Agh! Au Secours! Cette argent me frappe encore!” I stare out my hotel-room window down onto the rue de l’Université. Sure enough, the U.S. dollar is trashing another Frenchman. Thocko: hard cash. On my bed table the stack of travelers’ checks has fattened itself overnight again. Up from 8.25 francs per buck to 8.5. Tipped the maid yesterday and found out I’d bought her by mistake. Well, who can believe in this Frog crepe paper anyhow? Reminds me of the stuff you’d roll a nickel bag reefer in. And what ridiculous size: it’d stick out of my wallet like some fat man’s shirt-tail. If there were a thousand-franc note, you could bury your cat in it. Also never trust any nation that’ll put dead artists on money—Baudelaire, Hugo, de la Tour, Debussy—sure sign the live artist can’t afford a tassel for his bookmark.
So why’ve I jumped the big divider? you ask. Hey, it isn’t my idea— if Notre Dame or the Sainte-Chapelle were worth seeing, E. H. Harriman would’ve FOBed them gargoyle by gargoyle to Central Park long ago. No, I’m interviewing this famous film director here. He couldn’t come to New York. Something about imprisonment for unlawful sexual intercourse. And, groan, I’ve got to take a bath again. How come France hasn’t figured out the principle of falling water yet? First time I’ve been in a tub since Russia 1975. How clever of les Français to dispense their toilet paper by little Sight-Saver-sized squares. All I need is some Scotch tape so I can stick them together. And do I dare drink the water?—certainly French people don’t, otherwise why order Evian and Perrier at each meal. One damp toothbrush and say bonjour to the galloping touristers. Must admit, I like that big ashtray in my bathroom. Faucets on it so you can wash ash away. Damn cigar butt didn’t go down last night, though.
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