Thursday, August 23. Paris.

One of several differences between an American and a Frenchman is that an American tries to understand a Frenchman’s English and a Frenchman tries not to understand an American’s French.

Today I wanted to go from somewhere to the Hotel Continental.

“Hotel Con-tin-ent-al,” I said to the driver.

He shook his head. I repeated. He shook his head again. This went on till I had pronounced the name five times and he had shaken his head that often. I said it the sixth time just as I had said it the other five.

“Oh-h-h!” shouted the driver, his face lighting up. “Hotel Con-tin-ent-al!”

And there wasn’t a particle of difference between his version and mine.