by Stuart Leopold

Created on: June 04, 2009

It was forty-three years ago when I took my first trip to Paris. Although it was primarily a business trip, I somehow managed to find the time during my hectic days, to get lost in a city that has a depth and breadth of history and beauty that is beyond words.I had come away from this first trip to Paris with indelible pictures of a city that is unequalled in its timeless beauty and verve for life.

I had somehow convinced the people I was working for that I was exceedingly more experienced and worldly than I really was and should be sent straight away to Paris on business. Clearly the case I had presented to them to send me on a buying trip to Paris was accepted and I was given a hand full of expense money and a coach class round trip ticket to the city of lights. I decided to allow the company travel agents to book my trip for me as I had no first hand knowledge of where to stay. I called a few of my friends who had been there and asked their advice and passed their information along to the agent as my own. Once again I sounded convincing as they did what I asked them to do in booking my hotel.

I landed at Charles De Gaul airport late at night. I collected my bags and headed for the taxi stand, as I had been instructed to do by my friends. After breathing the smoggy airport air for a few minutes, a small Parisian taxi sped up to the curb and screeched to a stop just inches from my feet. A short, bespectacled driver got out. He was the typical Parisian taxi driver. His unkempt hair protruded from a slouched hat that he wore at a rakish angle, almost covering his right eye. He wore an open cloth vest,apparently from a suit long gone, over a wrinkled and faded striped shirt. His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms. His eyes were small and as dark as pitch as he slowly looked me up and down. I felt as though I were being x-rayed by this little man. The remnants of a Galois cigarette dangled from his lips and it seemed to have a life of it's own as the small cigarette jumped up and down as though keeping time with his staccato speech. The dark grey smoke of his cigarette wafted up and covered his head like a pungent halo as he spoke. Ultimately the length of the long cigarette ash gave way to gravity and it fell upon his open vest, leaving yet, one more stain to be dealt with at a later date, or judging from the various stains already there, perhaps not at all.

In my very limited and fairly halting French I said: "Parlais vous Frances?" I had meant to say

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