an australian in paris

DAY SIX

I think I might be trying to cover up how upset I am about the busking. I felt a
little sad when when I looked at my speakers today; at what I’d thought was
going to be a great little bunsen burner money earner – you live and learn.

I got an early EasyJet flight from Krakow to Paris and people clapped when we
took off, and then again when we landed – even the cabin crew. I did not join
in – it should be a given that you make it to your destination, not a pleasant
surprise.

Outrageous introduction to Paris today. I’m trudging up to Montmartre and an elderly man – please note this was a man advanced in years – asked me if I needed help and said he’d show me where my accommodation was – I got a bit of a weird vibe but thought he was harmless enough and may just have needed company. Oh Megan.

He asked me to stop for coffee when we were almost there and my indecent proposal
warning bells started ringing, but I was tired, and the suitcase was so heavy
(and handleless) and he’d dragged it for so long that I thought I at least owed
him five minutes of conversation.

So I’ve tried to keep things very platonic and referenced his wedding ring – said
votre wife (votre – French for your, wife – English for wife) but he got the
gist and he basically said that she was back in Africa or something like that –
the inference being that he was free and unattached. Anyway, it got really
weird, and I said something along the lines of ‘oh is that the time’ even
though I don’t own a watch, or I’m tired – I need to go to sleep – I may have
inadvertently led him on by saying I was hungry – (je faim) instead, but either
way, it was pretty obvious that I was not digging it. He was a persistent
little sleazeball though, and he said, ok, but wait while I go to the toilet
and then I’ll walk you back with your luggage. Now, I’m not going to pretend I
didn’t think about it – the bag was really heavy – but only for a second, and
then I realised it’s better to be dead tired than dead. As soon as he left, I
ran to the counter, paid the bill and left. I’m a teeny bit scared cos he knows
where I’m staying, but I’ll be right – I can outrun a 60 year old.

Settle in and 4 hours of culture…

I’m sitting with a bloody good Bloody Mary at Le Fumoir – a restaurant recommended
by the travel section of TIME (TIMEtravel) for those wanting to go somewhere
locally renowned and not as frequented by tourists – so really, it’s for the
snobby tourists, like myself, who think they’re better than the other tourists.
I don’t care – I’m still only a bad tourist. It’s tres parisienne and
reasonably priced. (35 euro for 3 course) and really tasty, and right near the
Louvre.

There’s a super vacuous conversation from the table next to me and it goes
something like this – not exaggerating: “And I said, you won’t oven help me
drag my Luis Vuitton down the stairs… I mean this is a man who couldn’t even
take one week off from work while we were married etc. etc.” This is from a very
tanned skinny woman dominating the conversation – probably because of the LV and
the low body mass index. I feel like telling these women they only exist in books and films.

Anyway, that conversation aside, the place had tres super ambience and the service/food
was divine.

Can’t wait for tomorrow and hoping the next guy that cracks onto me has his own hips.

Bon nuit!!

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