June 2002 Issue - Essay # 6
Paris
Run-Around
By Laurel A. Nelson
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It's
wintertime in the most beautiful city in the world.
The trees are skeletons of their former summer selves, and since
spring is right around the corner, they will soon begin to bud. The air is chilly, and the 19th
century
architecture is a perfect compliment to the clear blue sky. Being the
stupid American tourist that I am, I'm wearing a dark purple ski parka,
to compliment my jeans and hiking boots. I am warm in the winter. And
I want ice cream. A
friend and I are near the Eiffel Tower to hop on the tourist bus that
will drive us through the city to see the sights we were too lazy to
catch on foot. I see a
couple of other tourists near an ice cream vendor. They blend in perfectly with the city dwellers,
dressed
to the T in black. While I
must admit, I looked as American as they come, I didn't really care, for
I was only going to be in Paris for two days and would rather be
comfortable than haute couture. I
usually tried to look local and dressed in black during my stay in
London, but now I really wanted to experience what so many ugly
Americans complain about when they return to the States. I wanted to see the con artists, and how they somehow separate the
fools and their money. But I
thought of myself as quite street smart, and living in London had taught me
how to watch my back and my purse. I
barely had two bites when suddenly this small, chubby Gypsy child ran up
to me and reached for my snack. I'd
heard about this. While
children distract you, they grab your wallet.
Being the street-savvy woman that I am, I was not about to let
this little scamp get my goods, my wallet or my ice cream. So I did the adult thing and turned away. The child was still
in my face. I turned around
again. The kid didn't miss a
beat. So I just tried to ignore him, and chat with my friend. I
couldn't count on my friend; she was doubled over in laughter. The
boy would not leave me alone. He started whimpering and screaming while his little hands
grabbed at me. He's only
about seven or eight, I thought, I could take him. So I ran. I ran
around the Eiffel Tower plaza with an ice cream cone in my hand and a
child screaming after me. I don't know what the locals were thinking, only that they probably didn't see an American making a spectacle of themselves too often. Actually, they probably did. But what could I do? I did the only respectable thing one does in a situation like this. I shoved the ice cream cone in my mouth, trying not to choke on it while still in motion. When the child approached me, he saw that the treat was gone, and went off to bother another snacking tourist. He didn't really want my wallet after all--only a sugar high. Not only were my hands frozen, but my brain now was too. Remnants of cone and frozen cream still in my mouth, I walked back to my friend near the tour bus. She was doubled over, still laughing. "Why didn't you just give the kid your damn ice cream cone?" she managed through tears. Hmm--I hadn't really thought of that. Important lesson learned the hard, humiliating way; next time I visit Paris I'm going to do like the locals do and give the kid my damn ice cream cone. |
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Author's Biography Laurel is a freelance travel writer based in Seattle, Washington, whose written adventures through Europe have been labeled by some as "enjoyable and moving," and others as "downright wacky." She feels the same way. E-mail Laurel at lnelson43@juno.com
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