Read Online Sisterchicks Say Ooh La La! by Robin Jones Gunn - Free Book Online
Authors: Robin Jones Gunn
Ads: Link
might give away her accent. A lot of my former travel survival techniques were coming back to me. In some countries, we found we were treated better if it wasn’t obvious we were Americans. If Amy and I chatted away in English with American accents, I knew we possibly could be charged more than, say, a German tourist.
Amy trusted my subtle signal and kept quiet until the driver asked us something in rapid French. Amy calmly responded.
That was okay. The goof-up was that as soon as she responded to him, she turned to translate for me. Just as she had done for years whenever I didn’t understand Grandmere.
“He said our hotel is close to the Louvre. We should ask for a room facing the Jardin des Tuileries—the park—then we’ll be able to see the Eiffel Tower.”
Glancing at me in the rearview mirror, the driver narrowed his eyes. “American?”
I wished at that moment that I spoke another language. Any language. I would have settled for a Canadian passport, even, to hold up for him to see.
But I was taught never to lie. “Yes. Oui. American.”
I was sure we were doomed. Yet the words that came from our driver’s mouth startled me. “
C’est bon!
Do you okay eef I practeece English for you?”
“Sure!” Amy said. “Oui.”
“I show to you zee home of Voltaire, our famous philosopher and French writer.”
“Is it on the way to our hotel?” I asked.
“Oui. Yes, yes.”
He was driving on to a city street, and all around us were tall old stone buildings. I hadn’t gotten my bearings to know what part of Paris proper we were entering. Then I saw the familiar spiral of light in the distance on our left. Actually, Amy saw it first.
“The Eiffel Tower! Look, it’s all lit up! Ooh, it’s beautiful!”
“Theese is your first veezit to Paris?”
“Yes,” Amy said. “My friend has been here before, but this is my first time.”
“You must have chocolat to drink at Angelina’s. Right by your hotel. Very good chocolat. And Sacré Coeur. This you must see in Montmartre.” He went on listing all of his personal favorites of this great city and warmed up to his use of English by giving bits of history about various buildings as we sped past them in the dark.
“Voilá! The home of Voltaire. This corner. Up. You see?”
We saw an ornate building, like the many other ornate buildings we had been rolling past for several blocks. I didn’t know exactly what we should have been looking for to see where Voltaire lived.
“And zee Louvre.” He pointed to the enormous U-shaped continuation of buildings on the right. The glass pyramid entrance had been added since I had visited last. Lit up in the center of the commons, the pyramid gave Napoleon’s former palace grounds a strange Star Trekkiness.
Our chatty driver turned left on the Rue de Rivoli and suddenly stopped the car in the lane of traffic closest to the covered sidewalk. “Hotel Isabella,” he announced. Cars honked and swerved around us.
“Do you take credit cards?” Amy asked. “Visa?”
“No, sorry. Cash only.” He pointed to the digital meter that read 78.25.
“Seventy-eight euros?” Amy asked, as the two of us fumbled for our wallets. We had been so caught up in the tour we weren’t prepared to exit the taxi. “Do you have change for a hundred?”
“No, sorry.”
I fiddled with the bills in my wallet, trying to see in the dark. “Here’s a fifty. I think that’s a fifty. What do you have, Amy?”
“Nothing small. Here.” She held out one of her hundred-euro bills. “Keep the change.”
I gave Amy a hard look, but I don’t think she caught my expression in the dark. It wasn’t a good idea to begin our journey with such generosity.
“Thank you. Thank you.”
Amy patted him on the arm and said something in French. He reached for her hand and kissed it twice, gushing a line or two in French that I’m sure were very suave.
Amy giggled, scooted out of the backseat after me, and waved as the smooth operator zoomed
Amy trusted my subtle signal and kept quiet until the driver asked us something in rapid French. Amy calmly responded.
That was okay. The goof-up was that as soon as she responded to him, she turned to translate for me. Just as she had done for years whenever I didn’t understand Grandmere.
“He said our hotel is close to the Louvre. We should ask for a room facing the Jardin des Tuileries—the park—then we’ll be able to see the Eiffel Tower.”
Glancing at me in the rearview mirror, the driver narrowed his eyes. “American?”
I wished at that moment that I spoke another language. Any language. I would have settled for a Canadian passport, even, to hold up for him to see.
But I was taught never to lie. “Yes. Oui. American.”
I was sure we were doomed. Yet the words that came from our driver’s mouth startled me. “
C’est bon!
Do you okay eef I practeece English for you?”
“Sure!” Amy said. “Oui.”
“I show to you zee home of Voltaire, our famous philosopher and French writer.”
“Is it on the way to our hotel?” I asked.
“Oui. Yes, yes.”
He was driving on to a city street, and all around us were tall old stone buildings. I hadn’t gotten my bearings to know what part of Paris proper we were entering. Then I saw the familiar spiral of light in the distance on our left. Actually, Amy saw it first.
“The Eiffel Tower! Look, it’s all lit up! Ooh, it’s beautiful!”
“Theese is your first veezit to Paris?”
“Yes,” Amy said. “My friend has been here before, but this is my first time.”
“You must have chocolat to drink at Angelina’s. Right by your hotel. Very good chocolat. And Sacré Coeur. This you must see in Montmartre.” He went on listing all of his personal favorites of this great city and warmed up to his use of English by giving bits of history about various buildings as we sped past them in the dark.
“Voilá! The home of Voltaire. This corner. Up. You see?”
We saw an ornate building, like the many other ornate buildings we had been rolling past for several blocks. I didn’t know exactly what we should have been looking for to see where Voltaire lived.
“And zee Louvre.” He pointed to the enormous U-shaped continuation of buildings on the right. The glass pyramid entrance had been added since I had visited last. Lit up in the center of the commons, the pyramid gave Napoleon’s former palace grounds a strange Star Trekkiness.
Our chatty driver turned left on the Rue de Rivoli and suddenly stopped the car in the lane of traffic closest to the covered sidewalk. “Hotel Isabella,” he announced. Cars honked and swerved around us.
“Do you take credit cards?” Amy asked. “Visa?”
“No, sorry. Cash only.” He pointed to the digital meter that read 78.25.
“Seventy-eight euros?” Amy asked, as the two of us fumbled for our wallets. We had been so caught up in the tour we weren’t prepared to exit the taxi. “Do you have change for a hundred?”
“No, sorry.”
I fiddled with the bills in my wallet, trying to see in the dark. “Here’s a fifty. I think that’s a fifty. What do you have, Amy?”
“Nothing small. Here.” She held out one of her hundred-euro bills. “Keep the change.”
I gave Amy a hard look, but I don’t think she caught my expression in the dark. It wasn’t a good idea to begin our journey with such generosity.
“Thank you. Thank you.”
Amy patted him on the arm and said something in French. He reached for her hand and kissed it twice, gushing a line or two in French that I’m sure were very suave.
Amy giggled, scooted out of the backseat after me, and waved as the smooth operator zoomed
Similar Books
