As you may recall, Bubba had a little problem with using a bicycle without permission. We were summoned to the Palais de Justice to help him sort things out. Paris is The City of Love and everyone was very accommodating when it was explained that he was just trying to catch up to a young (plastic) lady. Bubba explains what happened next.
Don’t listen to them. I didn’t have any problems at all. I spent the night in a nice hotel called Palais de Justice.
They explained that the Bastille was booked up. I searched all over the city for that vision of loveliness I had glimpsed the day before. I searched down by the river.
I searched in the art galleries.
Well, I thought it was an art gallery. I found out it was really a department store. It was absolutely stunning. It was almost hard to shop or look for anyone with your head looking to the ceilings.
I looked underground in the catacombs. But of course my delicate flower would not be seen here.
I got lost in the underground maze of tunnels under Paris. I asked this man who is a pilot on one of those cut rate airlines and he pointed the way for me.
I searched the rooftops and scanned the city.
By evening I was beat and tried this big light pole thing. It lit up so I could check out the crowd for her.
I decided, if I were going to find her, I would have to cover more ground so I went in search of a motorcycle the next morning to scan the city with some speed. I asked for directions in French, but I think I may be a bit rusty. They sent me to this motorcycle shop. Maybe these weren’t for rent.
I saw these bikes around town and people seemed to get out of their way. Maybe it was the lights and the noisemakers. I saw they all came with a microphone in the front.
And a telephone in the back.
I found my old motorcycle parked here. It had been impounded when someone tried to smuggle it in from Pisa where I left it. I was pretty happy to be on my way, but maybe I should have used a little more caution. On the way out of the garage, I had a close encounter with a man in uniform. I may have worn out my welcome.
In trouble again, I called on my Parisian friend Phil, who could do anything. He helped Chief Scott from California come over and make a deal to set me free. Scott drove as fast as he could and got there in no time.
Unfortunately the deal they worked out meant I had to cut my vacation short and head home. They had a special flight for me called “First Flight Out”. This one didn’t go home, it just went as far as New York. The Paris Police must have put in a good word for me because the customs people were much nicer than usual.