Sure enough, one pulled up to our stand. I coolly laid my hand on Brian's arm to indicate that I would handle this and strode over the partially rolled down window of the car. I smiled charmingly at the driver. "Combien pour aller le Hard Rock Café?" I questioned in my best high school French. To further aid him, I thrust a small map in the window to point out our desired location. Without a glance, he grunted "Non," shook his head fiercely and proceeded to press the button to roll up the window, and drove away - my arm ensconced. I gave it a frightened yank, just in time to avoid a certainly painful dislocation and stared in dismay at the ugly red welt on my arm. I was dumbfounded.

"Let me try it," Brian finally interjected amidst my indignant exclamations. When the next cab pulled up, he asked in slow, clear English how much the fare would be to the Hard Rock Café.

"Eet eez forbidden to tell," answered the driver mysteriously. Brian attempted to explain that we needed to know if it was within our budget. Just picking a large number, he asked if for example, it would be more than 100 francs. None too encouragingly, the driver replied dubiously, "I don't theenk so." That would be about $15 one way, plus back, if he didn't rip us off by going even higher. Thanks, but no thanks.

There was nothing left for these two flabbergasted travelers to do but take the Metro. Mercifully, it was nearly empty. We sat in companionable silence in the rattling car as it shot through the tunnel towards American food.

We arrived to find a 45 minute wait; that was fine as long as we could sit down. We took a seat at the bar and chatted with a fellow American, a California surfer studying art in Paris. When our table was ready, I opened my menu in happy anticipation of English. No such luck - it was in French. I had to laugh though, I'd had enough crying for the day. We placed out order for food that although not precisely American, at least wasn't French either, taken by our Spanish waiter.

As we waited, we noticed a rather sad looking foreign man attempting to sell flowers to passers by. Most ignored him, the rest shook their heads impatiently and brushed by him. He didn't give up though, just continued to show pedestrians his bouquets with a hopeful expression on his weary face. As we watched him, we wondered if he tried to support a family with this line of work. He wasn't aggressive like the many beggars we had encountered in this city.

My thoughts turned to more immediate concerns, and I excused myself to visit the WC. When I returned, a small bouquet of 3 white carnations and a single red rose lay at my plate. I noticed the flower peddler was smiling. So was my husband. I smiled myself. Maybe Paris isn't so bad, after all.