Making the case for getting (somewhat) lost in Paris
It’s a late night. It’s been a few hours since I looked at my phone, realized I had 10 minutes left to catch the last train home, shrugged, and put my phone back in my pocket. As I finish my last pint, say my goodbyes, search my pockets for my coat check ticket stub, and step outside into the cold, I realize that too long have taxis forced their wares upon my unwilling wallet. I long to free myself from the imperialist oppression of fare meters and deviously long routes home. In short, I spent all of my cab money on beer.





