you.'
He touched my arm as if to make more of a point. I flinched away.
'I am interested in how the human body is represented in the history of art. There are amazing French painters and paintings which have magnified and represented the human body in original ways through art. You might know Modigliani's paintings? He lived in France. I think they would be of interest to you.'
'I really must go now, I '¦' I didn't know what to say and before I had the chance to make up a lie, he spoke again.
'I am staying at the H´tel du Quai Voltaire; I would like you to join me.'
'I have to go.' I felt like a nervous schoolgirl and rushed off.
I walked quickly to the pick-up point for the bus and boarded, still in shock at such a blunt offer by a complete stranger. I felt like I'd had my cultural awareness training in terms of Frenchmen, and that I had experienced what I'd seen portrayed in all the films. The men here were incredibly different, more forward, flirtatious, inviting and sleazy when compared to Aussie men and most definitely those in Canberra and any Koori fellas I'd ever met, in and out of the arts.
Most of the straight blokes who crossed my path only ever invited me for a beer, not a naked arts session in a fancy hotel. I planned on googling the Voltaire when I returned to my hotel but, in the meantime, I was back to being in awe of the city, and remained open-mouthed as we cruised down the Champs-Elysées, around the Arc de Triomphe, the Trocadero and the Eiffel Tower. It was like every travel guide I'd ever read had come to life as we passed consulates and embassies and countless buildings that looked like palaces, and so many statues.
As I had noticed when I caught my taxi from the airport, I couldn't believe the number of cars there were in Paris. Little cars ' Renaults, Peugeots and Citro«ns ' all steered around the city by crazy drivers. If a light turned green and a car hadn't moved in two seconds, the horns would beep like mad. It was an aerobic activity just to cross the road without being hit or tooted at. I was shocked and a little amused that bumping into a car when you were parking was completely normal. I saw numerous drivers rocking their cars back and forth into other cars until they were happy with the park.
The commentary told me that we were approaching rue Royale, which I'd read was a very luxurious street with shops selling caviar and truffles and other delicacies. Although I was tired, I forced myself to get off the bus because I had spotted something I recognised from the film Gigi ' Maxim's de Paris.
I drank an espresso in the famous café to keep me going and headed into the museum section which had two floors of Art Nouveau furniture and objects collected by Pierre Cardin. I dreamt about having dinner in the fancy restaurant there, realising I hadn't eaten since earlier that day. When I looked at my watch and could hardly make out the time, I knew I had to head back to the hotel. Acknowledging my inability to take public transport in my delirious state, I jumped in a cab back to rue de Bagnolet.
The next morning, I went to the Louvre for the entire day. As I stood outside the entrance, I noticed there were media everywhere since Paris Fashion Week was being held at the Carrousel du Louvre, a shopping centre attached to the main building.
The French media were all over the glamour of the major designers, but I hadn't even realised the event would be happening ' the night before I had been too busy watching the BBC World News commentating on the lower assembly of the French government voting to ban the burqa in public places.
As I stood gazing at the French glass icon of art and architecture, I wondered if they had anti-discrimination laws in France like we had back home. Not that it mattered because our own government had suspended the Anti-Discrimination Act back in 2007 in order to
He touched my arm as if to make more of a point. I flinched away.
'I am interested in how the human body is represented in the history of art. There are amazing French painters and paintings which have magnified and represented the human body in original ways through art. You might know Modigliani's paintings? He lived in France. I think they would be of interest to you.'
'I really must go now, I '¦' I didn't know what to say and before I had the chance to make up a lie, he spoke again.
'I am staying at the H´tel du Quai Voltaire; I would like you to join me.'
'I have to go.' I felt like a nervous schoolgirl and rushed off.
I walked quickly to the pick-up point for the bus and boarded, still in shock at such a blunt offer by a complete stranger. I felt like I'd had my cultural awareness training in terms of Frenchmen, and that I had experienced what I'd seen portrayed in all the films. The men here were incredibly different, more forward, flirtatious, inviting and sleazy when compared to Aussie men and most definitely those in Canberra and any Koori fellas I'd ever met, in and out of the arts.
Most of the straight blokes who crossed my path only ever invited me for a beer, not a naked arts session in a fancy hotel. I planned on googling the Voltaire when I returned to my hotel but, in the meantime, I was back to being in awe of the city, and remained open-mouthed as we cruised down the Champs-Elysées, around the Arc de Triomphe, the Trocadero and the Eiffel Tower. It was like every travel guide I'd ever read had come to life as we passed consulates and embassies and countless buildings that looked like palaces, and so many statues.
As I had noticed when I caught my taxi from the airport, I couldn't believe the number of cars there were in Paris. Little cars ' Renaults, Peugeots and Citro«ns ' all steered around the city by crazy drivers. If a light turned green and a car hadn't moved in two seconds, the horns would beep like mad. It was an aerobic activity just to cross the road without being hit or tooted at. I was shocked and a little amused that bumping into a car when you were parking was completely normal. I saw numerous drivers rocking their cars back and forth into other cars until they were happy with the park.
The commentary told me that we were approaching rue Royale, which I'd read was a very luxurious street with shops selling caviar and truffles and other delicacies. Although I was tired, I forced myself to get off the bus because I had spotted something I recognised from the film Gigi ' Maxim's de Paris.
I drank an espresso in the famous café to keep me going and headed into the museum section which had two floors of Art Nouveau furniture and objects collected by Pierre Cardin. I dreamt about having dinner in the fancy restaurant there, realising I hadn't eaten since earlier that day. When I looked at my watch and could hardly make out the time, I knew I had to head back to the hotel. Acknowledging my inability to take public transport in my delirious state, I jumped in a cab back to rue de Bagnolet.
The next morning, I went to the Louvre for the entire day. As I stood outside the entrance, I noticed there were media everywhere since Paris Fashion Week was being held at the Carrousel du Louvre, a shopping centre attached to the main building.
The French media were all over the glamour of the major designers, but I hadn't even realised the event would be happening ' the night before I had been too busy watching the BBC World News commentating on the lower assembly of the French government voting to ban the burqa in public places.
As I stood gazing at the French glass icon of art and architecture, I wondered if they had anti-discrimination laws in France like we had back home. Not that it mattered because our own government had suspended the Anti-Discrimination Act back in 2007 in order to
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