During the cab ride home, I poked my head out of the window, partly because I was feeling a little ill thanks to Mr. Smarm’s cig-a-boo, and partly because I wanted to watch the alluring city (an emblem for romance, magic and mystery) recede into the background. Never content with background anything, Audrey tried to take her foreign affair upstairs to our tiny hotel room. When her efforts were rebuffed by the inn keeper she told me she would stay downstairs to bid him bon voyage and snag an authentic French kiss.
The next morning when she finally floated through the hotel’s front doors with a grin on her face and glazed look in her eye, I was on the phone in the lobby with one hot, panicked tear running down my cheek. I had been trying, unsuccessfully, to describe Mr. Smarm to the police with my pocket dictionary, all the while wondering if I’d be able to find my way back to America in the event something unspeakable had happened to my French-speaking pal.
Quel nightmare.
One week later, as we boarded our return flight home, I found myself toting some extra emotional baggage because of the frightening experience (I was this close to having a mental breakdown). Audrey, on the other hand, had proudly declared herself a bit more cultured in matters of the heart, replete with the knowledge that all shady men speak the same language, and that “I’ll call you” and assorted sweet nothings will typically translate as “baloney” regardless of their country of origin.
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