Theresa forged ahead, ignoring the looks her team gave each other. “Let’s meet in the lobby in an hour. I’ve booked two taxis to take us to the station. Everyone has a first class compartment, so you’ll be able to stretch out and sleep on the train.”
Theresa had barely unpacked, so there wasn’t much for her to pack. She showered again, changed into traveling clothes and flipped on the TV but everything was in French—except the soft-porn channel, which was in German. She sighed. As if the language mattered.
She pulled out her Blackberry, logged on to her Twitter account and saw that she hadn’t updated it almost twenty-four hours. She twittered, “In Paris. Headed to Angers.” That done, she surfed over to her blog, and wrote a long entry about the inefficiencies of doing business in Europe, and how much easier it would be if they didn’t all speak different languages. Theresa was logged off the blog twice because the Internet connection was so slow. Talk abut inefficiencies. She reconnected and logged on again, determined to finish her post. She finally hit “upload” and logged off.
She wedged her suitcase into the tiny elevator and sent it down, while she took the stairs. There was simply not enough room for both Theresa and her baggage and she wondered if this was another reason French women did not get fat: they had to take the stairs because the elevators were too narrow.
The lobby was empty. “Great,” she thought to herself, “They’re all sleeping off dinner.” She checked her watch and did a double-take. She looked around the lobby for a clock but there was none. The desk clerk was watching her. She said to him, “English?” He nodded. She said, “What time do you have?” and he said, “Eat is 23:30, how you say, 11:30.”
Theresa said, “That’s impossible!” He pursed his lips and shrugged his shoulders. He said, “Maybe so, but it is 11:30 Madam, I assure you.”
Theresa swore. Under her breath, but she swore like a sailor. She said, “Did you see my colleagues? The people I was here with?” He nodded yes. “Were they looking for me?" He nodded yes. “How come no one called me?”
He shrugged again. She wondered, what was it with that shoulder shrug? He said, “You did not leave me a message to call you Madam.”
Theresa looked around, as if the lobby held the answer. She said, “I’ve missed my train. Can you call me a cab and get me on the next train?”
The clerk said, “I can call ze cab Madam, but zair is no other train. Zat was the last train zis evening.”
Theresa said, “That’s impossible!” He pursed his lips again but she stopped him. She said, “Please don’t shrug at me like that again.” He pouffed out air through his pursed lips and was silent. She said, “I need another train.” He said, “You can have one tomorrow morning.” She said, “That is too late! I will miss my meeting! I need to get there! Can you hire me a private car?”
Before she could stop him he shrugged again. He said, “Madame, at midnight begins the Fete de la Bastille. It is a national holiday. There are no car services zat will be available. I am very sorry,” and he pouffed again and turned away.
He obviously did not believe in back-up the way Theresa did.
She dumped her luggage on the only sofa in the lobby, whipped out her Blackberry, and swore again under her breath.
The clerk watched her from behind his desk, her nose pressed to her screen. “Oh, God, I’m going to lose this deal,” she muttered to herself. “I wish I had a way out of here.”
An older man in his sixties appeared the lobby, pushing a mop and bucket.
