The Next Installment...

It wasn't until her mobile began bleating that she opened her eyes. The voice in her left ear, softly saying,"I'm calling regarding Nina Pankow"...

Jolted by the mention of her goddaughter, she struggled to make sense of the caller's messege...A lawyer advising that Carol and Bernie, friends since university days, had disappeared...the Coast Guard was looking for signs of their small plane...She needed to pick up eight-year-old Nina from school...

Her mind filled with images of the party she and Carol had planned for Nina's birthday the month before, their back garden full of kids waiting to eat a three-tiered chocolate castle Bernie had constructed.

She began dialing, hoping the housekeeper would answer. Just as the voicemail clicked on, the phone went dead...

The Waiter's Face Went White...

A postcard and true story, from 1973.

Making our way down the ink-black street, on a late July night, the first thing my parents and I took notice of was the quiet. Walking just blocks from our Paris hotel, we found the restaurant recommended by the concierge for a late dinner.

Opening a door at the street, we mounted a series of steps taking us into a large room. Bathed in the semi-darkness of candlelight, it held few diners and from where we were seated, the two large swinging doors led into the kitchen, out of which our harried waiter soon appeared.

After taking our order, the soup course was quickly dispatched. I was about to take the first spoonful when my mother's hand landed atop mine and she hissed, "Wait."

Concerned about a possible breach of etiquette, I looked into her face, seeing complete dismay, then noted her spoon as she checked from the bottom of her bowl upward. Taking mine, she did the same motion, unfortunately with the same result. She then looked at my dad and said, "I need to check that."

He handed over his uneaten soup, waited for her to look and wordlessly went in search of the chef. Seeing him depart the table, the waiter materialised and demanded to know the nature of our problem.

My mother knew a few words of French, all of them polite. She had no way to tell the man that Madame was was livid. It was down to me, showing the waiter the contents of all three bowls, spreading the findings on a pristine cloth napkin for closer inspection and saying, "Les cafards," before his face went ashen, then white, and he sputtered apologies.

Parisian waiters are known for being a bit brusque, so his reaction, overheard by a friend of the chef at the next table, soon brought out the chef and his staff, with my dad bringing up the rear.

Despite repeated assurances that the kitchen was clean and there were no insects anywhere, the chef looked through all of our soup bowls and glanced at the napkin, his face flaming.

He looked briefly at Madame, then at me before giving apologies to my father for this "irregularity."

Our omelettes were inspected and then eaten in silence.

I do not recall the name of the establishment. I am told by various bloggers in France that it is indeed uncommon to encounter soup teeming with anything other than its original ingredients.

Until Next Time...

Ah, Life In The Nineties...

This tale from my younger days is true and was part of an e-mail sent to another blogger. What was your life like back then?

Image From Wikipedia. It is in the public domain worldwide and has been cropped. It is used here for illustrative purposes only.

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In the mid-nineties, I found myself part of a wave of thirty-somethings seeking work. On the day of an Employment Fair at my university, I arrived, CV in hand, dressed in a beautiful red skirt and matching jacket. Having taken pains to find exactly the right creamy silk blouse for the ensemble, I looked the picture of confidence.

Concluding an interview, I shook hands with the hiring manager to whom I had been speaking, leaving the room excited to be starting a job in the next two weeks.

The exits, likewise brimming with flurries of skirts and suits, all rushing to various destinations, some no doubt unforeseen, only added to my growing anticipation.

It was not until I reached the row of cars containing mine that an odd sensation gradually replaced the heady feelings I'd carried from the interview.

A small, almost imperceptible snap led to a slow downward migration until the crotch of my sheer tights rested between my knees, impeding further efforts to get to my car.

In a split-second decision, I crouched between two Jeeps. However, removing the offending tights, and trying to jettison my favourite flats without burning my feet on hot asphalt, wasn't as easy to accomplish as I'd imagined.

No sooner was I free of shoes and busily yanking off the last shred of hosiery when I heard in booming bass: "What do you think you're doing there, Miss?"

The snapped elastic band of tights in hand, my eyes migrated to the burliest male specimen of a police officer I'd ever encountered. Tall, and exceedingly muscular, he had no discernible neck, and his light blue eyes reflected an air of impenetrable reserve and calm.

Cramming my left foot into its shoe, I decided that a quick departure was in order and pasted a smile on my face to hide rising panic.

"I had a small problem but it's over now," I said. Before he could respond, I added, "Would you be a dear and dispose of these? They've seen better days and I hate to leave a mess. Thanks ever so much."

With that, I hurled the defective hosiery in his direction, and took off toward my car, glancing backward only once to see whether he was in pursuit.

The increasing peels of laughter that met my ears only faded as the driver's door opened and I started the engine...

Until Next Time...

There I Was, Minding My Own Business When...

I was asked by an acquaintance, "What is the strangest thing you have ever seen through a window?"

My mind flashed in a million different directions, each conveying images grown distant with time. After a momentary pause, I related the following story.

As teens a friend and I often spent dinners together. As I was helping with the washing up afterward one evening, I noticed a strange white Cadillac slowly approaching the houses in the neighbourhood.

These houses were all two-storey, built on stilts and in a circle. The kitchen windows, well above the street, afforded a view of everything that went on. Early evening was normally quiet.

My friend and I could see the Cadillac but did not get a clear view of the driver until the car stopped suddenly. A man wearing a Panama hat and a long-sleeved white guayaberra emerged, shut the car door and glanced around.

At this point, my friend and I wondered if he might be lost or worse, planning a robbery. I was about to fetch her parents when laughter broke out. Turning slightly, I noted my friend pointing and followed her gaze until the man's side came into
view. Shock gave way to giggling as we realised he was urinating in the street, a far from normal occurrence as far as we were concerned.

It was odd to see a well-dressed,middle-aged man in a luxury car using the street as a bathroom and we wondered aloud whether he might be drunk, though his movements gave no hint of this.

I dropped the plate I had just washed into the sink and watched as the man wiped himself with a handkerchief, got back into his car and drove off into the setting sun, his actions forever a mystery.

You Rode In A What?...

This is a Theme Thursday post from August, 2009. I reprise it today by request. I have never driven nor have I ridden in a Daimler like the one pictured here. That image is from Wikipedia and is in the public domain. It is used here solely for illustrative purposes.

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You Wait, I Bring Limo...

On a long ago visit to Mexico City, my grandfather and I got lost. Eventually, my precocious twelve-year-old self demanded a loo, so we began rather earnestly looking for a taxi back to our hotel, where we expected to re-join my parents.

The main thoroughfares of the city appeared clogged with traffic of various vehicular proportions and it soon became evident that all of the taxis were in use. Continuing our walk, we spied a young man working in a garage. Sliding from beneath a worn chassis, he asked, "I help you?"

His name was Enrique. A bevy of broken Spanish and English ensued, accompanied by a hastily drawn map. Noticing my grandfather's increasingly quizzical countenance, he gestured for us to stay put, his voice trailing off after, "You wait, I bring limo..."

We weren't at all certain we wanted a ride in a limousine, but as my need for a loo was growing, Enrique's rapid disappearance up the crowded street brought hope of a quick dash to our hotel room's spotless commode.

The shade of the garage offered respite from the early afternoon's rising heat but did nothing against the cacophony of belching exhausts, agitated shouts or horns of various decibels teeming in the street.

When after several minutes, the commanding voice behind a bullhorn approached, many, including my grandfather and I, were instantly hushed. Gazing out, we saw Enrique, bullhorn in hand, leaning from the passenger window of a 1950's era hearse.

After a barely discernible expletive from my grandfather, the street cleared as on the sidewalk people gawked, presumably concerned about the identity of the finned vehicle's occupants.

Stopping in front of the garage, the driver explained in hurried English that he was Enrique's cousin, Alberto, and owned a nearby funeral home. He was only to happy to escort us back to our hotel since he was meeting someone at the bar there for lunch.

Scanning the hearse's back window, my grandfather then glanced at me and said "Gracias," as its rear door opened and we climbed inside. A short and silent ride later, I found myself looking into the eyes of a confused bellman as I quickly exited the hearse, grandfather in tow, amid a flurry of hasty goodbyes.

Sadly, I have no pictures from that day, nor have I ever ridden in an actual limousine. I do however, know what the quiet of a hearse feels like, and I'm in no hurry for the next such adventure.

The phrase, "You wait here, I bring limo..." reminds me of lines from films one cannot forget and I always recall the sweet and sweaty young man, with a mop of brown hair, his hands stained with grease, running through a crowded lane...