Walking in the Streets

The weather was so beautiful we went for a walk. He led me from Montemartre to the Louvre, around in circles and back again. It was beautiful.

As we headed home, we stumbled upon a particularly narrow street with a stunning perspective of the stock exchange and Sacre Coeur.

“Ah! You must walk in the street!” he said, beckoning me to join him in the middle of this windy road. All I could think about were the blind corners and the poor skills of French drivers. I burrowed my eyes but joined him none-the-less.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “If a car meets a person on the street, it’s the car’s fault—always. As a lawyer, trust me—I know.”

“As a person, trust me—if I car meets a person on the street, the person gets hurt even if the car pays for it. I’d rather live to see my pay out, you know?”

At this he laughed. Loudly. “Oh, that’s the thing with you Americans—you’re always so practical.”

I wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or not.