When I took summer courses in Paris, many years ago, the metro stop nearest the school was a major hub. After a few wrong turns, I found the correct exit and emerged onto a very busy rue. What was quite unexpected was that this particular thoroughfare was straight out of a set for “Irma La Douce.” As I made my way to the intersection, I saw every stereotype of a lady of the evening – except it was 8:30 in the morning. Some lingered in doorways, some leaned against buildings, etc. After I passed the end of Trollope’s Row, I spotted a middle-aged housewife. She was holding a middle-aged purse, wearing matronly attire and checking her watch as she looked for her friend who apparently was late.
It was not my place to tell her she was a little too near the action, so I proceeded to my class. The next morning, I arrived at about the same time and headed down the same street. And there she was, same lady, same outfit, same pretense of waiting for a friend. I wondered if she had her regulars. A good example, I suppose, of de gustibus non est disputandum.