MONACO — Not long after Frank McCourt arrived at his luxury hotel here, there was a knock at the door. McCourt, freshening up after an overnight trans-Atlantic flight, called out from the bathroom with an instruction to hang the shirt in the closet. The valet, in that smooth, five-star silence, carefully slid the shirt onto the rail and, without seeing McCourt, prepared to slip out the door. That sort of encounter is fairly standard in France, McCourt has discovered. “Being in that part of France, that meant Marseille,” he said.

Source: New York Times September 15, 2018 14:47 UTC