I was in Paris solo traveling, just wandering through the streets near a metro station, when I noticed a guy in a hoodie walking behind me. He kept glancing over his shoulder like he was watching me. Before I could think much of it, he suddenly stepped up beside me and said, “You idiot.”
For a second, I froze.
I thought maybe he was talking to someone else. But no—he was staring right at me, like I’d done something wrong. I opened my mouth to say something, maybe cuss him out or at least ask what his deal was, when he grabbed my arm and tugged me hard toward a little alley.
Now I’m not naïve. I grew up in Johannesburg, where you learn fast not to trust random strangers grabbing you off the street. I pulled back, ready to scream, but that’s when he dropped the act.
“Look, just trust me for five seconds,” he said, lowering his voice. “That guy across the street? He’s been tailing you for three blocks.
He’s not just sightseeing.”
I glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of a man in a leather jacket, walking slowly, eyes locked right on me. He was pretending to look at a map, but he was awful at pretending. My stomach did a full cartwheel.
I didn’t even realize I’d been watched. Not really. I thought it was just street noise and tourist chaos.
The guy in the hoodie—his name was Noam, I found out later—wasn’t much older than me, maybe late twenties. Scruffy beard, nervous energy, but alert. He steered me casually toward a side street, walking like we were friends.
“Keep moving,” he muttered, “and for the love of God, smile like we’re talking about cheese.”
So we talked about cheese. Or rather, he said the names of cheeses and I nodded like we were having the time of our lives. Camembert.
Brie. Mimolette. Behind us, the man in the leather jacket hesitated, then disappeared.
When we were far enough from the metro, Noam stopped under the awning of a florist shop. “You shouldn’t be walking alone with that camera out,” he said, eyeing my bag. “You’re basically a blinking target.”
I’d heard the warnings, but I’d been careful—or so I thought.
I was carrying my late uncle’s vintage Leica, something I’d inherited just before this trip. It was worth more than the rest of my luggage combined. He could’ve taken it himself.
But he didn’t. Instead, he offered to walk me to the museum I’d been heading toward. I almost said no, but something in his tone wasn’t pushy.
Just… concerned. Protective, even. I shrugged and said sure.
As we walked, I found out he wasn’t even French. Moroccan-Israeli, born in Haifa, studying architecture in Lyon, and in Paris just for a week. He had a dry sense of humor and this way of pointing out things I’d never noticed—tiny street carvings, weird graffiti, even a hidden café tucked into a stone archway.
The museum ended up being closed due to a strike. Typical Paris. But I didn’t mind.
We ended up sitting on the steps of a fountain instead, drinking Orangina from glass bottles and trading travel stories. I told him about my uncle, who’d lived in Paris for ten years and always told me to visit. He told me about his mom’s obsession with garden gnomes and his dad’s disastrous cooking.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇
