Every time I thought of Paris I smiled. Glitz, glamour, gorgeous people and gorgeous buildings. Bustling cars rubbing shoulders, taxis tucked tightly in traffic like the shirts of the business men in them, busy bodies, scurrying like the rats that followed them - to and fro, up and down. There was something beautiful in the heavy, hurried footsteps of the heels of tall, glamorous women. The way they pounded the cold sidewalk with an aggressively sensual stomp, asserting their thin stiletto dominance over the pavement. Naturally I did the typical tourist stuff. So, like my fellow English-speaking peers, I too walked around the sights, a big, inconvenient crowd of voices. Capturing every moment on my camera, not in my memories, to be shown to various family members, friends, colleagues or anyone who’s envy I secretly desired, because that’s what traveling to Paris does. It makes you think that your comprehension of French, though abysmal, and your accent, borderline offensive, were perfect. Almost like I fitted in, like I belonged. I was a kitten in a labyrinth, aimlessly wandering until I eventually scrambled out, simultaneously not looking for an exit at all. Maybe it’s just the inner tourist in me. She’s eager and bubbling, a well shaken champagne bottle, the pressure of anticipation and excitement ready to blow when she sees another over hyped attraction. “Lar-Neef-Des-Foos…” I hear an amateur American tour guide say, “…one of the most remarkable pieces in the entire gallery. Made on a fragment of wood, this surviving triptych was completed in 1400-” 1500, “by Hear-o-nee-moos Boch…”. While around this point I had began to zone out, the congregation of foreigners continued listening in awe, their preacher an over paid swindler. How can he not pronounce La Nef des Fous? If I’d paid to hear him butcher Hieronymus Bosch’s name I’d have asked for a refund on the spot. What the idiots didn’t know is that this piece was far from poetic, or metaphorical or spiritual. It was Dutch painter’s perspective on the hypocrisy of the church, and the drunkenness of the French. Alcoholism, corruption, satire- a joke. But now the only joke was them. I scoffed, probably louder than I should, and while I saw no one else laughing, I felt the painting behind me giggle. I think. For a second. But there’s only so much a girl can do before she gets bored. And what does a bright, young and prospering millennial feminist do when she’s bored? Explore yet another new city? Try exciting cuisine she can’t pronounce? Take a trip to the theatre? Left. Left. Left. Right. Left. Left. Match. Left. Left. Match? Ew. Left. Pause. And at this pause I began to think. Who is this? Okay well his bio is quite plain, two pictures, nice hair, chestnut brown, strong features, piercing eyes. Interesting. I entertain myself with another half an hour of aimless swiping, mainly left, before I prepared to send the message. Being the smart woman I am, I hastened to ask myself all of the most poignant questions Will he like me? You don’t want to sound weird. You don’t know him. What if your French isn’t good? Or worse What if his English is bad? This could go very badly. What if he’s a serial killer? No, serial killers aren’t usually attractive. Or, wait, are they attractive here? Maybe that’s their tactic. Maybe it’s a ploy to- Ding. My thoughts are cut short. “Hey :)” “Hey-smiley-face.” Deep shit. Okay think. What do you say back? Don’t be weird, don’t be weird, stay cool, sis, you got this. “hey ;)” Nailed it. A couple of moments pass and I’m waiting, absentmindedly staring, my white screen, usually loud with messages, now silent, withholding precious information. Typing… “ur new to paris?” “yh aha just on holiday” “what u doing tonight then?” “idk you wanna hang out?” What in the hell was I thinking? Everyone knows what “hang out” is code for. Come on you’re not like that, plus you really have no idea what this guy is about he could be a serial ki- Ding. “yeah sure x” “Yeah-sure-x.” Putain. I knew I should’ve bought condoms at duty free. I’m screwed. Literally.