On the busy street it is difficult to hear the metal fall to the ground (or maybe it was in his hand the whole time), then he fakes finding a gold ring, shows it to you to confirm that it is indeed precious. You have found something together. His fingers are too big (or he is forbidden from wearing jewelry by religious custom or he’s willing forgo his share of the discovery – for a fee).
You are probably carrying a camera; your attire betrays you, or maybe it’s the fear on your face that pleads, “I’m almost lost. I don’t know a lot of French—yet.” You’re in the Grand Boulevard area of Paris, on your way to the Musee D’Orsay.
You’re wondering if you’ll be able to differentiate Manet from Monet, whether Renoir is as impressive in person as the print you remember from your in-laws’ bedroom. You have no idea that you cannot distinguish this man from the hordes of pickpockets who’ve had their sights on you.
shewhodaresnothing 