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Whoa! Unprepared, inexperienced, I panicked.
I trembled. I shook. I gasped. And I. . . I . . . I was . . .
. . . zapped into an ultra-chill
French movie, sleek, sophisticated, futuristic -- instead of cars
whizzing past there were cool hovercraft, guys tooling around in
jet-packs, a monorail gliding gently through the distance . . .
and it wouldn't be Fifth Avenue outside with a million guys slinging
hot dogs at you on every corner -- no bloody way! It would be the
grandeur of the Champs Elysees, the majestic Arc de Triomphe standing
guard in the background. Agile, gleaming blue-tinged robots would
be processing my paperwork. And we wouldn't be snarling and snapping
and growling our way through densely congested, dangerous, rugged
New York City, all sharp bright hard edges, the land of the howling
four-letter epithet, we'd be all smooth and shiny and silky, bathing
ourselves in rich, delicious sauces, red sauces red with the richness
of spiraling passion, white sauces white with the richness of giddy
expansive pleasure, and luscious creams -- fat, sweet éclairs
and thick culinary delights, our eyes enthralled in the liquid heavens
of the Louvre and the Seine and, and yes, we'd be in . . . in .
. . Paris!!
I shook myself off, trying to snap out
of it. I looked down, tried to clear my head.
I looked up, and took a good, long, look
at this woman. She returned my gaze calmly and evenly, cool green
eyes smiling, creamy skin radiant. She had a face shaped like a
heart, with a delicate, pointed chin a real turbo-charged,
flat-out 900 kilometer per hour drop-dead beauty.
And then, suddenly . . . we were back in
Paris.
I looked down at myself and I was no longer
a gangly boy driving a mildly overworked Volkswagen Type 3 fastback
with a pronounced limp at anything over 48 mph. I am . . . coool.
My name is Francois, Maurice, Jean-Claude. Ah, you see, I normally
smoke Gauloises -- but for this special occasion, and for this special
occasion only, I renounce the cigarettes, have replaced them with
150 long-stem red roses in a gleaming box made of gold . . . Well,
this is, after all, Paris, and we are in the city of love, you see
. . .
It is early 21st century, and I have just
driven my racecar, sponsored by Paris Match and le champagne Taittinger,
straight up from my Riviera properties -- the hotel overlooking
the Mediterranean, the villa a couple of short kilometers from the
hotel, the --
"Sign here, willya!"
I panicked . . .
I was back in the city, in the Playboy
club, trying to pass off my fake ID. There was a hulking fellow
in an ill-fitting tuxedo the size of a small pickup truck in front
of me. He pointed at the back of silver card. "Sign! C'mon!"
The hulk with shoulder pads for shoulders,
and square fingers like Gigantar, the jet-age robot, slid my cards
back to me, along with an aged, pitted, dented, creaky ball-point
pen. I clicked it. Nothing happened. It jammed. I looked up.
"AAAhhh" Gigantar roared. He
snatched the relic off the glass and flung it behind him. He yanked
a Bic from underneath the counter. He slammed it down, pointed at
the back of the card. "Whadaya! C'mon, here! Sign! You're killing
me, here!"
Before he changed his mind and ignominiously
decided to toss me out onto the curb, bogus papers and all, I signed
the card.
Gigantar snatched his pen and pad away
and slid me back a receipt with my card. I shrank quietly into the
bubbling crowd as he stomped off into a back office.
The tension eased off me like sheets of
cold water running back into the sea. I turned -- and there she
was. I froze. She was more beautiful than Bardot, more statuesque
than Marilyn. The breath rushed out of my lungs. I was silent, still
as a heap of ancient rocks.
And her name -- I peered closer -- No way!
Her name was Brigitte!
"Ah, oui?" She smiled at me again
and it felt like she was both the light switch and the electric
current. This could be very cool, I thought to myself. "And
what are your impressions of Paris?"
"Impressions of Paris?"
"Oui!"
"Well" I stammered, drowning
in a rushing undertow of incoherent thoughts, "well" I
mumbled, "y-y-you are my my impressions of Paris, miss."
"Moi, monsieur?"
"Yes. Yes, you are. My impression
of Paris, I mean. All of them." I wiped my brow. I shifted
from left foot to right and back. I tried to stay cool, look cool.
Once more she smiled, regarding me with
those large, sparkling, impish eyes.
"Vous etes tres gentil, monsieur.
Too kind by far! Come. Let me show you to a table." She reached
out and touched my hand, and we were back in Paris at that very
instant, at a gaudy, sprawling, boisterous, magnificent bistro just
off the Rue Charles de Gaulle. But this time I got smart. This time
I didn't fight my grand, fanciful and fantastical impression of
Paris. I let my wild flight of imagination soar into the untrammeled
heavens, carrying me straight to the stars along with it.
It's Bastille Day. The Tri-Color is everywhere!
The streets are choked with Renaults, Citroens, even ancient Deux-Chevaux.
Cafes and bistros and restaurants alike are overflowing with people
and everywhere there is glorious, wondrous, delicious food -- coq
au vin, pate, foie gras, chateaubriand -- nirvana come to life for
my hamburger-dulled palate!
Brigitte's hand, soft, graceful, just like
Paris, lingers on mine as roiling, boisterous, joyous crowds swirl
all about us. Their giddiness is an invisible cocktail, infectious,
contagious.
Gently, tentatively, I return the warm,
feathery touch with a wisp of a squeeze, as light and ephemeral
as goose down. Her eyes light.
"Yes. I-I-I mean, oui. It would be
fantastique if you would show me to a table." We melt into
the densely crowded dance halls of my feverish imagination, myself
and herself and the roiling crowds of denizens of the City of Light.
Oui, indeed!
Here was my very own, portable, festival
of lights in the indomitable City of Light, frozen into the wild,
breathtaking beauty of one astonishingly lovely woman. She was Paris
come to life, living and breathing and freezing all of my impressions
of Paris into one glorious, radiant form.
Hmm
I looked at the long elegant curve of her
neck, her back, her long fabulous legs. I thought about it again.
Naaah!
If Paris wants me so much as to send a
soul as cool and fabulous as this, I'd better at least have a closer
look. As if on cue, Brigitte turns and winks at me again.
OK! Alright! I get it, now!
Paris wins. I'm going!! O Grand and Glorious
City of Lights by the Seine, here I come!
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