Mean Streets of Paris

French men are different than American men. I wore a knockout dress with a plunging neckline for the fancy rehearsal dinner at a Michelin Star restaurant and took the subway across town. I noticed that French men openly gawked at my low-cut dress, making me feel quite uncomfortable. I’m used to American men who are sly about their glances and would be embarrassed to get caught staring at your chest. When I exited the subway, I made sure no one was following me.

After the delicious rehearsal dinner see previous post), we had a drink at a bar and then I shared a cab back to my hotel with the best man because his hotel was near Montparnasse. When we got to the corner where both of our hotels were a few blocks away, we parted ways and I was confident I could walk the extra block and a half to my hotel, alone. This was a mistake.
The streets were empty and dark, but I only had 1.5 blocks to go. After the first half of a block, I passed a guy with a backpack. I tried to pull tighter at my jacket and crossed my arms to cover my low-cut dress. As I passed, I looked at him, but he barely acknowledged me. Odd. I kept walking. After several paces, I looked back to see that he had turned around and was now following me.

Maybe he went the wrong direction? 1 block to go. I could hear his footsteps behind.  I looked back and saw that he had sped up. I walked faster, trying not to stumble on the cobblestone sidewalk in my heels. 1/2 a block left and I looked back. He was closing in on me quickly. I hurried to my hotel’s doorway and slammed my hand on the buzzer just as he passed. I’m not sure what I would’ve done if I had another block to go. The last part of the block, after my hotel was a lonely fence, with no buildings and the subway entrance. The front desk guy let me inside and just as the door closed, I could see that the guy was passing back, very quickly in his original direction.

The next day, I made sure the taxi dropped me off at the door to my hotel.