Ms. Muse, who just fifteen minutes ago was still a perfect stranger to me, decided to treat me to a glass of champagne. Her chihuahua yapped at me.

- "So, Francis, tell me: that can't be your real name, can it, De Hotel  ?
- English speakers couldn't figure out my real name. It's too French."

I reached for my calligraphy pen and scribbled down my real name on the bar's fancy wooden top. The barman looked at me; the chihuahua yelped again.

- "You're right, said Ms. Muse, I can't figure it out. How do you pronounce it? And why did you go for De Hotel  ? You like hotels?
- Yes, I do. I love them actually.
- And that's why he fucks up hotel bars with his permanent marker pen, interrupted the barman. The guy oughtta be locked up. And that darn dog too!
- Oh my God, Ms. Muse cried in disbelief, your name's all over this bar top! I'm just realizing it! Why do they let you do that? Are you a rock star or something?..."

To be continued one way or another. Stay tuned!