I check out the signature on my "Congratulations--we would love to have you serve as an intern with us in Paris this summer" letter. This person is the managing editor; he will straighten things out. His secretary speaks 12 unrelated languages fluently, and in flawless English she informs me that Mr. Managing Editor is now only Mr. Deputy Editor and that his job is being shared by two other men. May I see him? Yes, because he has nothing to do--"the Trib is easing him out." Why? Because no one trusts this man, who alone made the decision to hire me.

Day 2

The owner of the hotel, where I am staying until I find a cheap place for the rest of the summer, beckons to me as I head out the door for my first eight hours of typing. He spits French at me, and I glean that he is asking me why I am not eating the breakfast that comes gratis with my room. I would like to tell him that I don't ever eat before noon, but the does not understand my "French."

"Eh? Eh?," he shouts over and over. Finally, I say something in English just to throw him off: "You know, I'm using the bidet in my room to clean strawberries." (This is the truth.) For some reason, he nods. This is an acceptable answer. I am learning the ropes.

I live in the 7th arrondissement, the Greenwich Village of Paris, a stone's throw from the Bastille, I'Hotel de Ville, and other unremarkable landmarks. The metro stop is just a block away, so I see only a few cafes and a Chinese restaurant on my first morning out. Somehow it seems strange to see a Chinese restaurant in Paris, but then I think about it. "Wow," I think. "Wow, this city is a meeting place of cultures." For the moment, it escapes me that there is also a Chinese restaurant in Oshkosh, Wise.

It takes about 45 minutes to get to the Trib. One million Parisians cram into my car between "Louvre" and "George V," and when I stand up to get some air my seat snaps up and catches the bottom of my dress. No one sees this, but I pretend I know what I am doing anyway. I get off of the metro two stops too early and walk one mile to the Trib. I am one-half hour late; my dress has grease stains on it. It is raining.

When I get to the Trib. I am informed that the visual display terminals I am to use are leaking radioactivity at dangerous levels. I type for eight straight hours.

Day 6

I am a pro at Paris. When people at work ask where I live, I say "the 7th instead of "Rue St. Paul." I stand up in the metro at all times. and when I want to get off I push people and mutter "pardon" and act annoyed. I have learned to say "merct" when in doubt. My maitre d'hotel understands that I do not eat breakfast.

The deputy editor who hired me is in a quandary because he cannot decide when to hold the semiannual editorial staff party. Everyone tells him that the 4th of July would be perfect since almost all of the Trib's employees are Americans and since it is a Friday. But the D.E. is paranoid: he is afraid to make a decision that no one will trust. So he calls me. the lowliest peon in the building. into his office for my opinion. I suggest the 4th of July. He remains unconvinced.

The deputy editor reaches into his desk drawer for a nip. It is time to change the subject.

"How do you like Paris?" he asks.

"Well." I say. "Well. it was a little rough in the beginning. but I think I'm getting used to it. It's still a little frightening. though. you know?" I realize I need sympathy: I have. in fact. been alone. I crave human contact. I my be radioactive.

"You know." he says. "You know. when I first got here ten years ago I thought the Eiffel Tower would be black."

Day 10