I came here to escape.

Only a two-minute walk. From my hotel in the Paris Latin Quarter. There it was.  A place called the  ‘American Restaurant.’ I tried to avoid it. Best I could. Never entered. But came  close. Peeked in the window. It was a hamburger joint. With a stool-lined lunch counter. Could have been a scene out of the 1930s. That’s where the French, the Germans, the Italians go. When they come to see America.  They travel Route 66. And they take a side trip. To Las Vegas. My visiting German cousins and friends. Insist that I take them to a steakhouse. For the biggest steak they’ve ever had. For a true taste of Americana. A good host. I oblige. But in Paris. I steer clear. Of Route 66. And almost anything that reminds me of America. After all, I came here to escape. --Jim Broede