(FORTUNE Magazine) – My Lear has to stop unexpectedly in Paris en route to my home in...well, let's just say on the Riviera and leave it at that. For once, my pilot doesn't fear my wrath: He knows I'll be MOST contented. Not because of Paris itself--it's no mystery that it's called the City of LIGHTS, since no God-given ray of sunshine ever graces its streets, thus necessitating ridiculous amounts of electrical output. He knows I'll be staying at Le Bristol, a hotel that threatens to make even me go SOFT in the center.

It's exactly where I need to be. Physically, of course--a step off the Rue du Faubourg St. Honore, a mere stroll from my man at Christie's. But also emotionally. The barman innately understands that at the end of days dealing with broken jets and wheeling dealers, a single malt and a conversation EN PLEIN ANGLAIS is just what this gentleperson needs.

A bientot...

THE LOBBYIST