I just skirted getting robbed on the Rue St. Honore en route to picnicking in the Tuileries. Within minutes three sequential events spun me about, at first appearing unrelated, but considering past experience in the Bucharest train station likely not. First I felt something and turned around to discover a girl posing as a tourist with her map out, lifting the flap of my bag. While she acted like it was an accident, a tall guy whose shoulder was at my eye level, slammed into me. I felt briefly like I had been dropped onto a football field without my pads, head reeling. Still trying to shake the impact, another woman moves right into my path, lifts a shimmering gold ring off the street, and waves it in front of me. Had Mireille’s firm grip on my arm not jerked me back, I would have fallen for the dazzling distraction of it all, no doubt. Her innate French glamour fuels a protective swagger.
Yesterday I got myself a pair of aubergine leather boots and French pants.
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