We stopped for some time at one particularly beautiful town and went out for air. I wondered audibly concerning the name of the place. An American companion looked at the signs round the station.
“It’s Sortie,” he said.
But it wasn’t. It was Angoulême, and I wouldn’t mind moving thither. My American friend was probably from Exit, Michigan.
The discovery was made and reported that one might go into the dining-car and smoke as much as one liked without asking permission from the maiden with the dreamy eyes. This car was filled with French soldiers and officers going back to the front after their holiday. There seemed to be as many different uniforms as there were men, and the scenery indoors was almost as brilliant as that outside.
It was about eight-thirty in the evening when we reached Paris. The sophisticated soldiers engaged their “redcaps” before they left the train, calling to them through the open windows. The demand was much greater than the supply, and I was among the unfortunates who had to carry their own baggage. I staggered to a street where a whole flotilla of taxis was anchored, but when I asked for one the person in charge said “No, no, no, no, no,” meaning “No,” and pointed around the corner. I followed his directions and landed on a boulevard along which there was a steady procession of machines, but it was fully twenty minutes before one came that was going slow enough to stop.
Our city is not all lit up like a church these nights, and it was impossible to see much of what we passed on the way to the hotel.
At the desk an English clerk, dressed for a noon wedding, gave me a blank to fill out. All the blank wanted to know was my past family history. It is to be sent, said the clerk, to the prefect of police. I had no idea he was interested in me.
Sunday, August 19. Paris.
When I get back to Chicago I shall insist that my favorite restaurant place tables out on the walk. It is more hygienic and much more interesting.
But Chicago, I’m afraid, can’t provide half as much sidewalk entertainment as Paris. As I remember the metropolis of Illinois, there is a sad lack there of demonstrative affection on the streets. In fact, I fear that a lady and gentleman who kissed each other repeatedly at the corner of Madison and Dearborn would be given a free ride to Central Station and a few days in which to cool off. Such an osculatory duel on Paris’s Grand Boulevard—also known by a dozen other names—goes practically unnoticed except by us Illinois hicks.
An American officer and I—at the former’s expense—lunched sur curb today. The food was nothing to boast about, but we got an eyeful of scenery. Soldiers—French, British and American—strolled by constantly, accompanied by more or less beautiful brunettes, and only a few were thoughtless enough not to stop and kiss a few times in full view of our table. We also observed the inmates of passing taxis. No matter how wide the back seat, the lady occupant invariably sat on her escort’s lap. A five-passenger car in America is a ten-passenger car in Paris, provided the chauffeur has a girl of his own.
When the American officer was tired of buying, I left him and sought out the Chicago Tribune office, conveniently located above Maxim’s. The editor was there, but he was also broke, so I went back to the Ritz and got ready for bed.
The express office will be open tomorrow and I will be a rich man.
Lundi, 20 Août. Paris.
Went down to the express office and cashed a large part of my order. Friends were with me, and they immediately relieved me of most of the burden. I was hungry for lunch, having had no breakfast. Meat was what I wanted, and meat was what I couldn’t get. Which led me to inquire into the Rules de la vie of Paris.
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Monday and Tuesday are meatless days.
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All except Saturday and Sunday are heatless days. Hot baths are impossible on Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays.
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Strong liquor is procurable between noon and two p.m. and seven-thirty and nine-thirty at night. At other times ye toper must be content with light wines.
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All public places except the theaters must close and douse lights at nine-thirty in the evening.
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There is no speed limit for taxis or privately owned cars. A pedestrian run over and killed is liable to imprisonment. The driver is not only innocent, but free to hurl as many French curses as he likes at his victims. If the pedestrian is not killed, he must explain why not to the judge.
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It is not only permissible but compulsory to speak to any girl who speaks to you, and a girl who won’t speak to you should be reported to the police.
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No watch or clock is wrong. Whatever time you have is right and you may act accordingly.
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Matches never ignite. A smoker must purchase a cigar or cigarette lighter and keep it filled with essence, the française term for gas. Sometimes the lighters work.
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American cigarettes are not procurable. Bum ones may be bought at any tabac store or café for only five times what they are worth.
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Water must never be used as a thirst quencher, and seldom for any other purpose. It’s worse than bourgeois; it’s unheard-of.
The lack of water, hot or cold, drove me to a barber shop this morning. The barber first made me put on a shroud, and I was afraid he was either going to cut me to pieces or talk me to death. But his operation was absolutely painless and his incessant conversation harmless, because I couldn’t understand a word of it.
From the barber shop I went to the information department of American Army Headquarters. That’s where you get permits to visit our camps. But
