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I hurry out the door and hop into the waiting taxi. "Bonsoir, monsieur, " I greet the driver breathlessly as I plunk in the center of the back seat. "I'd like to go to the American Cathedral, 23 avenue George V, s'il vous plait."

The car pulls out and I start making my usual small talk with the chauffeur de taxi. "I hope there's not too much traffic tonight. I'm running late and I have a cancer, " I say in French.

The driver dons a worried expression and sits up in his seat. I fret that I have insulted him by saying that I'm in a hurry. I add more to my story. "Yes, and I have friends from the United States who are here to see me. They are here for the cancer. They are waiting at the church for me."

Now he's is looking bewildered and almost frightened. He thinks, perhaps, that they are preparing my funeral? A support group? And he's driving me there?

"Yes," I add, "and first we are having a rehearsal."

Mais ces Americains sont fous, he is thinking as he grips the steering wheel a bit tighter.

"And I'm worried because I have a sore throat," I babble.

That's the least of your worries at this point, lady, he is saying to himself. Le moindre de vos soucis.

"But perhaps it will be better by the time our chorus has its next cancer next week, " I continue.

"Oh, un concert, madame!" He exhales the world's largest sigh and sinks back into his seat as we drive silently through the dark together.