Gidget goes Parisienne [antikvár]

Just in case you care to know what I think, I think every girl out of high school should be required by law to spend at least one year of her college life in Paris. Paris, France, that is. Never mind if the cops swear at you, the waiters glare at you, and the taxi drivers try to kill you. Never mind the lousy plumbing and the cruel toilet paper and the price of tea bags. And don't even mind Le Grand Charles. He's crowding eighty and they say his body chemistry isn't top hole any more. Always remember one of the most useful words of the French language, "Zutl"—and remember, too, that this great country has survived a long line of Bourbons and the litde Corporal Bonaparte and Charles the Fat Pig and Le Maréchal Pétain and it most certainly will survive de Gaulle, also known as Le Grand Asperge. I personally happen to like him, even if he hates us—but then, I like everything that has to do with Gallia ever since I memorized in school "Gallia omnia . . . divisa est . . and all that Latin hullabaloo. But let's assume you arrive in Paris, quite resentful of how Le Grand Charles has treated us of late—you arrive there just as a "transient"—a short-term visitor like so many thousands of fellow Americans—how would you feel if on landing at Orly Airport some doll of a Frenchman stepped up to you, kissed your hand, thrust a bouquet of roses at you plus a gorgeously wrapped box containing an azure-blue nightgown by Dior? Unreal? Well, it happened to me just a few months ago. It surely gassed me. fi- ! t i I 1 I "t ) I ¦ I ¦ i!' '. r