Orly is a wonderful airport. Modern and efficient, it is quite easy to reach by train. The train rides underground through central Paris but soon rises into neighborhoods which struck my american eye as clean and quaint. After a few brick- and-arch styled stations one meets a more modern apartment and warehouse district that could pass for Cincinnati. 
The passengers who’d boarded the train were all that morning sort of people that inspire deep-seated feelings of contempt in me, especially when I’ve been awake all night. There’s really no hiding it. I’ve found the more alcohol is involved the more obvious my disdain for morning becomes.
The woman sitting across from me was thin and looked cold. Her eyes had the stoned stared of the sleepy commuter and she wore a scarf over her head which was draped down her back and tied beneath her chin. She nibbled at petit baguette.
“Vous ètre froid, non? ” she said when she caught me staring at her.
I smiled a sheepish smile and looked back down at the luggage I was holding. My nerves were a bit sshakey, and I decided to try to sort things out by writing what I knew to be facts. I had far more questions than I needed and no answers. Unfortunately boot-up was enough to drain the batteries in my laptop. Three days in a hotel and I can’t remember to charge the damned batteries.
Soon I arrived at the airport – without ever changing trains. I had an hour- and-a-half to kill before my flight even boarded so I checked my luggage at the counter in the west terminal. After charging my mood with the espresso I bought at the little cafè outside the security check, I decided to charge the batteries in old trusty with power nicked off an unattended wall outlet.
The french police are nothing if not efficient. And boy, do they like luggage. I was descended upon by a veritable host of defenders of the Parisienne trust before I even managed to return to my seat. At first I was flattered (“Why yes, it is Louis Vitton,”) but when I saw the guys with the bulky outfits and plexiglass face-shields running full-tilt down the hallway I began to suspect these people were neither impressed with the cut nor the color of my valise, rather ‘twas its need for electricity that burdened them greatly.
I hadn’t thought much about it. I saw the outlet and I needed power. They thought very much about it. They had two big serious-looking goons sit beside me while the plastic shield guys opened my computer. I told them the boot word that hid all them decryption steps. Fortunately they didn’t do it twice, the second time requires a long fractal sequence that I need a pencil and paper to remember.
Another officer took an opportunity to rifle my travel-wallet. I wear its strap over a shoulder like a bandelero, and she very carefully removed it from under my jacket after making me put both hands in the air. I could tell by her snobby french sneer she was more than a little surprised to find several pieces of corroborating identification and a couple of gold cards. Too bad, I thought. I think I’m entirely within my rights to dress like I want and have a good credit rating.
All in all they spent nearly two hours checking and double checking my info, including a mini-quiz about who I am. (Yes, that is my name. Yes that is my wallet. No, I use no aliases. I was visiting. Pleasure. No, no relatives here. No, I have not been to Amsterdam. No, I have never been convicted of any crime. No, I do not claim diplomatic immunity. No. What’s the cDc?) Then they grabbed up all my things and escorted me through the customs office, down a long hallway and into the bowels of the airport. They opened small office marked “Interrogation,” led me inside, bade me to sit next to the table where they’d piled my stuff. They locked the door behind them as they left.
I’ve become more wary of being obvious when traveling. It is important that one doesn’t look conspicuous lest the wrath of nationalism and capitalist backlash weigh heavy on thy heart and wallet. I always carry my wallet under a coat or something, out of sight – out of mind. Besides, being mugged hasn’t been a problem for me yet. I think that a traveler’s best tact is to avoid unsafe places and try not to look like a victim. It’s also important to realize that if you flaunt the odds long enough eventually you will be a victim. All one can do is try to prepare for it. I always carry my passport and emergency credit cards in a separate place – a thin waist pouch worn under my shirt. (Then there’s the money belt….)
“Remove your belt, please.” she said as she unlocked the door and tossed my wallet on the stainless steel table.
It was Officer Blotch. I remembered her well, and I could only hope she had not gotten a good look at me. There was nothing in her actions that suggested she might have connected me with the day before. Not yet, at least.
She began to rifle through my luggage. I was glad I’d not spent long packing. This continued for what seemed an interminable amount of time. “What is this? Why do you have that?” She was quite interested in what my plans were. Somehow she was aware I’d changed my ticket the early that morning. When I explained I had unexpectedly run out of money things started getting worse.
The fact is I’d begun to worry about the bunch of loonies I’d been hanging with; there was definitely something more than a little innocent mutual delusion going on with them. And I was seriously concerned about the continuing police interest in my activities. And I was concerned about the diminishing numbers of healthy people in Paris.
It seems that Marie was not the only new acquaintance of mine to wake up slowly. Henri was unusually short of breath when I went to check out of the hotel. His complexion had turned slightly more grey but the rigor mortis seemed to do wonders for his posture. Unfortunately there was no one around.
I found him behind the desk, propped against the wall and a bookshelf, with the phone handset clenched in his left hand and half a broken pencil in the other. There was no blood anywhere, no rough edges or anything… it looked fake. I rounded the desk for a closer look. When I got near enough I reached my hand, palm down, toward his face to see if he might still be breathing. Nothing. He hadn’t been looking well anyway, I thought.
At first I thought I’d call the police. Then I thought I’d just slip away. Somehow I knew something wasn’t right.
The sound of the elevator door opening behind me inspired me to duck-and- hide response. Very strange, I thought as I hid beside the clerk of Chez la Mort, that there was no one in a hotel lobby at six in the morning… or several hours before for that matter. Fortunately, my rationalization continued, my plane was leaving at 8 a,m, and I couldn’t hang out to answer a bunch of questions I couldn’t answer.
I peered around the counter at knee level. Whoever it was popped out of the elevator and turned the corner toward the garden at the hotel’s center. I heard a woman’s voice singing. She stopped long enough to say, “Bonjour, Henri,” before her footsteps and her singing faded away.
“…et au revoir, ” I muttered to myself as I slipped through the grassy plantings of the lobby. I was out the door like extra money. I covered the three blocks on cruise control, trying not to look like a tourist fleeing the scene of a possible homicide. The fact that my room had been ransacked sometime the night before while I was being introduced to the Parisienne elite was the least of my worries. I knew they hadn’t found what they were looking for, but I also knew I needed to get the hell out of Dodge. I entered the RER station on St Michel just as one of those surly officers opened the gate at the bottom of the stair.
I learned in London of the importance of watching the front of the train to see where it is bound. I occupied my worried self by studying the system maps in the station. Any given car may or may not have an accurate destination one can see from inside the car, and older cars may not have a sign at all. The Reseau Express Regional is no exception, having many lines which share common rails. I caught the third train, waiting for which gave me plenty of time to verify my route to Orly. I felt like I had a huge sign reading “FLEEING THE COUNTRY” taped to my forehead.
Apparently the police saw it, or at least they thought I looked nervous. Or they thought I looked suspicious. They’d found it prudent to pull the luggage from the plane (all of it – to get to my single bag) and delay the flight. Out the window I could plainly see the french german shepherd drug-sniffing canine patrol peeing on several pieces of luggage while the trainer chatted with another officer. My bag was carried by hand to the interrogation room. The other bags were not searched.
However it was poor Blotch who drew the unfortunate task of watching me strip to my birthday suit and instructing me to expose various parts of my person normally unavailable to the general public. Indignantly I spread and posed. I’m not sure but I think she was more embarrassed that I.
“Where is your passport?” she asked suddenly.
I knew where it was, but the thought of chasing Courtney was not nearly as enticing as it had been before the dinner I’d attended the previous eve.
“I lost it,” I said.
“In Paris?” she asked.
“Yes, I – I had it when I arrived. But I don’t know where it is now.” I hoped the subject would just go away.
She smiled, a little. It was the first real sign of humanity I’d seen from her. “The thieves are common in the streets here. I will make a note.” She turned and copied some things from a small list which was push-pinned to the wall.
After I offered an extra view of my butt, gratis of course, Blotch’s attitude returned to the more familiar sour. She grabbed the clipboard and my wallet and said, “Merci. You may dress now.” 
The door clanged shut behind her. I waited for the tell-tale click of the lock but it never came. It took all the restraint I had not to let myself get excited thinking she hadn’t recognized me. After a few seconds I put my ear to the door and listened for the murmuring of cops plotting my transportation downtown. “Boook heem, Don-yell.” Wow, a prison francaise. Off to the Paris Grey-Bar Hilton. How to learn French and get room and board for free. ‘I Was a French Patsy’… I was relieved when I didn’t hear anything.
I’d already pulled my clothes on as I peeked out the door. The hallway was clear so I braved my way into the hall. I was trying to decide to go left or right when I heard somebody around the corner. I dived back into the room and listened to the wheels squeaking past the door. The noise proceeded down the hall. I looked after it too late, but I heard it disappear into the sound of the traffic swelling and the door slamming after what-ever it was went.
By now I’d lost the edge of my nerve, so I sat nervously on the edge of my seat and waited. At least one french interrogation room has 440 black and white tiles. Its picture of the Louvre bears the phrase, “La musée la plus grande du monde. ” I actually counted to 300 by ‘mississippi’s’ reasoning I had no real way of knowing the time, but that surely 5 minutes should be quite sufficient. I decided there was no doubt of the danger this pregnant pause posed. The waiting for somebody to return to further degrade me was not sitting well with instinct, so all at once I decided to make a break for it and take my chances in Paris.
I scrambled down the hall and around the corner — and nearly smashed into the door which was just beyond it. I composed myself and tried to act like somebody calmly walking out the side door of a police station. There were two uniformed officers outside the door, who smiled and nodded politely at me as I walked by.
” ‘Jour, ” I said. I, for some reason, decided to turn left. It didn’t really matter except that I wanted to look like I had somewhere to go and no time for small talk. I continued past the terminal toward a bus I saw loading at the far end.
“Vite, vite, ” the driver was saying as he slammed the door behind me. The bus roared away from the curb so hard I nearly toppled back down to the door. The driver was looking past his shoulder at traffic trying to work his way to the left side of the road.
“Merci, monsieur, ” I said digging for change. I had no money of any type, and I was trying not to notice Officer Blotch shouting with the two officers outside the door. I didn’t want the driver screeching to a halt and dumping me there in front of the police station for sure. I took a chance with a ruse I’d seen a punk-girl in London pull.
I swept my hand past the window of the little driver’s compartment and said, “Une change, ” while he had his head turned looking for traffic, then I stepped angrily back toward the rear of the bus.
I heard him mutter something behind me but it didn’t sound like, “come back here” or anything. I plopped into a seat in an empty row.
I looked back out the window to where I’d made my escape in time to see Blotch slam my wallet onto the sidewalk in disgust. Jeez, my wallet! I tried not to think about being a fugitive. The possibility of being on the lam in France had never entered my mind. But it did strike me as ironic. My dinner the evening before had been not as much confusing as it was disturbing.
Next Week: Maybe it’s time for A New Career.
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Copyright © 1996 JPArmstrong