A Polaroid and A Paris Taxi

Sonnet and Marcus, 1977

The first thing one notices in Paris, assuming one takes a taxi, is that the taxi drivers are clueless.  Last night, for instance, I go from Gare du Nord to the Hôtel de Crillon, as known a place as any and like the Waldorf or the London Savoye (for the record: I do not stay at the Crillon which otherwise serves as a reference point).  My guy asks : où ?  Mentioning Place de la Concorde and the American Embassy does not get us any further - the driver stumped without a postal code for his sat nav.  Of course he may have sized me up for a long-ride chump (most likely) but either way this would never happen in London.