The title of this Mai Pehn Rai piece is timely, but ever so misleading. Today I went to see the new sandals and swords epic Gladiator, directed by Ridley Scott (Alien, Thelma and Louise, Blade Runner, The Duelists, etc.). I fully expected the movie to be filled with togas and tigers and buxom vestal virgins, available at the whim of the evil Roman Emperor, Commodus, or to nurture and sustain the movie's heroic General Maximus and his soldiers after a tiring, long campaign of fighting against the barbarians in Germania.

Alas, there were togas in plentiful numbers, worn by a multitude of Roman senators, including the scheming Derek Jacobi as Gracchus. Then, in a stirring gladiator battle, ferocious tigers guarded the center of the magnificent Coliseum's floor, the killing ground. But despite a budget that exceeded 100 million, Ridley Scott did not deliver any sweet female flesh. So we shall switch gears. We do applaud Gladiator, and we say it is a must-see, but we shall leave the Rome I saw in the movies today to history, and flash back to the memory of a recent passionate affair.

It begins this way: as the rains continued to fall throughout Saturday afternoon, I let my imagination take hold of my thoughts. A seasonably warm May Saturday in New York slowly evolved into a warm, sunny October 26^th in Paris, France, three years ago.

Les statues du Trocadero

My hotel was in the 7^th arrondissement, which is the French word for neighborhood or district. It was the richest district in Paris. The neighborhood was populated by senior civil servants, captains of industry, and diplomats. The district was home to the Eiffel Tower, the Ecole Militaire (France's West Point), The Rodin Museum, as well as Napolean's Tomb. The main market area was on the Rue Cler, a street now converted to a pedestrian mall. The only vehicles allowed on this no-parking street were delivery trucks and taxis.

My room was on the top floor of The Grand Hotel Leveque. The double glazed windows opened to afford a view of the Rue Cler Market area below. It was an active market where the shoppers were the best dressed in all of Paris. Yes, it was an exclusive neighborhood. The patissiere, the boulangerie, and the boucherie sat side by side with the fromagerie, the charcuterie, and the Chinoise restaurant.

Everything was right downstairs. The tobacconist (le tabac) was favorably situated across the street next to the deli (charcuterie). The bar (brassiere) sold delicious croissants and coffee made a cup at a time, was located in the building right next to the hotel. In a bit of strange Gallic custom, if you ordered your coffee and croissant standing at the bar, you paid about 15 francs, but if you sat at the table, in front of the bar, the same order was 22 francs.

A day before the fateful morning of October 26^th, I didn't go to the neighborhood for my breakfast. Instead I took my breakfast in the hotel. Wasn't much of a breakfast -- a pot of a strong, rich coffee and a huge hunk of a crusty, warm, and fresh baguette, direct from the bakery (patissiere) located in a building to the right of the hotel. I was reading a copy of USA Today, which had been purchased for 10 francs from the magasin de journaux (newsstand) on the block. I read the paper slowly, barely noticing the two attractive women who sat at the table at the far end of the room. I should say that I noticed them but could not hear their conversation. I had no idea where they were from, nor did I know at the time that they were mother and daughter. I left the breakfast room before the women did that day, and gave them not a thought afterwards.

I spent the day as any tourist would, meaning I took full advantage of the wonders of Paris. This day I would visit the Trocadero, Galerie Vivienne, and I would dine at Le Train Bleu Restaurant in the Gare Lyon; an elegant culinary experience located in a railroad station.

Galerie Vivienne

The following morning I opted for the more expensive hotel breakfast, again foregoing the coffee and croissant next door. I entered the breakfast room, "Bonjour," I said to the older of the two women I had noticed the day before. I noted she was reading the English Language version of the International Herald Tribune, and that she was alone.

"Where is your companion?" I asked.

"Oh, you mean my daughter? She went home to Seattle."

I offered to trade my USA Today for her Tribune, and I received an invitation to sit down and join her. We discovered a mutual love of Paris, and that we had the day all to ourselves before we would depart for our homes on the next day. It seemed that an invitation to take in more of Paris, The City of Lights, together was in order. We agreed to meet in one hour after breakfast.

Off we went. We boarded the Paris Metro at the Ecole Militaire Station three blocks away. Minutes later we exited at the Place de Concorde, a huge square from which you could see the Arc de Triomphe by looking in one direction, and the Jardin de Tuileries and the Louvre Museum in the other. It was the beginning of a day to be filled with art, and history, and elegance, and the beginning of a story whose end could not be foreseen at that precise moment, as we stood together consulting our tourist maps.

June lived in Honolulu, and I am from New York. Each of us was thousands of miles from home, but as the time ticked away, we grew closer. June and her daughter were both travel agents, and both were divorced, and I learned more as the day progressed.

Winged Victory (Nike of Samothrace)

The Musee d' Louvre has so much to see that in a single afternoon, you will see only a fraction of the exhibits. But your heart will be captured along with your emotions. June and I toured through the Louvre throughout the day. We lunched in the food court on Moroccan cuisine, and to tell the truth we were feeling very good about being in each other's company. The last exhibit we saw before we left the Louvre was the stunning Greek statue called Nike of Samothrace, better known as "Winged Victory". This statue was made of marble, but one could see and feel the life pulsing within the stone. This statue has a marvelous location in the Louvre, as it stands alone bathed in the beauty of the melding of history, art, stone, and light. It was breathtaking and arousing.

We left in the middle of the afternoon, immediately after seeing Winged Victory. As we walked through The Tuileries, a lush park that lies between the Louvre and the Place de Concorde, there was heaviness in the air and lightness in our hearts. Rain clouds had been gathering throughout the afternoon, but June and I had been absorbed in seeing the beautiful exhibits of this world class museum. We did not notice the clouds until a cloudburst occurred, and there we were in the Middle of the Tuileries, with just a single small umbrella between us.

June and I huddled together beneath the small umbrella. June's ample bust made repeated contact with my arm. I won't fool you. I noticed the sensation immediately. We looked at each other and I sensed that intimacy was a mere taxi ride away.

I won't print the details of that passionate day. But I will never forget the sensation of her breasts against me. And today, I thank Ridley Scott and Russell Crowe and the cast of Gladiator for bringing back the memory of the time I saw the glorious Winged Victory, the ultimate toga babe from the days of swords and sandals. Go see Gladiator right away, and if you forget that you read it here first. No big deal -- mai pehn rai!