My cab driver speaks incredibly fast, nothing like the cheerful avatars who say “J’adore.” I don’t panic. I look for the button to slow him down. The only button lowers the window. The cab driver seems upset that I’m ignoring him and opening and closing the window.

“Je suis arrivé à Paris!” I announce, suddenly and loudly. I smile, relieved that he now knows I understand where I am. I frown when I realize I receive no points for completing a speaking exercise.

At the hotel, I’m told I cannot pay for my room with Duolingo gems, even after I show them I have over 1,800. “That’s enough for a five-pack of timer boosts,” I explain. They insist on a credit card. I remind myself to be patient. They may be learning English on the app. I consider befriending them and sending a small tip of ten gems. It’s important to share your language and culture.

While shopping, a clerk asks me a question I don’t understand. I tap him to replay the audio. Instead, he says something different, and louder. I try to find the “can’t listen now” button, like I normally do when I’m on the app in a loud environment, but to my horror no such button exists. The clerk does not hold up a sign that clearly spells out what he’s saying; he simply keeps saying it.

Across the street is a brasserie. Having placed third in the Duolingo league during my “food and café culture” unit, I expect a seamless experience. The menu offers no helpful English matches, no reassuring “da-ding” to confirm comprehension. To avoid losing points, I order a Coca-Cola. They understand me perfectly.

I go to bed hungry. J’ai très faim.

In the morning, I wake to terrible news. Maria K., who is studying German, has passed me on the leaderboard by over two thousand points. I’ve fallen to fifth place. I’ve been so distracted by Paris that I’ve neglected my Duolingo.

I skip the Louvre and spend the day in my hotel completing lessons like “navigating an art museum” and “making plans.” I excel at both.

That night, I take a walk through one of the city’s grand parks. A small child, slumped over their mother’s shoulder, suddenly perks up and points to a tree. “Hibou!” they shout. I follow their finger. An owl. “Duo,” I say, gently correcting them. “D-U-O.” The mother looks at me. The child looks at me. It’s possible they are beginners.

Before I know it, my trip is over. At the airport, I’m on my phone admiring how the calendar shows I played every day when the border agent asks me something about how many days. I check my phone. “Over a hundred,” I say excitedly. “I’m on a streak!”

He calls over a colleague. Suddenly I’m whisked away. They must be taking me to a special room for players who have achieved the “750 Quest Explorer” badge. Perhaps there will be a Duo plushie. Maybe even a medal. This is France, after all.

The secret to the next room is that it’s a jail.

They take away my phone and my passport. I don’t care about the passport. Only my phone proves I once placed first in the Diamond League.

There is one other person in the cell. A nervous-looking woman around my age.

“Maria,” she says.

I smile.

“I just passed a Maria on the leaderboard.”

She stares at me.

“Du warst das?!” she shouts.

The guards rush over as she begins violently shaking me.

I knew it. Elite players only.