21 Steps To Happiness. F. G. Gerson
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“What I mean is, Lynn…you need to be more of a bitch.”
Step #3:
Everywhere you go, be utterly bored.
I’m it!
I am the real thing!
Lynn Blanchett, daughter of famous mother Jodie Blanchett and genius in the making!
I have picked up my ugly Adidas bag, farewelled Roxanne and, as I cross customs, I find a tall Arab-looking man holding a piece of paper with my name on it.
“I’m Lynn Blanchett,” I tell him.
“Je suis Massoud, et je suis votre chauffeur.”
“Do you speak English?
“No no, no English! Français!”
“Right! This—” I point at the name “—is me.” I point at me.
“Oh!”
He points at himself.
“Moi, Massoud.”
We’re doing the Tarzan-meets-Jane thing.
“Should we go to the car? The car? Le car!” I turn an imaginary steering wheel.
“Car! Yes, yes! Par là, mademoiselle.” He walks toward one of the exits.
I follow him outside and we walk toward a stretch lim— No, that’s not a limousine at all, that’s just a…er…silly-looking car. Like a cross between a hearse and a spaceship. That must be the compact French version of a stretch limo.
He opens the passenger door for me.
Mmm? Cream leather upholstery. A phone. A minibar. A little video monitor for the passengers to enjoy a selection of DVDs.
Not bad at all!
“Vous voulez aller à votre hôtel?”
“Er…”
“You want hotel?” he tries.
“Yes, let’s go to my hotel.”
“Good!”
We’re off and I take my first glance at France. It’s not what I expected. It’s dawn, but the sky is nothing but mud-brown mash. The airport is located in the middle of grimy fields and lines of dirty highways.
“Paris!”
“Er…”
I open my eyes.
It feels like we have been driving for hours. Horrible traffic jams. I look to my right and all I can see are gray buildings. But…
I turn to my left and I see it, Paris!
Paris, Paris, PARIS!
We exit the highway. “Trop de bouchons,” Massoud repeats like a motto as we slide into the city.
Bouchons?
It feels so unfamiliar. The streets are narrow. Everything looks old and hides the dark rainy sky. People are walking along the wet sidewalks, heads down, and dressed in plain boring colors.
There is a feeling of sadness.
Nobody plays the accordion.
There’s no Café Terrace with people drinking wine and eating French bread by their parked scooters.
But then, we turn and drive along a lovely little river.
“Is that the Seine?”
“What?”
“La Seine?” I ask, tapping my window.
“No, no, Canal Saint-Martin. Very very beautiful!”
“Oh, yeah, it’s so beautiful,” I repeat excitedly.
Now it looks like the city I have been dreaming of. Romantic, slow paced, vibrant and full of culture.
But before I can take on this perfect image of Paris, we make another turn and we get blocked in a street that might have been in Cairo for all I know. People of all races yell at each other in different languages while carrying racks of clothes, vegetables, meat. Cow carcasses are unloaded from dirty trucks. Animals are hanging upside down above butcher stalls.
I can’t believe my eyes. Here I am, in the comfort of my hearse-spaceship combo, and outside, it’s mayhem.
We drive along a huge old monumental arc.
“Arc de Triomphe?” I ask.
“No! No! This Porte Saint-Denis. Arc de Triomphe very much big!”
He shows me how big with his hands.
The Arc de Triomphe is much bigger, he tries to explain. Apparently Paris is full of arcs. They have an excess of arcs.
“Ah, Paris,” he says happily and winks at me. “Look, look!”
When I look outside, I realize that we are surrounded by an army of prostitutes. Most of them are very old, overweight and wear ridiculously tight Lycra.
Is this Paris according to Massoud?
But before I can make up my mind about that, we change landscape again.
This is not a car, it’s a time machine.
“Et voilà, la Seine!” Massoud points. “Là!”
Look!
Paris opens up in front of me. And here is the Seine. Two lines of magnificent monumental buildings run alongside this huge river. I don’t think I have ever seen anything so beautiful. I would cry if Massoud wasn’t checking me constantly in his mirror.
“It’s very…beautiful,” I say.
“Paris, Paris!” Massoud stars to whistle, turns away from the Seine and stops the car.
Before I realize that we have arrived at my hotel, a porter opens my door and offers his hand to help me out.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle, bienvenu au Georges V.”
“Bonjour…”
I look at the hotel. It’s magnificent. Way beyond what I expected.
Massoud gets out of the car and passes the porter my ridiculously small luggage.
“Voilà! Goodbye.”
“Hey!” I call after him. “Massoud?”
“Oui.”
“Merci, Massoud. Thank you!” I give him my best smile, and I must be doing a good job at it because he smiles back and says, “pas de problème,” which, I believe, means something like you’re welcome.
“This way, mademoiselle,” the porter says, carrying my ugly little bag. He whisks me through the revolving doors.
Holy crap! Look at that. I freeze in the middle of the lobby, petrified. It’s so…
“This way, this way!”
Er, okay….
The porter drops my bag in front of the reception desk and I hand the man my passport.
“Mademoiselle Blanchett, yes. But of course, we have you in our English Suite.”
“Oh, that’s great.”
“You are very, very lucky.”
“Really?”
“Really, you are. You were supposed to have an executive suite but then we found out who you were,” he says with a you-know-what-I-mean smile. “We upgraded you, of course! It’s a magnificent suite. André will show you.”
André, my porter, grabs my card key and I follow him to the elevator. I can’t stop staring at him. He is