for Van Gogh’s ghost and found it’

ERINGER

Continued from Page A2

“The gate won’t open!”

Two French women glare at me. “Impossible,” snaps one. The other blows a raspberry.

“I’m not lying,” I say. “It really won’t open.” One of them hands me a magnetic strip card. “Use this.”

I see. Let’s have fun with the jumpy American after we’ve spooked him all night.

I gallop to the gate, run the card, nothing happens. Again. Same result. And again. (Conventional wisdom suggests that the truest definition of insanity is when someone does the same thing over and over again expecting a different result.)

I return to reception and thrust the card in their faces. “It does not work. Let me out. Now.”

They look at me like I’m not only a stupid American but crazy to boot. One of them rolls her eyes, follows me out and runs a magnetic card through the slot. Doesn’t work. She opens a small metal box at the side of the gate and presses a button. Nothing happens.

By now I’m too desperate to gloat. She blows another raspberry, stumped, says irritably, “This never happens,” as if it is MY fault.

“What now?” I groan in desperation.

“I go see.” She stomps off.

“Go see WHAT?” I holler after her.

A few minutes later she returns with a new magnetic card, swipes it and — voila! — the gate finally slides open and I’m set free.

It is clear what happened, of course.

I went looking for Van Gogh’s ghost and found it, presumably haunting the asylum). His spirit then trailed me to La Cabro d’Or, where it tried (three times) to evict me from his old stomping grounds — and when I didn’t get the message, tried to hold me prisoner. (I suspect Vincent took umbrage at my exploration of his asylum bathtub.)

And don’t expect me to say, “April Fool’s Day!”

Because it truly happened. No joke.