I’m staying in Paris for the weekend, before flying to Togo on Monday night.
The small hotel I’m staying at here only has wifi in the lobby. I was sitting there this afternoon writing on my laptop when the hotel clerk, a 60-something-year-old man who’s shorter and thinner than me, started asking me questions about Independence Day. He asked what Americans do to celebrate, and I told him that we typically have cookouts and fireworks.
“And for dessert?” he asked.
“Well, it’s usually ice cream or watermelon or cake,” I said.
“Okay,” he said in French. “I get off work in twenty minutes. I will take you to get ice cream so you don’t have to celebrate your independence alone.”
And he did.