After a few hiccups, we found our little hotel near Champs-Elysées. The hotel and location is one of That’s Not Chinese’s favorites. Being that it is an older, independent hotel, you receive an actual key for the room. A key that you must return to the desk clerk each time you leave the hotel. As we left for the evening, they asked us the hour at which we would return. “Minuit. Une heure,” That’s Not Chinese advised him. “That is fine,” he replied and added, “You will not need key. We will still be up.”
As we were tooling around town, That’s Not Chinese speaking some French, me speaking muy poquito (Spanish for ‘very little’), I informed That’s Not Chinese that I was a “language killer – a linguisticist of sorts.” “Oui,” she responded. “Curds and oui,” I quipped.
While at dinner, our waiter took a liking to That’s Not Chinese – giving her free drinks, a rose, and advice, “Get a boyfriend. You will learn French and Greek. Here is my information. I will come to your town in September.”
Caught up in the moment, we lost track of time. Without a key, we had only 20 minutes to return to the hotel. We thanked That’s Not Chinese’s future husband for his excellent service and incredible kindness and then quickly made our way to the Metro. Since we had traveled to and from our hotel several times, we were very familiar with our stop, Miromesnil. Being that we were in such a hurry to get home, and we had imbibed a bit, I was anxious to get to the toilette. “We are so close,” That’s Not Chinese said in an attempt to comfort me. Then, as we rounded the bend to approach the stop, she added, “So close I can smell it.” “Miromesnil, pffft,” I said, “Miromesmell.” For whatever reason, our stop smelled like ripe trash.
Once back at the hotel That’s Not Chinese was ready for bed. “I think I’ll turn on the TV,” I told her. “Ugh, no,” she responded. “I only watch when I am on vacation,” I advised her. She succombed, but it ended up being a bad idea on my part. The first thing we saw when we power it up is Vincent D’Onofrio – her other future husband. “Oh, oh, oh,” That’s Not Chinese was elated. “I can’t believe Vincent speaks French in France.” “I can’t believe CSI is on TV in France,” I mumbled. “It is not CSI, it is Criminal Intent,” she corrected me. “CSI, Criminal Intent, key, no key, I can’t believe it,” I replied.
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