The distinctive click of the door as it locked was something I listened for.

I dashed out of my apartment to a small shop nearby-one of few open that Sunday morning, sixteen years ago. My morning attire of comfort casual was discordant with the impeccably dressed Parisian men and women strolling along, but no one seemed to notice.  With my purchase of envelopes in hand, I quickly retraced my steps back home. I reached for my keys, they were not in my pocket, but where I had left them, on the other side of my apartment door.

My boyfriend had gone skiing and wasn’t expected to return until late that evening. I descended the seven flights of stairs and rang the bell of Isabella, the concierge. She was not at home. Sunday she often spent with her family or friends.

I again stepped outside into the chilly morning, aware of the darkening clouds. I knew none of my friends’ phone numbers and asking my neighbors if I could hang around all day did not seem like a great idea.

I bought a hearty sandwich from a boulangerie with about six dollars worth of francs to spare. At some point Eureka, a film, came to mind. I had wanted to see it, but had been dissuaded by it’s more than three and one-half hour running time . It was playing near the Centre Pompidou about an hour’s walk away and the matinee price was one I could afford.

Eureka was an extraordinary film. I enjoyed it immeasurably, but the warm, cozy seat I nestled in for hours undoubtedly added to its appeal.

Decades ago three friends and I were driving back at night from Gubbio’s lively festival to Urbino, in Italy, about an hour’s drive.  We passed two fellow students hitching home and stopped to give them a ride. Our rented Fiat was not built for six, but we’d manage. The woman sitting shotgun, B., offered to put some things in the trunk to make more room in the car. On the backseat two of the women sat on the other women’s laps. We were a mix of Italians and Americans all studying in Urbino for various lengths of time. We chatted freely while B. was outside.

B. got in and gave me back the keys so I could start the car. The key would not turn. I jiggled it several times before it turned freely, too freely. I was now holding  only part of the key. The narrow end was still inside the ignition.

“I had some trouble opening the trunk. I guess I tried too hard.” B. said sheepishly.  Stunned, I thought, “We’ll all be here awhile.” But I was wrong. The four women hopped out of the backseat, said some quick goodbyes, and were soon offered a ride.

B. and I stood on the side of the dark country road.

The details of the moments that follow remain vague: B. and I made it home, the Fiat was towed, damages were paid.

However, I vividly recall watching a car drive off with the four women inside.