scaling the wall.

It’s 2 AM on my first Saturday night in France, and my keys don't work in the door, so now I’m pacing the tiles outside my house, plotting ways to break in. I have to act fast; the dog heard my key jiggling in the lock and is threatening to awake the family with its frantic barking. I stalk back and forth, drunk, desperate, exhausted. I'm about ready to go to sleep on the sidewalk when I notice that my bedroom window is slightly ajar. The house is split-level; my bedroom is neither first-floor nor second floor but somewhere in between. Whatever it is, I have just enough alcohol in my system that I believe I can make it.

I charge through the garden toward the bush positioned closest to my window, and, using its surprisingly durable branches as a spring, vault upwards to grab the bottom of the fence protecting my balcony. It's my first time ever scaling a wall, and I think I do pretty well considering my attire. The high heels prevent me from getting a solid foothold, and the “stretch” jeans are certainly not as flexible as the Gap would purport them to be, but somehow or other I manage to make it to the window, swing a leg over the ledge and roll gracelessly in. A loud thud, and the house is again silent.

I note that the amazing watch dog has long since gone back to sleep.