Our Last Day in Paris

We spent our last evening in Paris with our old New York City neighbor's sister. Here's why that was special.

MargeSimpson5

Our former upstairs neighbor-who I'll call Mr. T-claimed to be an 'entertainment lawyer' at some point in his life. In his heyday he 'worked' with the likes of John Lennon, Mick Jagger, Slash, Roger Waters, Steven Tyler-the list goes on. I'm not entirely sure any of this is true-I actually never believed anything he said.

He had a stoma-a large air hole surgically implanted in his throat-from too much smoking, so he always wore a bandana around his neck. Always. When he spoke, he placed his hand over this wind hole to produce a rough, raspy voice similar to a masculine Marge Simpson.

For the record-I am terribly fond of him. When I passed him on the stairs he would regale me with stories and then tell me how great I looked. I won't lie-this was nice to hear when I was postpartum and didn't sleep, exercise or eat anything but Oreos for three months. One day my husband and I saw him try to stuff a giant cardboard box into our recycling bin. He told us Slash-the very famous guitarist from Guns and Roses-had sent him a large, flat screen TV. This was circa 2006-before everyone and their mom had giant flat screen TVs. They still held a certain cache, if you will. Still-we didn't believe him.

A year later I attended an event with my now husband/then fiancé at the Wynn Hotel in Las Vegas-doesn't that sound fancy? Rumor had it- somewhere in the giant ballroom lurked none other than Slash.

"Slash is somewhere in this ballroom," I said to my husband, "don't you want to ask him if he really knows Mr. T?"

He didn't especially want to, but it didn't matter. We never saw him, anyway.

As the evening drew to a close, we walked back to our hotel room. There, in the distance, waaaaaaaaay out in front of us, drifted the tell-tale top hat of Slash himself. I quickened my step. Just as we arrived at the elevator banks, Slash and his wife stepped into the first car and the doors closed after them.

"Uggggg," I thought, "We just missed our chance."

Then a miracle happened. Slash opened the doors for us-what a gentleman.

We slipped into the elevator and my brain lost the ability to form sentences. Here was our chance-it was just the four of us in here-just us, but I had no voice. I nudged my now husband as if to say-'save this sinking ship!'  He did no such thing. Instead we sat in that elevator, thought the same thoughts and wore the same goofy/demented smiles on our faces. Slash must have regretted holding the doors for us.

The elevator reached our floor. I stepped out, thoroughly disappointed in our future as a united front. We were engaged now after all. If we couldn't handle this together, what would we be able to handle? We'd now never know if Mr. T. was, in fact, a teller of truths.

But wait-

Slash and his wife stepped out on our floor too. We could still do it-there was still hope. They walked slowly behind us-I felt my heart beat inside my chest.

'Come on,' I said to myself, 'just turn around and ask him, just do it for crying out loud.'

Just as I mustered up the nerve-we hit a T junction. Slash went to the right, we turned to the left. Crestfallen-I admitted defeat when I heard a soft voice say, "Slash, no. Come on, our room is this way."

Slash's wife actually calls him Slash.

OK. Well, that was it. Clearly the powers that be had offered up an opportunity here. My husband shot me a look that said, "Don't you dare bother him," but it was too late. When you are given not one, not two, but THREE chances to ask Slash a question-you had better do it.

"Um, excuse me?" squeaked out Cindy Loo Who, who apparently replaced my adult voice, "I'm sorry to bother you."

Slash honestly looked like he was going to punch me. In fact, he'd probably turned the wrong way at the T junction on purpose just to get away from our creepy moon faces. Before he could call security I blurted out, 'Do you know Mr. T.?'

He stopped for a second and his whole disposition changed, his face melted into a big, slashy smile. 'Yeah, I know Mr. T.'

Michael jumped in at this point, explaining the TV, how we thought he was a liar, etc., etc. Then his wife asked, 'Who's Mr. T?'

Slash replied…'You know, Jack's friend, the one who's always like'…and at this point he reached his hand up to cover his throat and in his best masculine sounding Marge Simpson voice said, 'Hey Slash what's going on dude?'

Until the birth of my son, this may have been the single greatest moment of my life.

Before we went to bed that last night in Paris, Michael took one last shot of our little street in the rain.

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