Lost Girls.

I am a bad person and here's why.

As mentioned in my previous post, I came to France with preconceived notions of being surrounded by Parisian beauties. And fine, I wasn't entirely wrong.

It is not unusual to see a tall, thin woman with a beautiful haircut and dangerously high-heeled boots walking hand-in-hand with a taller, thinner man with a more beautiful haircut and a complementing outfit. I, however, am walking hand-in-hand with my over-sized map of Paris while trying to push through some not-so-automatic doors I had mistaken for the Metro exit.

But after figuring out exactly which underground path to take, my alone time on the Metro has become a favorite daily activity. Most of the time I have to put in my headphones once French eavesdropping starts to make my head spin. But fortunately for me, you can people watch in any language.

On my way home around midnight the other night, a Parisian girl who fit my previous general description got on to my car. All of her hair was pulled up into her hat making her look even more model-chic. I stopped staring so that she wouldn't catch the American envy in my eye. But a couple minutes later she caught my attention again for a different reason. Get this... she was completely bent over in her seat, head between her designer boots, puking into a plastic bag.

Vomming.
In.
Paris.

I didn't think it was possible!! I thought public hurling was reserved for college campus game days, not for a city where people don't even spill crumbs from their baguettes. But man did it feel great to be wrong.

During the whole performance I was nudging elbows with the old French man sitting next to me, chuckling as he offered her "un autre sac."

So maybe delighting in the misery of the flawless makes me a bad person. But after a week of stumbling French phrases and wrong, very, very wrong turns, I earned this one.