My four weeks in France

by Ring Lardner

I asked the driver how far it was out to Le Vallois-Perret.

“Come on,” he said, and I climbed in, but “come on,” in French, means “I don’t get you,” so I had to repeat the directions four or five times.

“Ah, oui,” he said at last. “Le Vallois-Perret. Quatorze kilomet’s.”

“What is that in American money?”

“Come on,” said the driver.

“Hotel Con-tin-en-tal,” I said.

I’ll tackle ’em afresh to-morrow morning.

Wednesday, September 12. Paris.

The préfet’s secretary approved my picture and gave me a beautiful salmon-colored pass. It is good for five days, which is plenty, as I will come back on the train.

At the city gates, en route to Le Vallois-Perret, my taxi and I were stopped and our essence measured. If we brought back more than we took out, we would have to pay taxes on the difference.