Got involved in the “lost ring” scam
today. Found myself at Opera, not sure why, quelle
jardin zoologique” waiting for the light to change and wow, right at my
feet a gentlemen picks up a gold ring. He gives me the zut alors look and I say pas le mien (not mine). He tries it on,
doesn’t fit, another zut alors and is
about to make his pitch, “it doesn’t fit me, so why don’t I let you have it for
a modest stipend?”
I smile and say “do you speak English?”
“A leeetle,” he replies."Then you will understand F*** off.”
He thinks for a second, twigs, scowls,
and walks off.
Gotcha!
##########
A time-honored tradition for learning
French is to watch TV, the questionable theory being that foreign words and
phrases uttered by talking heads suddenly become intelligible. I tried this
once. I lived with a cat that spoke constantly and I listened, faithfully, for
what seemed like months but all I ever twigged was “feed me.
##########
Paris Metro stations are replete with
warnings “ne pas descendre sur les voies.
Danger de mort”. As every French schoolchild knows well, Mort is an evil
troll who lives in the Metro tunnels and inflicts unspeakable carnage on those foolish
enough to venture therein. Faire
attention!
##########
The French are known for multitasking
(if not multiachieving). Sit in a café and watch 6 women in conversation, all
taking rapidly, non-stop, at the same time. Oh, and the men are worse.
##########
As I was slogging the other day, the
thought occurred… If a gentleman of African descent is in charge of bats for a
baseball team, given the sensitivity of the term “boy” in the minority
community, should he be addressed as “Batman”? Just wondering.
##########
With my Commander-in-Chief in town
last week I twigged on a long, long forgotten event. Don’t ask why. I was a
junior staffer on loan to the White House assisting presidential advance teams
(the folks who deploy in advance of a presidential foray and set the
non-security agenda (the Secret Service handling the important stuff).
I was in a meeting when
one of the muckity-mucks noted that tomorrow is the President’s birthday and we’re
all stumped as to how to celebrate it. The assemblage looked at one another and I,
as yet unschooled in the maxim “never volunteer,” meekly spoke up.
“Whenever the President
enters a public gathering the band plays “Ruffles & Flourishes (usually ta
ta ta taaa, x 4), then breaks into “Hail to the Chief.” How about instead of
Hail, after the Ruffles & Flourishes, the band strikes up “Happy Birthday.”
As the assemblage
awaited official acknowledgement, the muckity walked over to me, asked my name,
and sneered something like “you have no sense of protocol, the suggestion is
absurd.” Though my body remained stationery, the rest of me slunk away
mortified.
The following day in the
rooftop bar of the Marriott Key Bridge where my staff and I often repaired at
eventide to review the day’s events and kvetch about life in general, my ear
caught a TV newscast covering a Presidential visit earlier in the day. I heard “ta-ta-ta-taaa,
ta-ta-ta-taaa, ta-ta-ta-taaa, ta-ta-ta-taaa, Happy Birthday to You, Mr. President…..Happy
Birthday to You…” POTUS smiled ear-to-ear, and as the TV panned across the
stage, there was muckity, himself smiling as though he had been conferred
eternal salvation. It was perhaps the best lesson in politics I ever received,
and which I carry with me to this day.
##########
Paris is in the throes
of an early solstice canicule, with
outdoor cafes overflowing and nubile young Parisiannnes in wispy summer dresses
swishing by on the way to some delicious rendezvous…oh and the World Cup is on
as well.
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