On a Saturday afternoon just before Christmas, A went to a birthday party at Paris Disneyland (why would anyone do that?) and her backpack disappeared in the crowd watching the parade. We had canceled the phone right away, but it wasn't till this week that A and I got around to buying a new one. First we had to go to the police commissariat together to report the cell phone stolen. Otherwise we would have to buy a new contract and change the number.
As I have said before, I don't know what the police commissariat really does. All they seem to do is take burglary and theft reports and tell you they can't help you, you must call the Centrale. On this occasion we waited for our turn behind a woman trying to get rid of her tenant who wouldn't pay his rent (fat chance! in France it takes years to throw someone out even if they pay nothing at all, and even then they cannot legally be evicted between October and March) and then a pleasant young policewoman sat at a desk with us and took the report, tapping away on her computer. She asked A all kinds of questions about the theft for at least twenty minutes. You'd think that the police intended to send two investigators to Disneyland to make an extensive inquiry.
I got bored and noticed that the young woman had what the French call un accent chantant (a singing accent). "You are not Parisian, are you?" I said. "Are you from the South?"
"Oui."
"Near Toulouse?"
She nodded.
"We have friends from there, near Carcassonne. This present is for them. You must miss it very much."
She looked up, her eyes lost their hooded look, and she said passionately, "On est BEAUCOUP MIEUX là-bas! " [People are much happier there!]
"I hope you will be able to go back soon," I said sympathetically as we left with our report.
"It'll be years. I don't have the seniority," she said, looking gloomy. "Bonne journée!"
A report came out a few years ago that most police officers in Paris were from the provinces and longed to go back there.
Don't ask them for directions. They don't know either.
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