The French. They are different from you and me.
After a transatlantic flight and semi-conscious train ride into the city, my first teenaged memory of Paris is collapsing into a cab – followed by a sinking feeling as the driver contemplates the address provided by my mother. Non, he has never heard of such a place. Sighing, he immerses himself in a tattered street atlas. The meter ticks away. My mother rolls her eyes. Still. Something about this man makes me think we just might be the first tourists in the history of Paris