by Frank Cotolo

Destination France, where Spanish entrepreneur and showman Joseph Oller created the pari-mutuel betting process in 1867. France, where harness racing features all trotting and the standardbred shares public acceptance equal to thoroughbreds.

I began to feel the weight of the 14-hour flight somewhere over Greenland. We should have been landing in Paris already but Wolfman insisted on taking a non-stop flight to Frankfurt on a Lufthansa jumbo jet because it offered First Class area bedding. I was in Business Class. It was more comfortable than Coach but only by the length of leg space.

I was exhausted when we deplaned at the Frankfurt airport. All attempts at sleeping in flight failed; so, I created fantasies of dancing on the apron of Hippodrome Paris-Vincennes racetrack while stuffing winning francs into my jacket. They appeared more like cartoons than scenes from a Francois Truffaut film.

The next stop was Paris and that meant flying east on a rickety shuttle plane sans luxuries while the two others on the Wolf team took a small jet. I did not have a seat (it was legal to stand on my flight to Charles de Gaulle Airport). The sole flight attendant offered drinks. I made the mistake of ordering coffee and spent 60 minutes in the air balancing its paper cup during the bumpy ride.

I took my first breaths of Paris from the limo driving us to the Hotel George V. The avenues were noisy and crowded and the side streets narrow; jet-lag weakness warped my consciousness but Jean-Marc — our French promotions man — taught me how to pronounce Champs-Elysees sans a Brooklyn accent.

“Tomorrow we will walk up and down the Champs-Elysees,” Jean-Marc said, “and stop at each record store to promote the disc.”

That reminded me why we came to Paris before the British pirate radio plan: a Rhino Records oldies album branded with Wolfman’s name and image was released. Would we stroll by Vincennes? No. Could I get my hands on a French racing form. No. Traffic cacophony rattled my brain.

I settled into the best hotel room I ever inhabited. I knew only three things: I was sleepy and my throat was sore and I was running a fever. But I had to freshen up quickly for a casual dinner with French business friends.

“It’s only jet lag,” Wolfman’s manager Don told me. “The best way to cure it is to stay awake until the next night.”

I trusted the leader of our band of outsiders so I went to dinner in a daze not unlike being under the influence of LSD. At a restaurant near the hotel, I concentrated on acting normal while sitting among six local business connections. And a well-groomed canine.

“Dogs are allowed in French restaurants,” said Mirabelle who was seated across from me. “You’re from New York. So am I.”

“Am I that obvious?” I said.

“No. But I recognize you. Fifty-seventh and seventh. Early seventies. You’d take-out coffee from the Horn and Hardart across from Eight-eighty-eight. Did you work there?”

“Not at Horn and Hardart. At Eight-eighty-eight. WMCA Radio. Did we meet there?”

“No. But I remember you.”

Nonchalant indeed. I was bewildered. A gorgeous lady remembered me from years ago?

“Hard to believe I’d forget seeing you,” I said. “Ever go to Vincennes?”

“I love the trotters.”

“Maybe you and I can trot to the trotters this week…”

I was interrupted by Jean-Marc who said, “We won’t have time for much more to see than Notre-Dame.”

“And don’t forget the Crazy Horse,” Don said. “Can’t miss that nightclub show…”

“Of course not,” Jean-Marc said, “The great Serge is performing.”

I looked at Mirabelle and ignored the cross talk and I cursed the lack of luck preventing a trip to the trotters with her. I leaned over and asked her, “How do you say, ‘dam the fates’ in French?”

“Barrage des destins,” Mirabelle said with a somber smile.

The week’s schedule made my plan to escape the band of outsiders and visit Vincennes impossible. Further complicating the adventure was my declining health. I was ordered to visit “une pharmacienne” and buy a 12-hour remedy and stay the night in my hotel room.

I passed time interpreting trotting articles from newspapers. The amount of harness coverage impressed me. The fields were huge. The drivers and trainers were outspoken about opponents; they voiced strategies and strong remarks about the competition. A lack of politeness — ala Muhammad Ali — created melodrama missing in North American harness reports. A lasting impression ensued.

I recovered just in time to fly to London for a covert mission involving radio broadcasts; a ghost ship floating on international waters in the North Atlantic; a secret map and convoluted steps to get aboard. It was my first of two visits to LDN and I was too busy avoiding arrest to search for standardbreds.

Note: Here’s a link to my column on my second trip to London.