We made out way via the bureaucratic elevator back to our room. We had a brief rest, and perused the area for restaurants; it looked like we would have to take a taxi. The storm had ceased, but there didn't seem to be anything other than hotel restaurants within walking distance. We both agreed that we didn't want to eat at our hotel again. The rather bad experience associated with the meal from the previous evening stuck in our memories like a burr in a horse's tail. A short while later, we found ourselves, reluctantly, seated at our hotel restaurant--all of the other options involved more time and energy than we possessed. After traipsing around Paris all day, being taken in ambuscade, intimidating other would-be ambuscaders, repeatedly surmounting insurmountable stairs, wandering through museums, strolling down the Champs-Elysees, and otherwise rollicking and rolling in the history and scenic glory of Paris like dogs in a rotting deer carcass, our search for adventure had been sated; our get up and go had got up and went; our exhaustion rating exceeded our desire for more experience points.
We sat at a different table than we had the previous night. We were next to a window. Of course, it was dark enough outside that we saw little in the glass other than our own reflection. I don't remember now what I had to drink--I know that it was not Orangina. Our waiter was very nice; he was more comfortable speaking French than English. He helped me remember that the word for the bill was l'addition; by which I mean that I asked him and he told me.
I had steak; I think my wife had the same. We really enjoyed the meal. Our expectations were guarded; by which I mean that we were just hoping not to be sick. It was really quite good. We were glad that we hadn't tried to go elsewhere. Was it overpriced? Certainly. Was it a great meal? Certainly.
The most interesting part for me was when I took the bill to the register. A woman with whom I had spoken before was working at the register, and took my bill. Another woman who worked there walked up beside her and whispered in French, "Is this the guy you were telling me about?" I guess she either thought that that my French was so poor that I wouldn't understand, or that her whisper would not reach me. The first woman then whispered back, "Oui. C'est lui." I didn't have the nerve to ask what it was about me that they had found worthy of prior conversation. I'm pretending that it was my remarkable rugged good looks coupled with my boyish charm. I wasn't wearing the hat; so it couldn't have been that.
The meal had proved to be a pleasant surprise. The unpleasant surprise came in the dead of the night, ripping me from the comfortable and loving arms of that most pleasant of mistresses, Sleep. My bank called to see if I would like to take a survey about the kind of service that I had received in depositing a check the week before. I had the presence of mind to let the person know that I was in a foreign country, it was the middle of the night, and I did not want to take a survey.
(Rant Notice: Pointless angry blather with no redeeming qualities follows). Of all the things that irritate me about the bank in question, the calls wanting to ask me questions about the service I have received are the worst. If I want to talk about the service, I'll call them. The calls always come at the most inopportune of times. If I could call the idiot who thought of that stupid survey idea at his/her most inconvenient time and badger him with a bunch of useless questions, I would gladly do it. I would love to have him drag himself from bed, stub his toe, bump his knee, and step on a LEGO on his way to the phone. I would ask if he would mind taking a survey about the interaction during my latest bank visit. Are the tellers able to read my signature without difficulty? Would they prefer that I turn to the left or the right as I lean on the counter while conversing with the teller? Are the camera's catching my best side? Is blue ink a problem for their scanners? On a scale of 1-10, how much would they mind never calling me again to inquire about my willingness to take a survey? 1 being, "Consider it done. It was a colossally moronic idea. We're sorry to have bothered you. It won't happen again." 10 being, "We're only in the banking business to cause you misery. We would like to shoot you in the eye with a staple gun and break your teeth out with an ashtray, but the lawsuits have forced us to settle for bothering you by telephone...forever."
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