"The great affair is to move."

Everyone in Paris is beautiful. It is the city of love, also of cool. Everyone looks like they belong in a magazine; no one looks like they tried. I haven’t felt that dorky since middle school, in braces and bad bangs.
When we arrived at La Petite Bar, let’s just say there was some confusion, at least for me. I was expecting a quaint place with quirky art and red leather barstools, similar to previous experience. Instead, I was hit first with a vision out of an episode out of “Hoarders.” Next, ‘eau de dirty kitty litter’ assaulted my nostrils. Flies swarmed happily around the room. The bar was seemingly empty, other than an extremely overweight cat, on a leash, that sat near the entrance.
Suddenly, a tiny, ancient woman appeared from the back of the room and made her way towards us. She wore a black dress over hunched shoulders and girlish Mary Jane shoes that looked far too heavy for her body. I give you Madame Polo, owner-operator of La Petite Bar, who missed the fashion shoot in her city.
We spoke no French, and she spoke no English, but somehow we communicated that we wanted four beers. She graciously provided them and we went outside to escape into fresh air. After a few moments, I started to smell something pungent. None of us said a word, but we all had similar expressions of disgust mixed with the fear of being impolite to a sweet old lady. I realized that the smell was coming from my hands. My original thought was that it was from the cat, which I had been petting against my better judgment. Then, one by one we looked at our bottles. We realized that they were covered in dust and cat hair and had a distinctive odor.
We all stood, quickly readying ourselves to find the nearest sink with industrial soap. Our hostess appeared again and began speaking in rapid French. She asked the word, “quatre” pronounced “katr,” a few times with her head tilted. My unsophisticated American brain translated her question, stupidly, to “cat.” I excitedly pointed at the “cat,” tugging its leash pathetically. She meant “four” and was inquiring whether we had received the number of drinks we required. This would have been clear to anyone who had bothered to look up a few French words before visiting, but not to me. She looked at the cat confused for a moment, then let out the deepest belly laugh. A laugh I didn’t think could fit inside of a woman that small. Braces, bangs, or oversized shoes, and an elderly frame, everyone in Paris is beautiful.