What in a number?

Poor R.

When he came to join me at a friend’s house in Paris I gave him the address and number 91. My mobile phone was dead, but he did have the land line number.

The phone rang.

His taxi driver couldn’t find number 91. Now R had seen the building’s triangular shape on Google. His driver spoke English so he could relay information to the driver about the flower shop and the intersection where the main shopping street was as I briefed him.

I waited and waited. We are not talking a long street here. Even at 10 MPH and waiting for a parked car to move from the middle of the street it shouldn’t take five minutes to go up the entire street.

Another phone call than another. I described the building across the street.

I finally said I’d go down and wait in the street, which I did.

I looked up over the door. Number 31.

Ooops…I can’t tell you how many times I’ve stayed here over the last decade. I can’t tell you how many things I’ve mailed to this address. Why I deducted 60 from the number I have no idea other than I’ve always been numbered challenged.

A taxi came up the street. My love got out. The driver looked at the number and me. I said in French, “I know, I know, I hope he doesn’t kill me.”

The driver looked like he thought if he did rub me out of existence, he would be justified.

And as for R…he wasn’t angry, but I do think there’s a certain contentment that he can tease me about it until the end of our days.

And the flower shop? It had gone out of business.