So all along the Seine, we fancied ourselves writers and artists in bookshops and cafes, strolling the sculpture gardens of Rodin’s Hôtel Biron studios, browsing galleries, and partaking an afternoon carafe of wine to relieve the feet and bemuse embassy bureaucracies. In the evenings we spilled out over the flat with a bottle of wine, three expats, in league with dreams of travel and language. So good to see an old friend.

Several times a day, we climbed seven flights of stairs to a hall of small studio flats, rooftops overlooking rooftops. Years ago these were the servants quarters, accessed thru a door at the back of the inner courtyard. Today, it was our haven and we became excessively familiar with the creak of every winding step as the elevator was reserved for residents and only accessible thru the central courtyard of the main building and not our backdoor.

Much to our amusement, we discovered that if you left the flat, descended the seven flights, and went looking for a patisserie, a right instead of a left took you straight to the Pigalle district’s signature landmark, the Moulin Rouge. It was an honest mistake, but suddenly, going for a pastry took on a whole new, wonderful red-light meaning. I offered to go on a croissant run at least once a day.

Au revoir, James Claxton. When I think of you, I will think of stairs. Seven spiraling flights worth.

We were headed for Cameroon, the flavor of West Africa.

The Cameroon Embassy in Morocco sits off to the right of a small road, miles from the consulate district. In fact, with no guards, no Cameroonian officials, no check points, the only legitimate proof of an embassy is the dusted President’s picture hanging aslant from a wire above the door.
“Sorry we can’t help you, we only issue visas to Moroccan nationals, are you a Moroccan national? Why didn’t you apply for one in your own country?”
Blank stares, our distress signals flare. Everyone knows visa applications are obtained at embassies- Senegal, Ethiopia, France, they all issue visas. We urge her to ring the Ambassador, surly he could approve the visas.

Our nightmare confirmed, Morocco does not budge.

Searching online tickets from Casablanca to Cameroon on Royal Air Morocco priced an outlandish $800. Skyscanner found the same RAM flight from Casablanca to Cameroon, but originating in Paris for only $300. That’s 1172 more miles for a savings of $500, go figure. We immediately book our tickets to Paris for a second chance at visas.

Finding our way through guarded gates, past men with guns, we arrive at the Cameroon Embassy in Paris.
“Yes, of course you can get your visa here, you can get it in any country, why did you not get it in Morocco if you were there for two months?”  Indignant, we hand over our papers, watching as he mulls over each one, setting it down, picking it up, slowly working our stack.
“Come back tomorrow,” prune faced and smirking, he pushes the plethora of papers our way, “this is not the official stamp, you need a police notary from Cameroon.”
We immediately contacted Joseph, begging him to notarize his already stamped letter.
No news is good news, except when INTERPOL is holding a week long conference in Cameroon, suspending all nonessential police duties, including notaries for visas.

Our plans foiled, Cameroon was no more.

And so the fairy tale goes, Jay and Darlene spent one glorious week in the throes of Paris, wrestling the Cameroon Embassy. The tickets now read Dar El Salam, Tanzania. East instead of West, their journey continues.

Sangria, aceitunas verdes, pimientos de atun, calamares, mejillones, una mas cerveza… Elbowed between strangers, swimming in the raucous energy, I’m crazy for madrid.

Past midnight, I sang above the crowd in Spanish what I thought was, “Puedo pegar?” (Can I pay?)

“Pero? por que” (But why?) blushed our young Manolito, serving up tapas, his dark, long eyelashes flirted back…
“Usted quiere pegarme?” (You want to slap me?). Laughter erupted from the standing room only bar.

I soon learned the sweet difference an e as in pegarte (hit/slap) and an a as in pagar (pay) sounds to the inexperienced…