Part 5 (2/2)

”Ah, bien, le Louvre!” said the man, breaking into a smile.

Loo-vruh. Aha!

I nodded so vigorously, it's amazing my head didn't fly off and roll all the way back to the monument that was NOT the Was.h.i.+ngton Square Arch.

”Tu es perdu, ma pet.i.te poulette?”

I'm not sure, but I think the Kindly Elderly Gentleman had just addressed me as ”my little chicken.” I know that because the last week of French cla.s.s we read a picture book about a brave little chicken, and it was called La Poulette Courageuse, and I had made fun of it, asking who in the world would ever benefit from reading such a ridiculous piece of writing. The answer, apparently, was me.

”Mais tu parles un peu francais, non?” he continued.

I, Lily Blennerha.s.sett, the Little Chicken, nodded. Because I was better at understanding French than speaking it. The sentence meant ”But you speak a little French, no?” And you see, when I NODDED, my intention was to be agreeing with the NO part. I speak a little French NO. I NO speak NO French NO. Yes, I am supposed to speak French and I have spoken it before and just yesterday I correctly translated the meaning of (but not the location of) deuxieme etage, and I can ask for a gift of chewing gum from the sea, but for the moment let's all just agree, Dear Readers, that I speak French NO. Wherever you put the NO word in English, it's right there. No. NO!! And it should be PAINFULLY OBVIOUS that I NO spoke a little French because I had addressed the man in English from the start.

It was too late, though. The man started chattering away in French, the merry smile never leaving his face, as he jabbed in the air, indicating lefts and rights and this ways and that ways. And I, the Little Chicken, nodded and smiled and made the ”ah, yes, I understand completely” face until he finally stopped and in his Kindly Elderly Manner he waved me along.

At least I had gotten the general direction. I was on a main street-it was wide and busy and full of shops and restaurants (like Fifth Avenue, where I now recognized I was NOT)-so it obviously went somewhere important and the Kindly Elderly Man had clearly indicated his Little Chicken was to proceed down it.

Progress.

I looked at my watch. It was eight minutes before one.

I began to jog. Though I interviewed no witnesses, I feel certain that the sight of a little American chicken jogging down the street, red-faced and wheezing, was not going to improve any international reputations.

I jogged as long as I could. Then I stopped and clutched my leg in alarm, letting out a little shriek that signaled approaching doom. I had injured myself. Possibly gravely. Possibly fatally. I felt no pain, but my entire right leg was shuddering. It was convulsing in agony. I grabbed my thigh muscle and squeezed.

There was something in my pocket. I reached in frantically and pulled the thing out. It was small and dark and vibrating, and it looked like a phaser from Star Trek. But before I had the chance to scream and hurl it into the street, I realized what it was. It was the cell phone that my mother had given me. And I remembered that my father, Esteemed Law Abider Lenny Blennerha.s.sett, who is Diametrically Opposed to All Cell Phones for Any Reason but Grudgingly Accepts Their Role in Personal Safety, had painstakingly followed the instruction booklet and programmed my phone to vibrate, not ring, so as not to violate the Personal Listening s.p.a.ce of other people.

Someone was calling me. I had no idea who it could be, and I didn't care to guess. Someone was reaching out to touch me, at a moment when I'd never felt more alone.

I jabbed the phone against my ear and barked, ”h.e.l.lo?”

The phone kept vibrating.

Why, oh, WHY, had I not learned how to operate this machine?

I stared at the phone. b.u.t.tons. Many b.u.t.tons. One of them was green. Green! The international signal for GO! I pushed it and frantically put the phone to my ear again.

”h.e.l.lO?” I shrieked.

No one was there. What kind of cruel trick was this? I stared at the phone again. Maybe I'd hit the wrong b.u.t.ton.

Wait a minute. There was something written on my little display screen.

where r u?

What kind of question was that? It was patently obvious that I was lost, and now my PHONE wanted to know where I was?

”I'm lost, stupid!” I yelled at the phone. Nothing happened.

Wait.

WAIT!.

I had another Small Burst of Brain. My phone wasn't talking to me. It was typing to me!

Maybe I was supposed to type back.

what?

The little cursor blinked on and off. As an afterthought, I hit the green b.u.t.ton, and my words disappeared.

where r u?

All sorts of witty responses occurred to me. But I was alone and lost in Paris, and my phone was trying to make friends with me. It might pay to be concise.

lost. where r u?

Then I thought about it, and added: who r u?

I waited. And waited. Until: Lewis @ the Louvre ”LEWIS?!” I shouted at the phone. ”What do you mean, Lewis? How can you be Lewis?”

The cursor blinked at me, just as confused. A few people shot the cheese look in my direction and hurried by.

how why help I typed rapidly. Though it goes against every fiber in my being to write sentence fragments and use convenience spellings like ”u,” I was one desperate Little Chicken, and I didn't want Lewis to go away.

For a minute no message came back, and I began to panic. But then suddenly the screen filled with words.

ok. told mdme c just saw u. thinks u r in bathrm.

This seemed to require a response: ok and?

Lewis shot back: gt hr as sn as psble. msg me whn u r here. gtta go 4 now.

Gotta go for now?

”NO!” I yelled at the phone. ”You have to tell me where HERE is!”

Then I typed it. But Lewis was gone. Apparently he was buying me some time. I had to get to the Louvre, fast.

Jogging was simply out of the question. I settled for an ants-in-the-pants kind of speed walk. Have you ever tried to rush somewhere when you don't know where you're going? I'm sure it looks all kinds of stupid.

I was going to have to ask someone else for directions, and I just didn't have time to mess around with the French and be called the diminutive form of another barnyard animal. I needed to find a Tourist. At this point, even a Simple Tourist would do.

I looked down the street before crossing it, and there they were, gleaming golden and familiar in the sunlight like a beacon of hope in an ocean of despair. The Icon of Recognizability. The Object of Every Lost Soul's Hopes and Dreams.

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