I hate cabs in general, so you can imagine the dread when I rolled out of the airport (quite literally, with the suitcase you think is too small), and hailed a Paris taxi.
“Here we go,” I sighed, preparing for a two-hour drive to nowhere with someone who hated my accent. Instead, it was 30 minutes and 30 Euros – exactly the same as a JFK fare – and my chauffer was lovely.
Also, my French isn’t as bad as I thought, which helped.
“Are you going to visit Chanel?” he asked, when I told him I was a fashion writer.
“Oui!” I exclaimed.
“Which of her fragrances do you like the best?” he continued. “My wife wears Chanel No. 5.”
“Um,” I thought, and then I thought how the French don’t say “Um,” they say Uuuh or Errrr. “I like Allure a lot,” I decided. “Allure.”
“Ah yes,” he answered. “From 1996.”
“Egoise is sort of cool, too…” I murmered.
“From 1993,” he shot back.
It turned out, my cab driver knew when each Chanel perfume was launched. Ever.
“But how?!” I exclaimed, incredulous at his memory bank and also the fact that I hadn’t said a word yet in English.
“Ah, I am French,” he answered. “To know Chanel perfume is as natural as knowing the streets of the city.”
Welcome to Paris, I thought, in English. Then I got to my hotel bed and promptly collapsed.
–FARAN