to you.
It had been a day well spent. Pleasantly weary, he soaked the jet lag out of his bones in a hot tub and slept like a stone.
Eight
The next day, during the short flight down to Bordeaux, Sam passed the time by considering the differences between a plane full of Frenchmen and a plane full of Americans. Settling into his seat, his first impression was that the sound level in the cabin was lower. Conversations were muted, reflecting the French horror of being overheard. The passengers were smaller and darker; there were fewer blonds of either sex. There were also fewer iPods, but more books. The American addiction to drinking bottled water throughout the day hadn’t yet reached the French passengers (although since many of them were from Bordeaux it was possible that, for medical reasons, they restricted themselves to wine). There was no snacking. Sartorially, the style was somewhere between a day at the office and a day of bird hunting. Moss-colored, hip-length shooting jackets were worn over business suits, and Sam half expected to see the head of a dead pheasant poking out of a side pocket. Men’s hair was longer, and there were significant gusts of aftershave, but there were no masculine earrings or baseball caps to be seen. In general, the look was more formal.
There was, however, one overwhelming similarity between the Frenchman and his American cousin. Once the plane had reached the arrivals gate, two hundred cell phones appeared, as if on a preordained maneuver, so that passengers could tell wives, mistresses, lovers, secretaries, and business colleagues that, yet again, the pilot had foiled death and had managed a safe landing. Sam, who tended to agree with the theory that ninety percent of cell phone calls were unnecessary, was happy to wait for his bag in silence, a mute among babblers.
Looking for his contact, Madame Costes, he scanned the crowd in the arrivals area until his eye fell on a woman standing alone. She was holding a piece of cardboard with his name on it, at waist level. She looked almost as though she were embarrassed to be seen soliciting a stranger off a plane. He walked over to introduce himself.
Madame Costes was a pleasant surprise—not at all the sturdy old matron with flat feet and a faint moustache that Sam had anticipated. She was slim, in her midthirties, simply dressed in sweater and slacks, a silk scarf knotted loosely around her neck. Her sunglasses were pushed up into tawny, not-quite-blond hair. Her face was the kind one sees in society magazines: long and narrow and well-bred. In short, she was a prime example of bon chic bon genre . On his previous visits to France, Sam had often heard the phrase—usually abbreviated to BCBG —used to describe people of a certain class and style: they were chic, they were conservative, and they were devoted to anything made by Hermès.
Sam smiled as he took her hand. “Thanks for coming out to meet me. I hope it hasn’t messed up your afternoon.”
“Of course not. It’s good to get out of the office. Welcome to Bordeaux, Mr. Levitt.”
“Please. Sam.”
She tilted her head and raised her eyebrows, as if taken by surprise at such instant familiarity. But then, he was American. “I am Sophie. Come—we find the car just outside.”
She led the way out of the terminal, fishing for the car keys in the depths of a large leather bag the color and texture of a well-worn saddle. Sam was expecting her car to be the standard-issue French model: small, lively, and impossibly cramped for anyone with American-length legs. Instead, they stopped at a dark-green, mud-spattered Range Rover.
Sophie clicked her tongue in disapproval. “You must forgive the car,” she said. “I have been in the country yesterday. Mud everywhere.”
Sam grinned. “In L.A., the highway patrol would probably pull you over for driving an unhygienic vehicle.”
“Ah bon? Pull me over?”
“Just kidding.” Sam settled back into his seat as Sophie, driving
It had been a day well spent. Pleasantly weary, he soaked the jet lag out of his bones in a hot tub and slept like a stone.
Eight
The next day, during the short flight down to Bordeaux, Sam passed the time by considering the differences between a plane full of Frenchmen and a plane full of Americans. Settling into his seat, his first impression was that the sound level in the cabin was lower. Conversations were muted, reflecting the French horror of being overheard. The passengers were smaller and darker; there were fewer blonds of either sex. There were also fewer iPods, but more books. The American addiction to drinking bottled water throughout the day hadn’t yet reached the French passengers (although since many of them were from Bordeaux it was possible that, for medical reasons, they restricted themselves to wine). There was no snacking. Sartorially, the style was somewhere between a day at the office and a day of bird hunting. Moss-colored, hip-length shooting jackets were worn over business suits, and Sam half expected to see the head of a dead pheasant poking out of a side pocket. Men’s hair was longer, and there were significant gusts of aftershave, but there were no masculine earrings or baseball caps to be seen. In general, the look was more formal.
There was, however, one overwhelming similarity between the Frenchman and his American cousin. Once the plane had reached the arrivals gate, two hundred cell phones appeared, as if on a preordained maneuver, so that passengers could tell wives, mistresses, lovers, secretaries, and business colleagues that, yet again, the pilot had foiled death and had managed a safe landing. Sam, who tended to agree with the theory that ninety percent of cell phone calls were unnecessary, was happy to wait for his bag in silence, a mute among babblers.
Looking for his contact, Madame Costes, he scanned the crowd in the arrivals area until his eye fell on a woman standing alone. She was holding a piece of cardboard with his name on it, at waist level. She looked almost as though she were embarrassed to be seen soliciting a stranger off a plane. He walked over to introduce himself.
Madame Costes was a pleasant surprise—not at all the sturdy old matron with flat feet and a faint moustache that Sam had anticipated. She was slim, in her midthirties, simply dressed in sweater and slacks, a silk scarf knotted loosely around her neck. Her sunglasses were pushed up into tawny, not-quite-blond hair. Her face was the kind one sees in society magazines: long and narrow and well-bred. In short, she was a prime example of bon chic bon genre . On his previous visits to France, Sam had often heard the phrase—usually abbreviated to BCBG —used to describe people of a certain class and style: they were chic, they were conservative, and they were devoted to anything made by Hermès.
Sam smiled as he took her hand. “Thanks for coming out to meet me. I hope it hasn’t messed up your afternoon.”
“Of course not. It’s good to get out of the office. Welcome to Bordeaux, Mr. Levitt.”
“Please. Sam.”
She tilted her head and raised her eyebrows, as if taken by surprise at such instant familiarity. But then, he was American. “I am Sophie. Come—we find the car just outside.”
She led the way out of the terminal, fishing for the car keys in the depths of a large leather bag the color and texture of a well-worn saddle. Sam was expecting her car to be the standard-issue French model: small, lively, and impossibly cramped for anyone with American-length legs. Instead, they stopped at a dark-green, mud-spattered Range Rover.
Sophie clicked her tongue in disapproval. “You must forgive the car,” she said. “I have been in the country yesterday. Mud everywhere.”
Sam grinned. “In L.A., the highway patrol would probably pull you over for driving an unhygienic vehicle.”
“Ah bon? Pull me over?”
“Just kidding.” Sam settled back into his seat as Sophie, driving
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