Our room was several floors up. There was an elevator; it was a bureaucratic elevator. The elevator had a sort of silent Gandalf program. One had to put the room key-card near a sensor to get the elevator to function. Without the room key, it was all, "You shall not pass!" Except it didn't say anything...one was left to push buttons without result. Even a simple, "What are you doing, Dave?" would have been preferable to the stubborn silence of the infernal machine. Frequently (i.e., every time), the sensor didn't read the key-card even after several Jedi-like motions with the card. The eye of Sauron was blind.
It was kind of fun to watch other people attempt it. At times, two or three people would be engaged in the mysterious waving ritual until one of the cards struck the sensor's fancy (we all wanted to strike the bleeping thing somewhere) and the lift would engage. The process did serve to unite the guests against the common enemy; an unspoken bond of brotherhood developed between us as we had banded together in the struggle against the obstinate, un-seeing eye.
We put our things in the room; it was a bureaucratic room. The lights functioned only when the room key-card was inserted and left in a special slot near the door. At least one would know where one had put the key. It reminded me of Phillip K. Dick's Ubik story where household appliances, and even doors refused to function without payment -- if I'm remembering the correct story.
We were required to fill the tank of our automobile with petrol before returning it. The clerk not having been as helpful as I had hoped--he being unable to download directions directly to my memory banks--I resigned myself to the guidance of our nearly constant companion, that mistress of motivation management, that directrice of direction...you know who I mean. She took us right to the place. And, it was off that wrong turn that I had taken earlier in finding the hotel. I had been crafty like a fox without even realizing it. Here's a picture from the internet of the Total gas station. It was even more crowded than shown here.
And another view at night from a different angle. I was using that vacant pump on the center right...or the one right behind it.
Once I was able to get to the gas pump, a new problem thrust itself into my face. That kind of problem may be better than the type that sneaks up and taps you on the shoulder to say, "Hey, Buddy. You got a real problem here. Let me show you what trouble you've brought upon yourself."
Anyway, the problem: no apparent way to pay for the gas. There was no place to scan a credit card or to put cash in the pump. I looked at other pumps; people were swiping credit cards, and getting gas in return. I looked again. Nope. No place for a credit card. I went to the building. All of the workers inside seemed to be busy selling croissants. It looked like an old Soviet Union breadline. I went back to the pumps. I asked a gentleman who had started pumping gas nearby. He informed me that those other pumps were for credit cards. These were the cash pumps. Just pump, and then go inside to pay.
And it was just that easy. When I went back inside to pay; the bread mongering had died down. A clerk helped me right away. We exchanged greetings. She asked which pump I had used. I told her. She told me the amount. I gave her currency. Transaction completed. She didn't ask me for a loyalty card, my phone number, coupons, my mother's maiden name, my social security number, the secret word of the day, or any of that stuff. I remember when all face-to-face transactions were like that...I miss those days.
Next time: The Bowels of Charles DeGaulle...
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