Scene

By noon I had concluded that it just wasn't my day, but my entanglements seemed to dissolve as the hours passed. First, I locked myself out of my apartment, which I attribute to a lack of routine. I have been keeping my key in a lockbox in the hallway because I have read on David Lebovitz's blog that these specialty keys in Paris can cost $100 or more to replace. So I began to associate my key with the lockbox, and thought nothing about stepping into the hallway without it. But, of course, it remained on my dresser, and the horror of my act immediately clubbed me in the chest.

Once locked out, I made the quick calculation: Do I call my landlord, Guy, offer my apologies and wait for rescue? He has disconcertingly disappeared in the last month, failing to reply to two unimportant messages; he could be vacationing in the Channel Islands for all I know. Or do I climb onto the ledge, Harold Lloyd-style, six stories up, and shimmy through an awning window that I know I had left ajar? Dying accidentally in Paris wouldn't be so bad, I mused. Jim Morrison did so, and people continue to leave flowers on his plot in Cimetiere du Pere-Lachaise. Reasoning that I have made decisions on shakier ground and lived to talk about it, I went the Harold Lloyd route. I just wouldn't look down.

It took two tries. At first I tried entering head-first, but saw the 6-foot drop to my apartment floor and backed out, not wanting to break my wrists in a fall. On the next attempt I was able to swing my right foot into the apartment, where it dangled while I pressed my head and shoulders through, gaining a handhold on the windowsill. My left foot was getting caught, however, and the horrific thought arose that no one is going to leave flowers on my grave if I die upside down like that Ohio kid in the minivan, my left sole pointed toward a blue Parisian sky in view of the Eiffel Tower. It beats dying in a Cincinnati parking lot, but only just.

Well, obviously, I was able to eventually lower myself safely inside. My chinos had gotten snagged on a nail along the way, but my only concern was that somebody in an adjacent building had seen me and called les flics. So I did the prudent thing and got out of there.

My plan all along was to take a pleasant bike ride through the Bois de Boulogne, and my Paris Velib app told me there were bicycles available at the Victor Hugo docking station. And there were plenty of bikes there, but also a sign that said none could be rented at the moment. Pas de probleme! The Porte Dauphine station, on the forest's doorstep, had a few available. The careful reader will point out that the foundational framework of this post is that it just wasn't my day, and that person would be correct. This is what I found at Porte Dauphine.

Going 0 for 2 is an unfortunate blip, and my sense of fun and play remained intact. There is a docking station through the forest, on Avenue du Mahatma Gandhi, where the Louis Vuitton Foundation is. There are eleven bikes there! Eleven! I admired the oaks and locusts and cherry trees, hopping over streams and ...

It was like finding a fresh body in the woods.

The station hasn't even been built yet. I confirmed with the workers there that, yes, this was the Mahatma Gandhi Paris Velib station, and, yes, it was currently a hole in the ground, but if you'd like to wait three weeks, we will have a row of bicycles here and a sign that says none are available to rent. UPDATE: What a cluster.

But the walk was nice. And my cucumber and salmon salad from Carrefour was nice. And the almond cream and poached pears in my coup de soleil were really nice, and the movie "Certaines Femmes" was awesomely nice. So we'll just chalk up all that unpleasantness to stupidity and the vagaries of travel and remind ourselves that Paris is a beautiful idea, with a good chance of becoming a beautiful reality, too.