“I’m not going gay” I was in a dormitory of four beds and was in the bathroom preparing for a shower. No locks, so the young Japanese caught an eyeful as he retrieved his towel. The sight of me naked is unlikely to turn any guy gay. Celibate, sure. Hysterically blind, maybe. What a start to the day.
I was heading for Les Halles and the Pompidou Centre. Both had been substantially altered in the years since my last visit. I asked my questions at the Pompidou, snapped at Les Halles and wound my way between the teeming cafés enjoying yet another blue sky day.
Getting to the Eiffel Tower was made harder by a key Metro line being closed. I got as close as I could and walked along the banks of the Seine. I didn’t want to go up, just eat my lunch on the Champs de Mars, below.
I had a fresh baguette – sorry, but nobody does bread like the French – some chocolate for my pain au chocolat and one and a half litres of water. I also had the remnants of the Camembert which, as my dorm mates can attest, smelled like old socks. I had to eat it, it was making the dorm uninhabitable.
The tower was crawling with people and the grass was not for picnicking on, so I opted to go back to the benches by the Seine.
On the way I was cornered by a barefoot girl with a piece of paper which claimed she was a Bosnian refugee, starving and alone. For a Bosnian she had an excellent command of French – as did the other six or so girls I’d noticed running the same scam. She told me how hungry and tired she was and as proof showed me her bare feet. I showed her mine, blackened and with huge white saucers of blistered skin.
I won.
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