Back in Paris… Monday evening…
Arriving from Amsterdam, I waited till the crowds had passed and was one of the last people to get off the train. Striding along the platform I was stopped by a group of cops, who announced that they were with the French Customs Service.
[In French.] “Do you speak French?”
[In French.] “A little.” [In English: “I would prefer to have this kind of discussion in English.”]
[In decent English.] “Do you have more than 7,000 euros or its U.S. equivalent? Or tobacco, alcohol or anything else to declare?”
“Nothing like that.” [I don’t mention all my new bandannas, eight of them, hard-to-find perfectly square ones, including several new shades of pink.]
“Do you mind if we search your bags?” [Very friendly and polite for cops. Compared to the Canadian border police these guys are perfume salesmen.]
“Not at all.”
“What country are you from?”
“United States.”
“Can we see your passport?”
“Sure.” I reach into my laptop case and — not kidding, really by accident — hand the guy a copy of Raphael’s Ephemeris of the Planets’ Places. The symbolism of this is not lost on me. I reach into the same pouch again and produce my passport and take back the booklet-sized ephemeris. They look it over and get busy on my bags. My passport has been through flood and I often carry it in my back pocket. Verging on falling apart, it’s an object of curiosity. I am always envious of these people whose passports look like they carry them in a gold box.
Meanwhile, I’m about the last person off the train, so there’s not a line behind me. This affords me a higher level of service.
“What do you do?”