California Journal, Episode 3
We rejoin our hero back at the airport where he has returned to meet les Français, whose flight has been delayed un peu.
The plane bearing les Français finally arrives. Ça va? Bien, merci.
Off to reclaim les baggages, a Fortune magazine attracts the attention of one of the small party. Regardez! Les 10 meilleurs actions. Finding the article on the ten best stocks: “Ah, Siebel.” He looks at his watch, “We’ve signed our contract with Siebel by now.” (!!!) Every ill-conceived, half-baked idea of Gallic sensibilities says not to ask any of the dozen questions that come to mind. So I don’t.
The bags are already on the carousel when we get there. In Paris it is not so fast as this, I am told. Yes, I am the proud caretaker of America’s image, which is still safe with me after, what ... 13 minutes!
“There is room in the automobile for all this?” Trust me.
When I finally find it, the new Explorer is greeted mostly with Gallic indifference. And a question about fossil fuels which I take to be largely rhetorical.
“No remote entry?” I am asked. “Strange.”
“Uh ... I guess not,” I explain.
“Have you looked in the back?”
“Uh ... in the back?” Before I can add to this insight, the hatch is opened, a side panel is unscrewed, a manila envelope withdrawn and two remote units are extracted from it.
“Uh ... but there probably aren’t any batteries in them,” I offer. An American dime is produced and the remotes are pried open. Batteries in place. “Well, but they’ll have to be programmed or something,” I contribute. A button is pressed. The horn honks, the locks lock. Okay, I guess not.
So, up the 101, light traffic, Civic Center off-ramp, driving like I’ve been here before. As we pull in, a first little seed of concern starts to grow as one of my party observes “This is not Eddy Street?”
Hmmm. Eddy Street ... that rings a dim bell. “No, this is Ninth Street. Eddy Street is ... uh, a side street or something. Or a mailing address. I know these things.” Yes, trust me.
Bags are removed and dragged across a small asphalt parking area. In the miniscule office next to Soft Drinks & Ice I graciously present my visitors. I inquire about their reservations. They have none.
Concern gives way to a little mild panic. The clerk doesn’t speak very good English, so I have to talk louder. Sill no reservations. The walls of the tiny office close in just a little. I grasp my nettles firmly and confront the issue: “The address of this hotel is Eddy Street, isn’t it?”
The clerk looks at me like a bug: “This is Ninth Street. Eddy Street is ... Eddy Street.” The little office -- jammed with four people, their bags, and now some guy who wants change for a Coke -– grows suddenly even smaller.
Join our hapless hero in the next episode and see if he can find Eddy Street. Should the nation’s honor be in this guy’s hands? |
