Dress Code

A word to the wise: never wear shorts in Paris. Never. It was our last night in Paris and the group was finally done with their intense and exhausting courses and itching to get out and go do something. As the group was getting ready, I realized how incredibly inadequately packed I was for the European stint of my trip. I had tried to make the clothes I packed as compatible with both legs of the trip as possible, but I seem to have paid extra attention to the Africa bit. I stared down at my suitcase filled with cargo pants, long basic skirts, plain tee shirts, and hiking sandals in bemused frustration. Shorts. I had shorts for the beach. I had no nice shirts, but I had packed one that was a little less not nice than the rest. My sandals wouldn’t work, but my shower flip flops just might. No jewelry, no straightener or curling iron for my hair. When the group came into the room, one of the girls actually asked if I was going to get ready or not, even though I had already made my best attempt. Long story short, we wandered around the Bastille area searching for a discoteque, to no avail, and ended up on a very crowded and very sketchy street. I soon realized that every guy in the place was staring at my legs and I had never felt more like a piece of meat in my life. And I don’t even have nice legs. They’re these pale, flubbery, unshapely, things that REALLY should not be publicly exposed. After hours of wandering aimlessly, the group split off and I went with the portion that had decided to head home. At 2am, even if we did find a good place, I figured it would be full of enough sketchy people to make it not worth the money or the while. We ended up getting followed by two unrelenting guys on the way the taxi stand, one of which would not get away from me and when I didn’t respond to his questions, credit carded me. And it was more than a simple hand graze. I didn’t freak out, like the other girls in the group, who quite honestly, quickly began to annoy me with their astonishment and exasperation with the situation and proceeded to complain about every little thing. Chill girls. Focus. Get a taxi, get home. No sense complaining or freaking out. (Fingers crossed they aren’t reading this)

Nonetheless. Never wear shorts out in Paris.