The various exits can take you back into centuries of culture, into snarls of traffic, or into the urban sterility which respects no nation. The Sofitel, the official players’ hotel of the French Open, was right off the beltway. Courtesy cars took players to and from practice courts and matches. The French pretended to give equal treatment to male players and female players, but the reality was, ho hum, men first as usual. Carmen and Harriet holed up in a tiny hotel not far from the Sofitel. Pushing through the crowds of players, coaches, reporters, and groupies in the lobby was bad enough. Given their situation, they would sooner avoid crowds than plunge into them. Neither woman expected the press to let them alone. Surprisingly, the French press was more restrained than the English press. Harriet dreaded England the way Londoners dreaded the plague of 1666. There would be no escape. She pushed that into the back of her mind. They were in Paris for two weeks; might as well make the best of it.
