The three of them are actively discussing this, with Vincent translating every fourth sentence for me. I’m starting to feel like I’m in the middle of a dubbed movie since I know I’m only hearing bits and pieces and the translation may or may not be doing it justice. Before you know it they’re debating how Nietzsche’s überman—or maybe that’s the next issue of Superman—affects Sartre’s opinion of Kierkegaard and whether that’s the reason France Telecom’s billing practices are as inscrutable as an airline’s rate schedule. At least that’s what I think they’re talking about.

     "Why don’t they just take the next phone bill, subtract what their average phone bill is, and I’ll pay the rest?" I ask Vincent.

     He relays this to Paul and Mirèn who look at each with a satisfied smile.

     "Americans always come to the point quickly," Paul says, though I’m not sure whether that’s a compliment, an insult, or even what he actually said. The truth is, my rapid resolution had less to do with being American than it did with trying to stop the jetlag headache I was getting from all the French buzzing around my head. I was about to mention this but thought better of it, sleep sounded much better than a discourse on what Genet would have thought of this.

     If it’s armadillos you’re spotting, chances are you’re in Texas. Unless, that is, you’re with me. I spent five days driving from one end of Texas to the other and in all that time didn’t see the first armadillo, dead or alive. I figure they have road crews out that scrape them off the road during the night so they can be stuffed, mounted, and available in souvenir shops just as quickly as possible.

     On a recent trip from California to Colorado and back I counted two deer, one dog, a bunch of skunks, more possums than I cared to think about, and even a cow on the side of the road in Arizona. On Maui the streets are littered with flattened frogs. In France I was on the way to Cap Fréhel, a beautiful rugged cape near here, when I saw my first French roadkill—a hedgehog. Obviously my Roadkill Location Theory isn’t 100% foolproof since that’s also the favored roadkill in England. Well, after the French, of course.

     After dinner we watched Backdraft in French. Before long I didn’t even notice that I couldn’t understand it. Oddly, it didn’t bother me that no one sounded like who they really are. This gets me thinking: my landlord Paul is a huge Clint Eastwood fan, but I bet he’s never heard Clint Eastwood actually speak since the movies have been dubbed. He doesn’t know the true clenched jaw delivery of "Go ahead punk, make my day." He’s never heard the hoarse whisper of "You feeling lucky, punk?". I suddenly realize that he doesn’t really like Clint Eastwood, he likes the French version of it.

     This gets me to wondering if I’ve discovered the key to the French people’s fabled love for Jerry Lewis—they’ve never actually heard him! I need to rent a video so I can tell for sure, but I suspect Jean Paul Belmondo dubbed Lewis’ voice and he recited Voltaire. Or Molière. In France, you see, Jerry Lewis is a highly revered dramatic actor.

    AM is the most fun. I can’t pick up many stations during the day, but at night when the signals skip over the continent I hear German, Spanish, the BBC from Jersey, and some languages which are truly unidentifiable. I’ve become convinced that one station I listen to is broadcasting in German Pig-Latin code, the DJ’s being soldiers who have been holed up in their attics for the past 50 years and haven’t been told that the war’s over. Just when I think I have the code pattern down the station drifts and I hear one playing "Don’t Cry For Me Argentina" which, judging by how many stations play the song hourly, must be #1 in every country over here.

     The local FM stations play a very odd mix of music, mostly rock oldies in English, French classics, and American folk songs translated into French. I hear "YMCA" by the Village People followed by "Je t’aime", which segues into "Ode To Billie Joe" sung in French by a guy who can’t pronounce Tallahatchee, and then, since the European Union mandates it, they play "Don’t Cry For Me Argentina." In English, of course.

     There’s a modern rock station which plays the same four songs they’re playing on every modern rock station in the U.S., except the announcer happens to be speaking French. I’ve heard this same concept in Mecca, CA where there’s a modern rock station in Spanish. And near the Grand Canyon where there’s a country station with announcers speaking Navajo. At first this is a little jarring, much like when I hear "La Bamba" sung in Spanish with a French accent and right before the chorus the singer yells "Everybody!" in English, but you get used to it.