chops abroad: Six million dead Parisians can't be wrong

A while back, I enjoyed a whirlwind trip to Perth to see Best Coast (bit av, to be honest) and attended some PIAF events with friends and family.

After Best Coast finished their set, I was standing around on my ownsome at the ever-delightful PIAF Music Box, waiting to meet some friends, when a somewhat handsome stranger said to me 'Are you ok? You look lost.'

We end up chatting for a couple of hours, and despite that fact that he should maybe be filed under bag, douche, I kinda liked him and was enjoying his company.

Eventually, my friend KB found us and joined the conversation. I introduced her to the handsome stranger. 'This is my friend KB. We're going to Paris together later this year.'

Handsome stranger: 'Oh, I've just returned from Paris! You guys will love it. Make sure to visit the catacombs... they're amazing, it'll blow your mind.'

KB: 'Are there rats in the catacombs?'

Handsome McSwoondog: 'Yeah, quite a few....'

KB: 'Imagine if you just looked down and a rat was nibbling at your vagina.'

Handsomepants: '________________________________.'

Later that night, as we walked to the car, KB said 'How do you know that guy?'

'I don't. And nor am I likely to, now.'

--

KB and I made it to the catacombs after a two-hour queue on Sunday. No rats, but climbing 30 metres underneath the streetscape to survey the neatly-stacked bones of six million dead Parisians was totally worthwhile. What a trip.

We then met up with the other ladies for a picnic in Le Jardins du Luxembourg. Heaven. Thousands of Parisians enjoying the sunshine and the free classical recitals in the park. We sat, we ate fromage, we LOLled. Good times.