Pierre

At the request of certain people, I'm going to fill in some details about my trip to Paris. First of all, I ate my way through that city. Friday: quiche Lorraine, Berthillon ice cream, and the most amazing dinner from the Latin Quarter including salad with roquefort cheese, salmon, potatoes, rice, and of course creme brulee. And I can't forget the amazing bottle of Bordeaux the four of us split. Saturday: chocolate croissants, margharita pizza, all topped off with a croc madame (a new fave) and washed down another amazing glass of wine. Sunday: more croissants, a panini... Ahhh, I'm feeling hungry again! French food is amazing, and their wine's not bad either. :)

Probably the best story of the weekend was our encounter with Pierre, which we so lovingly named him. Saturday night after watching the Eiffel Tower light show, the three of us took the Metro back to the area where our hotel was located. As we exited the station, we noticed a homeless man lying in one of the lanes of the street in the busy square. He was wrapped up in his sleeping bag, his backpack had fallen off and he was on his back struggling unsuccessfully to get up. The three of us stopped walking. He obviously needed help but everyone around us was ignoring him. Here we are, three American girls in a French city, and we are the only ones worried about this poor man. After waiting for a minute to see if anyone who actually spoke French would help him, we concluded that this one was up to us. The guy was in the middle of the street, and let me tell you, European drivers show no mercy. I've almost been hit multiple times ( sorry Mom and Dad), and guaranteed if I don't make it back from this trip, it's because I was run down by an crazy driver. We made a move towards him, and a man actually stopped us saying no, we shouldn't help him. WHAT?!?! We checked for cars, ran into the street, and Jill and I struggled to help him to his feet while Natalie grabbed his stuff. We couldn't tell what exactly was the matter with him but something was definitely not right. his was incoherent, but didn't seem drunk. He couldn't speak English, but even we could tell he wasn't able to speak in French. We got him to a bus stop on the sidewalk and tried to get him to sit. He kept trying to stand up to grab his stuff, and was successful... for a few seconds. Here's the worst part: while standing, his knees locked and he fell over. On the way down he hit his head on a bench. HARD. The side of it split open, and he had a gash from his temple to a little more than halfway back on his head. It was bleeding down the side of his face, into his eye and ear. Natalie ran down the street to our hotel to get napkins while Jill and I tried to find a way to call an ambulance. Again, it was like pulling teeth to get anyone to help us, but finally some not-so-nice ladies standing near us called. The ambulance got to the square a few minutes later and couldn't find us. Natalie ran to the corner, flagged them down and sent them to the other crazy American girl (me) waving her hands in the air. A few minutes later they told us we could go, and we have no idea what happened to him.