+48° 35' 0.62", +7° 44' 16.42"

We're supposed to meet Henry and his entourage at the Hotel Mercure in Strasbourg. Well, it turns out that there are several Hotel Mercures in that city—first I navigate through the narrow streets to the Hotel Mercure Strasbourg Centre, on the picturesque ile that holds the upscale shopping district, and we've almost got the minivan unloaded when Bertha gets a call on her cell phone. It's Henry, saying he's at the front desk, and wondering where we are.

I go into the lobby to look for him, but all I see are five or six guys in red and black soccer jerserys.

Well of course I can't find Henry, so everyone gets involved, and and after much gesticulation in several languages—at one point, I could swear that I hear Lambert speaking to the concierge in Latin—we set off for Hotel Mercure Place Gare Centrale, near the giant space ship, excuse me, train station (really, Strasbourg's gare looks like it was designed by the same team of alien architects that did the remodeling job on Soldier's Field in Chicago).

This time, we go right into the lobby—no messing with the luggage until we're sure this is the right place. It's amazing. There are even more red and black jerseys in this place. Whole familes.

Well, Bertha's phone rings again, and we repeat the confusions before discovering that there's yet a third Hotel Mercure, just down the Rue du Marie Kuss. Eventually we find Hotel Mercure Quartier St. Jean, which seems like an outpost of gentrification in an old bohemian neighborhood. It looks a little pricey to me, but I figure I can handle a room there, for one night anyway.

"What a mix-up," I say to Bruno as we get out of the minivan.

Bertha and Conrad have already gone into the lobby. Well I guess that's okay—I mean, assuming that the men will unload the luggage.

"That was no mix-up," says Bruno.

"What do you mean?" I say. I open the back of the Opel. The luggage is really crammed in there.

"Henry scouted all the hotels," says Bruno. "This is the first one he found that wasn't full of red jerserys."

"Yeah I saw all those people," I say. "What are they, AC Milan fans?"

"Patarini," says Lambert. He pulls out his own suitcase.

"What?" I say. "No, I could swear those jerseys—that's AC Milan... what do they call them? The rossoneri?"

"They're from Milan, alright," says Bruno. He grabs his backpack, and starts strapping it on. "Henry figures they're all spies for Matilda and the Pope."

"You mean the Patarenes?" I say. "I think I read about them... some kind of right-wing Catholic group from Milan?"

"Don't be anachronistic," says Lambert. "The patarini don't fit on your political spectrum."

"None of us do," says Bruno. He and Lambert turn and go into the lobby, leaving me with the rest of the luggage.

"Sorry," I say, but they don't hear me.

Did I just offend them? Or are they treating me like a servant?