I was outlining all the reasons I needed to live in Paris. “I’ve been taking French since elementary school and I’ve hit an impasse,” I explained to my mother. “My reading and writing skills are good, but I really think I need to live in Paris to master the art of conversation.” It was 1984 and I was completing my junior year in high school trying to make summer plans.

“Call the travel agent and make your arrangements,” my mother said. That was a lot easier than I anticipated. My mother loved to travel and she encouraged us to travel as well.

“Where will I live?” I asked her, hoping I could be set-up in a hotel. I love hotels.

My mother knew the Pakistani Ambassador to France and said she would be in touch with his secretary to get me set up with a French family. This probably made more sense if I was serious about learning French.

“And I’m sure you’ll want to look into French classes, if you’re serious about learning French,” my mother instructed me. I made arrangements to attend the Alliance Francaise in Paris which involved taking an entry exam so they could determine which class I would be best suited for.

A week or so before my exam, Puchi called from London, where she was spending part of the summer with our mother and oldest sister, Muna.

“I’m coming to Paris,” she said. When she arrived the next day, I picked her up at the train station and we went to my French family’s home in Meudon, just outside of Paris. The house was a beautiful stone country home, walking distance from the train in a sleepy little town. I don’t think this was exactly what Puchi had in mind for her Parisian getaway and we spent the rest of her time in Paris in hotels and bars, drinking too much wine. Often I would forget to call my French family and let them know I would not be returning home for dinner, or even the night.

The day before my exam, Puchi, who was planning to leave Paris for Italy to visit Mimo who was on an archeological dig with a group from her college, said, “Come to Italy with me.”

“I can’t. I have to take my French exam,” I responded dutifully.

“Come to Italy with me.” It didn’t really take much persuading. I was getting sick of Paris. The newness of it all had worn off, and I wasn’t really learning French since so many French people leave Paris in the summer and most everyone speaks English. The next thing I knew my bags were packed and we were on a train to Italy.

“Where are we going exactly?” I asked Puchi.

“Um, I’m not exactly sure,” she said taking a piece of crumpled paper out of her pocket. “I’ve got the directions right here.” She was not inspiring confidence in me.

“Will Mimo pick us up at the train station?” I asked.

“She doesn’t really know we’re coming to visit this week,” Puchi said.

“Oh great. We don’t really know where we’re going and no one is expecting us,” I said expressing my disapproval.  “This should be fun,” I added sarcastically.

We took several trains, sometimes without assigned seats and would have to stand for hours at a time in the heat. I looked longingly at the first class passengers, seated in the air-conditioned compartments. On one of the trains, Puchi was able to secure one seat in an air-conditioned compartment. Probably tired of my whining, she gave it to me and told me to go sit down, which I willingly did, not even thinking to offer it to her instead.

It took us about 30 hours to get to Lucera, a small town on the heel of Italy. By this time I was no fun to travel with, complaining about the heat, the food on the train, my Walkman not working, and Puchi not knowing where we were going. She was mostly patient with my bratty behavior.

“So now what are you going to do?” I said to her when we got off the bus in Lucera’s town square. “You don’t even know where we’re going.”

Puchi glared at me, annoyed with my constant negative comments. And then she looked across the piazza, and there was Mimo’s face in the window of a bar.

“See,” said Puchi. “I told you I knew where I was going. I knew we’d find her in a bar,” she said laughing and waving to Mimo.