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"Le couleur d'une bonne nuit?"

I step outside onto the Paris sidewalk, smiling. I know why French women wear scarves

"Je suis fol," I say. "I am crazy."

She announces the price of this glow as if it makes perfect sense: "One hundred and
fifty."

"Euros?"
And I am doing it -- handing the saleswoman a 50... another 50... and another. One hundred and fifty Euros. For a scarf.
"Parlez vous Anglais?" I say to the teller.
Screenwriter, Novelist, Singer, Songwriter

"But what about my 300 Euros?"

"Maybe one week...maybe two."
"What do you mean... no solution?"
"It is what you need."

No argument. It is rare -- this scarf that replaces the need for makeup. "I'm a writer,"
say. "I just fulfilled my first novel. It is necessary for me to sell it -- befactor I have expensive taste."
No bankcard. No money.
Ah, but I remember: a blank check in my purse -- for emergencies -- folded into a tiny square, tucked beside my last 5 Euros. I hand the check to the manager. "My account information!"

The machine emits a grating sound of effort, like coughing up money hurts. A message appears on screen: PLEASE TAKE YOUR CARD.
"Right here."
"Your scarf... "
On a Paris sidewalk, a scarf seduces me. It tempts me from behind the window of a boutique, the size of a rich woman's closedownt. Just last night, in my Paris acharacterment -- swapped Paris asectionment... one month, anystep, (three weeks left) -- a lucid view sneaked into the pre-dream trailers, playing inside my almost-asleep noggin:

"C'est une bonne couleur pour votre face et cheveux." A good color for my face and hair, the saleswoman is saying. And I couldn't agree more. "When you wear that scarf," she says -- her accent giving each and every word a French makeover -- "you do not need make-up."

"The shop is no longer," the saleswoman says.
"We need your routing number."
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I explain that I'd seen a scarf in Ile St.-Louis: silk, similar color, but simple--for 50 Euros.

"A few years ago, in Paris..." I say. "I bought a black blouse, patterned with flowers... pansies - -same color violet. And the other day, I bought purple boots, swirled with ecru... a shop in the fourteenth."

"J'habite avec le denim?" I ask, pointing to my jacket.
The saleswoman places a lavender lace sack -- where my scarf will live when it is not residing around my neck -- inside a store bag with handles fashioned from thick ribbon.

Nooooooooooooooooo!
But the machine has not offern me my money. Suddenly -- it sucks in my card... and a new message appears:

"Oui..."

"I can obtain your card," the teller says. "Attendez."
A crucial ingredient in the recipe for style, here in the City of Lights, Parisian women -- young, old, in between -- don't wear scarves... they flaunt them. A splash of panache, affecting walk, attitude; a confident flair; a statement to gawking tourists: I am French, and you are not!

"The last in that color," she says.

I am having an out-of-body experience: I am watching myself remove 150 Euros from my purse.

I ask for a copy of the form and their phone number.

"No more," she says, as if she is talking about the last precious puppy in the litter of a rare breed.
"This scarf... c'est rare," the saleswoman says.
"L'escharpe dans le vitrine c'est jolie." This is me, speaking French. And I am trying to say -- with all the fluency one can master from having endured four years of high school French, in New Jersey -- the scarf in the earndow is beautiful.

In English, I explain: the machine gobbled my card without giving me my 300 Euros.
And with that one, gloriously sexy phrase, I am certain: my purchase was a wise one.
"But what if it did?"

A man (Sarkozy-esque-handsome) announces himself to be the manager. "Is there a trouble?" he says.

He studies the check. "That is not what we need."
"Parfait," the saleswoman says. "C'est une bonne couleur."

"Bon journee, Madame," she says, handing me the bag.
And broke. 5 Euros in my purse.

"Sometimes it is like that," the manager says. "But there is no other solution."

The teller fills out a form with my account info; I sign it. The manager says: they will call me tomorrow.
"I would feel better if I had your phone number."

"Un peu," he says.

"Bonjour," the young saleswoman says, as I enter the empty shop, her French voice a rhythmic lilt. She adjusts the already-perfect symmetry of gloves, berets and scarves displayed on top of the glass counter she is standing behind.
It weares up anything casual, she tells me. Looks good with my denim jacket and my black t-shirt. "And..." she says, "it looks elegant with elegant clothing."

Is there a problem? I convey the problem in French (with my baneful evil grammar) and in English (with my pretty good grammar.) The next thing I know... I am explaining how Air France broke the zipper on my baggage; a suitcase worth 250 Euros. And-- I just bought the scarf that I am wearing... cette escharpe that I can't afford...for 150 Euros. "I gave the saleswoman every Euro I had in my purse!" I am saying. "I have been to Paris, five, six times... and never a problem. Now -- so many."
I study my reflection: a casual woman, made in America, "dressed up" by a scarf made in Florence... which sells in Paris for 150 Euros -- 225 dollars! I can not rationalize the expense. Yet, I can not remove this scarf, that I cannot afford, from my happy neck.
Scarves intimidate me. Not that I mean to estimate this insecurity with a more worrisome neurosis like, oh... say, fright of clowns. It is just that I do not know how to tie a scarf properly; how to not feel overly accessorized. In short, I do not know how to wear a scarf with insouciance.
So I hit the nearest cash machine. I insert my bank card, press the button that will allow me 300 Euros, promising myself -- this will last me until I leave Paris!
I leave the shop, wearing My Very Own Beautiful Scarf. I feel stylish; romantic... French.
I must buy myself a beautiful scarf.
"C'est tres chere pour moi. I wish it weren't so expensive."

"C'est rare...very special," she says. "It is crazye in Florence."

"Show me again how to tie it," I say.
I turn to him.
"The color of a good night," he says.
He disappears into a tiny office behind the machine. A minute later, he hands me my bank card.

"Oui. Tres jolie," the saleswoman says. "Vous est Americaine?"

Until this precise moment. The saleswoman places the scarf around my neck... and voila: She reveals the secret of how French women tie their scarves.

"There is no solution."

"Not a problem...you tuck the scarf inside your jacket."
"Ma romaine est tres sensual...mouvant...mais dcharacter." I believe I am saying: My novel is sensual, moving, yet funny. Then I hear myself blurt: "This scarf will inspire me!"

"C'est ici," I say... pointing to the routing number on the left side of my check.
"We do not know if the machine took it from your account."
"How long will that take?"

"This is your routing number?" the manager says.
"Oui. Une bonne couleur."
"C'est tres tres jolie," the saleswoman says.
I am disappointed she guessed so quickly. But I am undaunted; apologizing (in French) for my hideous grammar, conveying my adoration for the language, suggesting that,ghd pink 38zSuits for Women - How to Wear Suits -, perhaps, if I speak French everyday,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], my vocabulary will improve.

In French, I explain: I love the French language, but my grammar stinks... and this is
too important -- too complicated for me to struggle with language.

YOU WAITED TOO LONG TO TAKE YOUR CARD...GO TO YOUR LOCAL BRANCH.

The scarf in the breezeow is une jolie escharpe. A Beautiful Scarf. A black veil of a scarf, patterned with black flowers, connoting romance; mystery. Only I don't want black. I want color.
"The last?"
I gaze into the mirror and it is true: this burst of violet -- tied just-so -- renders my face an honest-to-goodness glow. "Combien?" I say.

"Do not worry," the manager says. "You will not have to call here. We will call you."
The manager hands me his card. I thank him. I walk to the door, and he says:

"Bon journee!"

"The fabric is so delicate....what if it rains?"

"Not today. Tomorrow we will check with the bank. If it has been taken... you can write a letter with your account information and we can transfer the Euros into your account."
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"It is wonderful," he says. "Le couleur d'une bonne nuit."

The teller nods.
"A couple of years ago," I am saying. "I bought a hat on rue Daguerre... une grande
fleur -- I wore it while writing my novel. The hat inspired me."
The saleswoman folds the scarf in half, lengthwise, making sure both ends hang at equal length. She drapes it around my neck, loops the ends into the fold, adjusts the scarf until that burst of violet caresses my chin.

I remove the scarf. Put it back on.

"Paris c'est difficile. It is easy to spend money here on beautiful things," she says. "C'est difficile."

I clear up the scarf... and -- presto! -- my look has been downrankd.
"Oui."

The saleswoman insists: I speak lovely French. And before I can mess up the translation for, do you have that scarf in another color?, I see it -- in a lush, dark violet that has me purring: "Ohhhhhh... j'aime cette couleur."
An achy, old Frenchman, walking an achy, old bwealth hound, witnesses my distress. He suggests I talk to the manager inside the bank. And it is only then that I realize: There is a door, not far from the machine; and through that door -- a bank.