This episode includes sex, French, some clever deception, a few hot guys, one unusual guy, Pastis (the French 'Cosmo' which is 50% pure alcohol) plus an emergency appendectomy.

What more could you want?

Pictures. Sorry, can't find them. Probably a good reason for that. When I figure it out I'll let you know. Let's begin.

My sister and I embarked together on the Summer Grand Tour. Great Britain, France, the Netherlands, a little Germany (not our favorite place) and Italy (my personal favorite ... oh, Lucianno, mi amore, you --and your Cougar mother-- will appear in Part 3).

We landed in London where nothing of import to this story occurred. London was fun and interesting but we were just getting our bearings at the beginning and not feeling too adventurous. Yet.

We did find a great boarding house run by a lovely English lady who agreed to store our extra luggage for two months at no charge. We'd pick up the bags on our return to London for the flight home.

Overpacked for $5 a Day
What can I say, Jewish girls don't do backpacks, hostels or the three-outfit limit. On the other hand, we didn't do the Ritz or the Georges V either. We brought our travel bible, Europe on $5 a Day (yes, Virginia, there was once such a price) and followed its recommendations for clean, cheap accommdations.

Kudos to Hope and Arthur Frommer, who never let us down. The venerable travel books might be called Frommer's Guides but throughout the trip they became, familiarly, 'Hope and Arthur said....'

They told us where to stay, how to get around, which sites to see, how to get a Student ID plus cheap Euorail pass. Many other things, including what to pack. We just went a little overboard there. So we repacked to one big suitcase each and were off to Paris.

Keep in mind, suitcases didn't have wheels back then. We developed very strong arms on that trip.

La Rive Gauche
Once in Gay Paree we found the pension on the Left Bank we'd pre-selected per Hope and Arthur. It was perfect. An easy Metro ride to the Louvre and all must-see sights. Walking distance to Montmartre, Notre Dame and the Seine, plus sidewalk cafes in abundance. In fact, there was a cafe right next door.

While getting settled we heard voices in the adjoining room. American voices, one with a distinctly New York Jewish accent. We bee-lined to their door and bonded instantly with the three Jewish girlfriends doing the same Grand Tour.

We immediately found just the right name for our little group.

The Hot Hadassah Sisterhood
We five hit Paris in an bevy of blonde, brunette and red hair, petite and buxom, short and long legs, plus enough variety and size of breast mass to float the Britannia. Not to mention a healthy interest in the local populace, especially les hommes.

Paris welcomed us. My command of French was much in demand, although young Parisian males had apparently mastered all the English they thought necessary to communicate with American girls.

Imagine this pick-up gem assaulting us from all sides in Pepe Le Peu accents, "Allo! You are Amer-ee-can? Would you like to see Par-ee in my car? Would you like to fuck wis mee?"

Sacre bleu! We were swept off our feet by such romantic, debonair, cosmopolitian repartee ... who wouldn't be? Mostly we laughed uproariously and flicked them away like the ubiquitous cockroaches in our rooms. Which helped elevate my French profanity vocabulary to Marseilles level.

Did you know that the French word "putan" literally means 'whore,' but in another context can also mean "you motherfuckingcockteasingbitch." Ah, the glory of the French langue maternelle.

Double entendre intentioned -- occasionally we accepted intimate invitations from the lucky few who'd learned the real value-add of Right Guard to lure les femmes for l'amour. True to the rumor du jour, they were universally quite merveilleux avec du langue. (Look it up).

The regulars in the bar next store came to view us as their personal responsibility --read, property-- less and less in a brotherly way as our comings and goings were observed; more and more like lascivious cousins who wanted a piece of the action. Sorry, pas de tout, no dice.

Très Malade
One afternoon following a long night of revelry, Gracie (no real names here) got sick. First vomiting, then feverish, then complaining of terrible stomach pain. It became clear medical help was necessary. I had, as always, assumed the nurturing leadership role.

The only phone was in the cafe bar next door --naturelment-- whose denizens helpfully assisted me in calling an ambulance. I went back upstairs to attend to Gracie while we waited for rescue. Her face was whiter than the sheet and long t-shirt covering her.

After about 15 minutes two men bustled into the room, spitting rapid-fire questions at me in French. My concern for Gracie and lack of French medical idiom made it hard to communicate. A game of charades and garbled French ensued.

Seemingly annoyed at my feeble ability to give them the facts, one man unceremoniously flipped back the sheet and drew her t-shirt up to her neck. They regarded, prodded and turned her lush exposed body while conferring in low tones so rapidly I was unable to follow. Especially since she was moaning in pain.

Just then we heard an ambulance siren. Wait. Hang on just a freakin French minute. It suddenly occurred to me we hadn't heard a siren before the arrival of the two men still busily examining Gracie.

Mon dieu! Can you guess? Sure you can. If not, here's the punch line:

They were not doctors or EMT's. They were a couple of guys from the bar next door who'd overheard my phone call and seized a golden opportunity to avail themselves of a free peep show and to cop a few free feels.

As angry as we were, it was hard not to appreciate their ingenuity and uniquely French chutzpah.

Real ambulance drivers took Gracie away on a stretcher to the American Hospital with me in attendance where a very pleasant American doctor removed her inflamed appendix.

Epilogue: When Gracie was back on her feet, all five of us sauntered into the bar and allowed the men to buy us each a Pastis. We raised our glasses as one ... and doused the two miscreants from head to toe.

Revenge served sweet. Sticky too.

The Velveteen Remittance Man, aka Really Gay Paree
I must add this vignette about an unusual young man, it's too delicious to omit. It's important to note that in America at the time 'gay' meant happy, 'homosexual' meant family unhappy.

We met him at the top of Le Tour Eiffel and accepted his offer to buy us a drink below. He was American. We'll call him Harvey. He was tall, good looking and charming.

But, well, his hair was obviously bleached blonde, he was wearing a burgundy velvet smoking jacket and --I swear-- a paisley cravat. Possibly a touch of pancake make-up and some subtle eyeliner too.

He also seemed to be coming on to me. Whoa. WTF? Eventually he invited us to his hotel. Hmm. He lived at the Crillon, one of the ritziest hotels in all Paris. Money, honey. Time to see how the Upper Half lived.

His hotel apartment was breathtaking. As was his room-size walk-in closet. He showed it to us with as much pride as if he'd given birth to it. Which in a way, he had. (You'll see how in a minute). Racks and rows of suits, shirts, ties, jackets, sweaters, shoes. And, of course, cravats.

After sincere oohing and ahhing, we settled into the living room for drinks. He eyed us condescendingly in our "Hope and Arthurs," i.e. Frommer's recommended wash and wear outfits. "Have you got any decent clothes?" he ponced.

Well. That got my Inner JAP up in a hurry. "Of course," I snapped,  lobbing his condescending tone back at him with an appropriately regal head toss, "We're not barbarians." Dumb. Dumb. Dumb. I could have scored some Parisian couture. (Which, eventually, I did anyway). 

"Good. Dress up tomorrow night, we'll go to dinner and I'll take you to the Folies Bergère." Holy Can-Can, we were in for a treat.

In fact, so was I. Sooner. As we were leaving en masse he managed to pull me aside and asked me to stay. Well, why not, he was harmless, right? Mais non!

He was a tiger. Perhaps over-compensating in an "I'll show you who's queer and who's not" defiant shot at his distant family, perhaps he was just bored, lonely, bi and horny.

He was also gentle and inquisitive and quite inventive. I'm not and never was the boyish type. So maybe it was a mommy thing. I don't know. I was too young to care. I just enjoyed. A lot. And learned some tricks I never knew.

'Harvey' was the second of three bi lovers in my life who gave me good lovin and taught me some too. Go know.

Who was he, you wonder. If you're a Boomer you might remember the first Big Box store in America, a company called Robert Hall. He was the second son and a major liability to their middle-American manly image.

So off he was sent to live in Europe, all expenses paid. It happened more often than you'd think. The name for an heir banished to a foreign country for whatever unsavory reason was "remittance man."

To us, he'd always be The Hot Cravat or Richie Rich (as my sister dubbed him). And, in teasing me with the first line of the most famous Robert Hall commercial jingle, "When the values go up, up, up..."