With my buff pulled up over my face and my down jacket draped over my legs, I was able to drift to sleep on a park bench near the soccer stadium. It was four o’clock in the morning and, I’ll admit it was mostly my fault that I had ended up on that bench. After my train had been delayed three hours from Clermont Ferrand, I was in sleepy daze and couldn’t find the right metro station before the last train left for north of Paris where I’d reserved a room in an AirBnB. The buses were still running, but I hadn’t thought to save some coin for the bus fare. Considering the time it would take me to get to an ATM, buy something to make change, then find the right bus station to make the hour trip to the room, I didn’t think it was worth it. So I wandered around the streets of Paris, taking in the silence and waiting for the sun. My feet and back were hurting from carrying my bags, so I paused in a dark corner of a park with an unoccupied bench. I stretched out with my bag under my head and fell asleep.

I was awoken by the feeling of someone touching my jacket pocket. When I pulled the buff down from under my eyes, a man started sprinting away. In a moment of pure reaction and instinct, I bolted up after him, screaming. The voice that came out was not my own. It was hoarse, animalistic and full of rage. “You motherfucker!” I screamed as I ran after him. “Come back here you son of a bitch!” I stumbled, rolled, and continued running, but then started to realize that I had left all of my belongings unattended on the bench. It could have been a trap. I turned around and run back to my things. Everything was there. Passport, check. Money, check. My phone and my headphones were still in my pocket. I sat back down on the bench and rolled a cigarette. After a few minutes heart was beginning to quiet. I looked at my watch. The bastard had only let me sleep for forty minutes.

Waiting for the sun to peak out, I planned the rest of the day.

-exchange some money

-wash my clothes

-eat at Le Bouillon Chartier

-take a nap (without being robbed)

-eat again

-get to the airbnb

I was glad to be back in Paris where I could eat good pastries and drink strong coffee on every corner. Le Bouillon Chartier is the type of joint where they fill every chair - you don’t get your own table. I enjoyed my lunch across from a gentleman named Albert, a retired golf-course administrator. He had the sausage with a beer. I took the foie gras before the tripoux with a glass of red. We both finished our meals with camembert. It was nice to chat with him and try to use some of the French I’d picked up over the last few weeks. After a long and needednap in a park, I asked Alexia (my wwoofing friend who’d spent a year in Paris) for restaurant recommendation near Montmartre. Les Fils à Maman was an excellent recommendation. I started with a creamy carrot soup and had lieu noir et fondue poireaux (a white fish with leek sauce) as my main plate with a glass of chardonnay. A great last meal in Paris.

See ya real soon,

Clayton

14. Au revoir, Paris