Thursday, May 12, 2016

Paris: Day 7

Su and I walk a mile and a half to the police station. Gendermes station, whatevr the hell they call it. We're about to head up the steps to go in. Not so fast, Americans. A beefy guy in a blue uniform packing heat pops out of the door. He gets between us and the door. He blocks us. Delivers his message before we can say anything.

 "Go home, we can't see you today, sorry."


"You have to go home."


"We're too busy. It's the end of the day. There's too many people here. Yu have to go home, I'm very sorry."

No he isn't. In America you expect this kiond of behaviopr from the post office -- but a politce station? Never.

"We just want to make a police report."

"Not today. You have to go. Sorry."

It's like that scene in the "Wizard of Oz" when the doorkeeper pops up the little spy hole and says "The wizard can't see you today! No way, no how."

Could you at least give me a form?


We could fill it out and bring it back later.

"That won't be possible. I am very sorry."

He shrugs and goes back inside.

Car les flicks n'ont pas besoin de toi
At vieux, ils en attendant autant


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