The Belle Hotel

On Tuesday, Sariah (that's me) was sitting outside the Pompidieu, in the courtyard, using her computer. It's one of the few places she can get free internet and yes, Mom, she settled down near other students using their computers so I wasn't completely alone. This turned out to be a good thing.

I was looking up hotels in Rome to see how costly they are should I go there, when a man walked by. This man was perhaps 50, he was smelly, bearded, scruffy, pock-marked, short, and homeless looking. His French was very difficult to understand and so I ignored him, thinking he was asking for money. Not so. He sat down beside me, and was still talking in French but it was very lispy and airy and thick, so I only got maybe a third of what he was saying. He did say I was tres belle (very pretty), which is nice I suppose, but after he kept muttering, I told him I spoke French when he asked, so he wouldn't think he could go around calling me things (that's another story) that he hoped I'd agree to in English.

I started closing the windows I had open on my computer so I could leave since he was creeping me out, and he asked what I was doing. I briefly said, "Studying for class," to which he asked, "is it a tennis class?" Somewhat puzzled by where he was getting this idea, I said no, and he saw my window up about hotels in Rome and said in French, "Maybe we can go there after your class."

I said, very confused, "Rome?" He said, "No, a hotel!" I gave him a look and then quickly left. It was difficult for me to just leave because there's a chance he was homeless and I had misheard him and I hate being rude but I was glad there were lots of people and I said lots of prayers that I'd get away okay and he wouldn't follow me. He didn't, and I did get away just fine. Thank goodness! The moral: maybe it's not always good to be belle in France!