This Way to Paris

Literally a Parable

The bus I was riding broke down in the French hamlet of Niaiserie. My two companions and I took advantage of the pleasant spring afternoon weather to stroll the quaint streets. We bought Rive Droite tote bags at a local boutique and then shopped for knickknacks. We sipped a fine variety of Le Goûter from the Comptoirs Richard’s naturally perfumed organic collection on the sidewalk outside a cozy café.

Toward dinner time, our nervous driver informed us the mechanic could not get the right parts in time to repair the bus before nightfall. He recommended we reserve a room at the Auberge de Verre.

We thanked him for his kind suggestion but inquired about a possible refund instead. I’d already opened my Uber app and told him we’d seen a street sign pointing the way to Paris.

His face grew ashen. He shook his head sharply, then turned to see if anyone was watching us. “Monsieur,” he protested, “zat sign is a bone of zee utmost contention. Zee people of Niaiserie weel tink you are an accursed obstructionniste tiède. Please, stay at zee inn.” He slinked away.

My friend Jaques rolled his eyeballs. Mathéo scoffed. “He just doesn’t want to give us a refund.”

I asked an older gentleman in a black beret at a nearby table to explain the meaning of obstructionniste tiède. The man curled his upper lip and explained how those beastly fools claimed you could actually get to Paris by following the road. True believers knew the sacred sign pointed with perfection to the holy city. The road was known to be crooked, whereas the sign pointed straight.

Mathéo whispered that this fellow might be a friend of the driver. Maybe we should get a second opinion. Plenty of people were walking past.

I caught the attention of a young woman in a red chiffon scarf. She looked at me with disapproval for even mentioning the obstructionniste tiède. According to her, Paris did not exist. The sign clearly pointed upward at a slight angle. How could any modern person believe a city might float above the ground?

Mathéo, Jaques, and I agreed to stop riling up the citizens of Niaiserie. Who knew where the Uber driver’s loyalties might lie? We stayed at the Auberge de Verre where a delightful quatuor…

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