Summertime. I'm lounging poolside, reading a book. A quartet of ladies is bobbing in the shallow end, chatting. One remarks, "My 16-year-old niece is going to Paris tomorrow -- she's flying by herself." Evidently the girl in question was going to stay with some friends of the family.
"Oh My God," booms one bouncing voice. "Tell her not to talk to any French boys! Have you seen that movie, Taken?" She continues, explaining the plot in terrifying detail, about a 17-year-old who goes to Paris one summer and ends up getting kidnapped into white slavery. (Plot synopsis here.)
I don't budge, but I do twitch for a moment. I am torn. I really want to go cannonball them and say, "Come on, ladies, that's just a contrived thriller plot, total fiction," and enlighten them (har!) with my monologue about how it's so safe in France, how I just lived in Paris for three years, yadda yadda yadda.
But instead I laze there like a lizard in the sun, wondering how much damage that movie has done.
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