll have one installed. “Yvette, how long does it take to get a
phone installed in Paris?”
“Deux annee.”
“Two days, that’s pretty quick.”
“Deux ANNEE.”
“Two weeks?”
“ANNEE,
ANNEE, years, YEARS!!”
I thought for a moment she was pulling
my jambe (by this time I had mastered
colors and was on to body parts).
“How can this be?”
Shrug!
I learned that a popular saying of the
day was that half of France was waiting for a phone to be installed and the
other half was waiting for a dial tone!
I did manage to rent an apartment in Montmartre
with a phone, for which I paid a massive supplement.
I then realized that no one knew my number and I had no one to call, but
I had a phone.
I asked Yvette for a Paris phone book.
“Ils
n'existent plus”
“Of course they exist, I’ve seen
them.”
““Ils
n'existent PLUS.
They no longer exist.”
It appears that the French telecommunications
authority prints one phone book for each eligible citizen and business and not
a single copy more. If you lose yours, have it stolen or otherwise become
separated from it, that is not the problem of the French PTT.
I always wondered why Yvette kept hers
locked in her desk.
“Yvette, how can this be?”
Shrug. A
gesture I came to regret until I realized that I could avoid its occurrence
simply by no longer asking questions.
Paris continues colder than Montana, but the food is better!
Bientot...
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