Love Is Pink!

Old-fashioned and well organized!

I knew exactly where in my Prada I’d stowed the printed ticket. Without looking, I unzipped the bag and reached inside. My hand felt something that shouldn’t have been in there: cold plastic wrap.

As if struck by lightning, I opened the bag wide and stared inside for a moment, then began rummaging through the contents: a package of fine nylon stockings, see-through and not even my size; a used map of Paris (poorly folded); a packet of tissues (the cheap kind); peppermint candies; a pack of Marlboros.

I couldn’t have been more surprised if I’d found a talking turkey in there. This. Was. Not. My. Stuff! I emptied the bag onto the seat.

No ticket. No passport. Nothing.

Images flashed in my mind: Me in front of the reception desk. My Prada bag next to me on the counter. I’d conscientiously stowed the ticket in the second compartment. So how was it not there? How did I have this junk—this garbage—in my purse?

All at once I knew: that Botoxed, face-lifted Heidi—that Swiss woman was to blame. She carried the same Prada model, and had set hers on the reception desk right next to mine.

Oh, my God! I’d mixed up the bags! Somewhere, that conceited Alpine wench was holding my passport, my money, and my airline ticket!

This time I was unable to repress my scream. In earlier times, a woman of the world—such as myself—would have fainted, and gentlemen would have taken care of everything. But those days were over. You had to do everything yourself!

Fucking men!

“Do you have a cell phone?” I asked.

The startled driver looked backward. Maybe in the condition that I was in, I’d spoken too loudly. But who could blame me for losing my self-control in this situation?

“Excuhze me?” he said.

“A cell phone! Telefono! Comprender?”

The idiot directed another dumbfounded glance at me.

I made a corresponding gesture—spread out my index finger and thumb, indicating a phone, and moved my mouth, as if having a conversation.

He still looked clueless. It was a miracle that such a mental acrobat had managed to get a driver’s license! This would only be possible in France.

“Do. You. Have. A cell phone?” I repeated slowly.

The veil of confusion lifted from his face.

“Un téléphone mobile?”

“Exactly,” I replied. “A cell phone.”

He smiled.

“Do you have one? Give it to me!”

“No cell phone. Only a radio téléphone.” He pointed to his dashboard and said, “Radio.”

“Could we call the hotel with that? Telefono to hotel?”

It took a while for him to understand. Then he shook his head. “No hotel, only taxi.”

I was beginning to feel ill. I was trapped in the middle of nowhere with a complete idiot. We were driving into nothingness. And I’d lost everything I needed to get out of here.

What sin had I committed to deserve this fate? I reached out and shook his shoulder. “Stop at the next rest area or gas station! I need a telephone. It’s life or death!”

“Station-service?” He squinted questioningly.

“Yes. Service. I need a service. I need a telephone service. Pronto!”

The driver stepped on the brakes, and the car skidded on the freshly fallen snow. He exited off the highway and stopped at a gas station with facilities.

I rifled through the garbage I’d shaken out of the bag. No money. Not even the smallest coin.

I raised my head and met the driver’s curious eyes.

“Money!” I said. “Do you have coins?”

Again, that puzzled look.

I raised my hand, rubbed my thumb and index finger together. “Pesetas! Dollari! Money, goddamn it! Money for the telefono.”

Hesitantly, he reached into the small bag attached to his belt, and then offered me two one-euro coins with the tips of his fingers. I tore them out of his hand, opened the door, and jumped out of the car—only to land smack-dab in a filthy puddle of half-melted snow. The slush splattered all the way up to my knee. I’d never get those stains off of my Louboutin boots. But that was a trivial concern compared to the rest of my problems. Undaunted, I trudged toward the rest stop.

The doors opened automatically before me. At least something worked today. Scanning the room, I spotted a pay phone in a corner next to a rack of packaged sandwiches and a vending machine with cheap coffee. I rushed over to it. A tattered telephone book with more bacteria on each page than dollars in Bill Gates’s bank account hung listlessly from a greasy string. I grabbed the disgusting book, hurriedly thumbed through it, and, much to my great surprise, found my hotel relatively quickly. I threw the euros in the slot and dialed as soon as I heard a tone.

A young woman’s voice blabbered something incomprehensible. Probably the bimbo from before.

“Quiet!” I said. “The concierge. I only speak German. Put on the concierge immediately!”