Those of you who have read “Banking in Paris” will appreciate this: I went to my Paris bank yesterday for the first time in months. It was late in the day, so there was no guard at the door. (He needs to be home by 5:00, security be damned!) So, I pressed the button outside – only once – and eased into the vestibule. I graciously waited for the outer door to click shut behind me, and did not so much as glance at the television suspended in the corner. Instead, with laser-like intensity, my eyes pierced the glass and burned into the teller behind the counter. There was no need to press the button. One look at my determined expression and she released the door. I shimmered into the reception area. The malignant typist was there again, but she was impressed this time. I could tell.
After making my deposit, instead of pressing the button at the door, I simply waited in confidence, poise oozing from my every pore. Immediately, the door unlocked. Once in the vestibule, I waited until I heard the click behind me. And then I pressed the button to the outer door. Only once, but with just the right amount of pressure, a virtuoso at the keys. The door unlocked and I flowed out of the bank on a wave of admiration, and stepped into the late afternoon. I was poetry in motion.