It was Brandeis Day, which meant that all of the lawyers in Paris were gathering in the stadium. As we mingled with the undergraduates’ families, light entertainment was offered at various booths. An elderly hippie was performing failed card tricks, a woman cried because she couldn’t play the ring toss. As for myself, I paced frantically through the stadium, desperate to find Playmobil. But in the canteen, I was stopped by Glenn Greenwald, who asked if I knew any prison slang I could teach him. I emitted a garbled series of nonsensical syllables, and he walked away disgusted. (That night, however, he would kiss me softly on the lips.)
Later, I ruined the dinner party of some exceptionally touchy French people.