Here's the thing to remember about Embassies: They are designed to be imposing - representing the strength of the home country; or they are the best the home country can afford.

Here's what Embassies are not: Charming.

The house where an Ambassador lives is often warm and charming reflecting the tastes and desires of the Ambassador or the Ambassador's spouse.

But the Embassy is, basically, an office building. It is an office building filled with government employees.

In the current environment, US Embassies are office buildings, filled with government employees surrounded by barricades, police and soldiers.

Are you getting the picture here?

Embassies, by international law, are the sovereign soil of the home country. I suppose, like Esmeralda in The Hunchback of Notre Dame, you could swing on a long rope into the grounds of the US Embassy and claim sanctuary.

[ASIDE: Do you think that title would make it past the political-correctness squads at the major publishing houses today? No. It would not. In fact a British group renamed the piece " The Bellringer of Notre Dame" for its stage production. END ASIDE]

In the 21st Century, it is not clear to me what the purpose of large Embassy staffs might be. The embassy system evolved in an age when it took months - if not years - for messages to go from one government to another and so an Ambassador, with the standing to actually speak on behalf of the home country's government (or King or Queen or Emir or Sultan or Archduke) was necessary in the forming of alliances.

Certainly face-to-face contact is still the best way to do business, but an e-mail with little emoticons -- :-) or :-( to indicate agreement or disagreement; or ;-) to indicate "just kidding" -- allow billions of people to communicate perfectly well every day.

The Embassy of Côte d'Ivoire is located on the Avenue Raymond Pointcaré just off the Place Victor Hugo.

As it happens this is around the corner from where the wonderful friends of the Mullings Director of Standards & Practices and mine, Zabelle and Werner Huss, used to live so I was familiar with the neighborhood.

I decided to walk over to the Embassy from the Best Western which took me across the Seine from the Left Bank to the Right Bank.

While following my very excellent street map I came across an outdoor market which included this:

"Well," says I, "Viola!"

This, to my great disappointment, turned out to be a display for a guy selling ... socks.

I continued along the way and found my way to the Embassy of Côte d'Ivoire, stood in line patiently behind about 50 people who were gathered around a window, only to discover when I reached the front of the line, that it was the Visa window.

As I didn't have any plans to go to Côte d'Ivoire that day, I went to the main gate and finally - using mime (pinky-to-the-mouth-thumb-to-the-ear in the international sign for "telephone" and mangling French pronunciation for Ambassador and thinking that maybe "parlay" meant "meeting" they let me in.

I suspect the guy at the gate called upstairs and said something like:

There's this White guy in a suit speaking like he's just walked out of a 1935 spy movie who says he's supposed to have a meeting with the Ambassador. You want me to throw him out or what?

The Ivorians speak French as their main language. I speak English - and not very well - as my main language. The twain don't meet in that many places.

The Ambassador was, not to put too fine a point on it, harried.

More about Embassies:

When a Member of Congress or the U.S. Senate travels to a foreign land, it falls to the U.S. embassy in that land to keep track of him or her. A group of MCs and/or Senators is called a "CODEL" in all caps. It is shorthand for "COngressional DELegation."

See? You should get graduate-level college credits just for reading these Travelogues.

Anyway, U.S. Embassies, because they are pretty well staffed-up can generally arrange to take care of the traveling Pashas or Pashettes as they show up.

More CODELs find their way to London and Paris than they do to, say, Uzbekistan which will not be a surprise to you.

However, poorer nations do not have the wherewithal to staff their embassies with a bunch of tour guides when the home town folks come a-visiting. For one thing, most of the home town folks can't afford to come a-visiting to Paris or London OR Uzbekistan so these services are not usually required.

Mr. Mullings? We think we get it. Can we please move along?

Right.

So, I was ushered into the office of the Ambassador of Côte d'Ivoire to Paris. As Côte d'Ivoire used to be a French possession, this is a pretty big posting. Even at that, visitors are not all that common, and the staff isn't all that large.

A couple of economic attachés, a staff for handling Visas, a spy or two, and that's about it.

He told me that 500 people had shown up in Paris for the peace talks and they all wanted to utilize the full services of the embassy and the embassy staff.

I decided to leave the Ambassador alone and got cracking working with his aide, a gentleman who was no less harried, but who spoke very good English and who provided me with an anchor.

One of the things you have to do while in Paris is eat. I know, I know, but no one goes to London to savor traditional British cuisine. People actually COME to Paris specifically to eat.

I, on the other hand, eat to specifically stay alive. And, as I am on this Atkins Diet, I have to eat fois gras and duck confit and other very tasty things.

Because I am here on a work detail - most of which is done during working hours - I find myself able to browse the 'hood looking for restaurants to try out.

There is one about a block and a half from the Best Western which was recommended to me. At about 6:30 I trot over there and open the door.

"Do you have room for one?" I ask, holding an index finger in the air hoping that, indeed, signifies "one" and not ... not, you know.

"Oui, Oui," the guy says.

I walk in and start taking off my raincoat and scarf but he stops me saying, "We don't begin service until 7:30."

It is now 6:30. And I'm hungry now. I ask him where there might be a slightly LESS civilized eatery which actually served food when people were hungry - actually I mimed Oliver Twist holding a bowl out to the school master and asking for more - and the guy pointed down the block to a Brasserie.

Here, I think, is the pecking order of places to eat: At the top of the (you should pardon the expression) food chain are "Restaurants" which, as it happens, is already a French word. Beneath them are Cafés, then Brasseries, then Bars.

The Brasserie on the corner looked stable enough so I ventured in, tried to say "good evening" which caused a good deal of giggling among the wait staff which means I could just have easily have said, "my feet are encased in Swiss Cheese" but they showed me to a table and handed me a menu.

Have I told you about my book situation? No?

I brought a novel with me, the new Ed McBain 87th Precinct mystery. I really wanted to bring Bob Schieffer's new book but (a) I forgot to buy it when I was busily packing and getting ready, and (b) it was not available at the bookstore in the Cincinnati airport, so, Ed McBain it was.

I don't mind eating alone. But I hate eating alone with nothing to read - or watch. So I had my Ed McBain book. I took the dust cover off so people might think I was reading some tome on the psycho-cultural-history of Central Europe and not a novel about the psychos who inhabit the mythical city of which McBain writes.

The menu is, of course, in French but has English subtitles. "French Onion Soup" sounds good because it has been cold and rainy all day. I order that and a carafe of red wine - Vin Rouge.

"Vin," is not pronounced as in "VINcent." No. It is pronounced "Va" as in the first two letters of "Vanna White." Rouge, you know.

"Un carafe de Va Rouge," I say, "et un petit Evian."

I am so proud of having ordered wine and a small bottle of Evian water that I say it again. Slightly faster this time.

"I understood you the first time, Monsieur," he said.

"I didn't think I knew that much French," I said smiling.

I didn't clearly hear what he said, but I think it sounded suspiciously like, "You don't."

Anyway I ordered Coq au Vin - which is chicken cooked in a wine sauce.

The waiter asked what kind of potatoes I would like. According to my diet the correct answer is "none." He kept trying and I kept declining until finally he asked if I wanted a salad.

"Bon. Merci." I said - if I might say so myself - flawlessly.

The soup came along with a large plate of French bread (which they simply call "bread" here).

I picked out the bread that was IN the French Onion Soup (which they simply call "onion soup" here) and studiously stayed away from the bread which was (and even as I type this - IS) making my mouth water.

I had my book propped up in front of me. I was eating French onion soup in a Brasserie a block from the Eiffel tower.

Not too shabby.

The Coq au Vin arrived and it was delicious, but suspicious. Why? Because this chicken had bones the size of a goat. Or an Emu. I'm serious about this. The thigh bone of this bird was a good three quarters of an inch across.

But it was quite good, so I ate and read and paid, and walked back to my hotel.

I tell you that story so you have some context for this one:

The next night - armed with the knowledge that opening time for restaurants is 7:30, I went back to the place which had been recommended to me the night before. I had some meeting which lasted until about 10, so my fear was that they would have STOPPED serving by the time I got there.

This fear was without foundation as the place was packed.

They took my coat and scarf with much smiling and "come-this-way" gesturing and sat me at a small table against the window.

The four people sitting next to me were just finishing up. As they speaking what I took to be American English so I butted in and asked what they had eaten.

Chat, chat, chat. It turns out one of them owns a French restaurant in Carmel California (La Boheme, if you're out that way. Tell them "Rich" sent you). They recommended the Beef Stroganoff which, as it happened, is made without noodles so suited my diet.

I did the propping-up-the-book thing, ordered wine and water, and a little foie gras to celebrate my having made it through yet another day, and the Stroganoff.

I drank, and ate, and read, and ordered cappuccino and was sooooo happy with my lot in life. I made the international signal for "bring me the check" and when they did, I realized I had left the Best Western without my wallet.

What does "voleur" mean, in English?

I was mortified. I had forty Euros in cash and my book and my non-European-carry-all shoulder bag and I told them I was leaving all that as security for my quick return.

I ran - RAN - back to my hotel. Elevated up to my room. Grabbed my wallet, DE-elevated to the ground floor, raced out the front door of the hotel, down the block, turned right, halfway down THAT block, skidded to a halt in front of the door and walked in with wallet in hand.

I paid them, they returned my goods and all was forgiven.

And, I tell you THAT story so you have some context for THIS one:

I am a creature of habit. I have mentioned to you, I believe, that we eat about two meals a week at Landini Brothers in Old Town because we like it and I know what I'm going to order.

Two or three nights later, I decided to return to the scene of the crime because I liked the place and they were pretty nice to me even with my foibles.

I showed up at about 9:00 pm, went through the same drill, they took my coat and scarf, led me to a single table and I asked for wine and water while I opened my book and looked over the menu.

I was reading away when I looked up and the maitre d' was standing over me, with the ENTIRE wait staff in a semi-circle around my table.

My eyes got wide thinking they had read every horrible thing I've written about France in the past three years and feeling like Patrick McGoohan in "The Prisoner" when the guy asked, "Did you bring money, tonight?"

I began reaching into my pocket to prove I was, indeed, packing, when they burst into laughter and clapping and presented me with a carafe of wine on the house.

Next: Lot's o' photos including another trip to the Louvre.

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