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This column first appeared on HuffingtonPost.com. Comments not included here.
My husband, Jim Morgan, and I were cutting a wave in our brisk walk on the quay along the Seine. We had come home from the U.S. over fed and over drunk, over spent and over socialized. I needed the cold fresh air to snap me awake. I wanted Paris to soak me back up in her skin again, so I could slip through her veins and ride in my bubble of her full-bodied blood. I was getting energized. The sky was winter gray, but I didn't care.
We were beginning to cross the Pont Neuf, just past the opening to the Place Dauphine, when right in front of our eyes, the blocky woman stooped to the sidewalk, and miracle upon miracle, opened up her hand with a golden ring in it. A big smile spread across her round face, catching the edges of her ear-length black hair, as she presented her palm to us. She opened her mouth and started to say something, but I beat her to the punch. "Scammer," I yelled as we kept walking. "Con woman," I hollered, turning back in her direction so she could hear me.