Go with a friend. Maybe an old friend, maybe a new friend, but someone you care about. Not a tourist group that will pull you along from sight to sight like a child with a row of wooden cars strung on a rope. Not your obnoxious parents, nor your embarrassing aunt from New York who just has to go to the “Loov-ruh”. Go with your best friend, your aquaintance, someone whom you trust not to get you lost and spend two hours walking through every arrondisement until you finally find a Metro stop… three stops from where you wanted to go. Or maybe someone you don’t trust not to do that, but whom you trust not to judge you when you inevitably do.
You see, Paris is not arranged like other cities. Its streets form a moving, unnamed web. You may think you’re on Rue de la Pompe, but you’re actually on Rue de la Tour. You may think you’re on the “gauche” side of the Seine, but before you know it, you’re on the “droit” side, when you know you never crossed any bridge. The streets move beneath your feet, switch places and laugh silently like twins who know they have their teachers fooled. And sometimes you need another pair of eyes, that may not be tricked like yours, and another gut, that tells its owner different things than yours tells you, and another pair of hands, to hold when you have no idea where you are or where you came from or where you might end up next. So when you go to Paris, please, go with a friend.
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