Francy.

Or: Time to take my medicine.

Cary Grant dabbling in bondage. Arsenic and Old Lace. A 1944 Warner Bros Production

On my first trip to France, Cary Grant was on the plane. It was a Pan Am Clipper— a very fancy aircraft in the 1980s where 1st Class passengers were installed on their very own floor, separated from the riffraff by a small, red-carpeted spiral staircase. I was only alerted to his presence because my seat mate snuck upstairs to check things out. Her father was a television star, so I suppose it felt it natural for her to do so. When she returned a couple of minutes later, she trembled as she broke the news. I spent the rest of the flight looking up at the ceiling, trying to imagine what sort of ultraluxe things he might be eating and drinking. We later followed him through the airport, a respectful five paces behind and completely in his thrall— the spell only broken when he entered the men’s toilets.

Now both Mr. Grant and Pan Am are long gone. Film stars from the Golden Age and airplanes fitted with grand pianos no longer exist.

But it was one hell of a way to start things off.

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