I lost my voice in a Parisian hotel room.
I put it in a tape recorder, sealed in by the stop button. I played it back only once. It sounded all squeaky so I hid it in a cupboard.
The following morning I packed in silence, checked out and ran for the airport. I was midway over the Channel when I noticed what was missing.
It was an old tape recorder so I don't miss it. However when the stewardess came over to offer me a beverage, I couldn't speak. I couldn't even squeak. Fortunately I knew a few basic signs and she knew them too. I ordered a glass of lemonade.
I could speak again when we landed though every word sounded unnecessarily French. People thought I was a snob. I am a snob but not in a particularly Parisian way.
I told a taxi driver allons-y and went home. I thought long and hard about my little bit of voice still in Paris, imagined the turn down service baffled and the concierge only mildly amused. What a trinket; except for the accent, not at all Anglais.
And yet I can't remember this very simple sentence. For the life in me, I can't recall what it was I said.