I was looking at the one on the right.

I’ve started doing this now, snapping quick shots of strangers with my phone as I check them out. Unfortunately, I do this quickly, so the shots are usually blurry. I snapped a few tonight in the Marais, but I was too hasty and they came out as flat streams of color.

I arrived in Paris this afternoon and it felt good. It always does, even though my French is rusty and makes me a clumsy conversationalist. It’s just one of those cities that always feels right to me. New York is another – the moment I arrived in New York, I couldn’t leave. And I think I feel at home, here and there, because I feel anonymous. And because Parisians are as permissive as New Yorkers are indifferent.

“It’s the devil’s city,” said my dinner companion tonight. “In Paris, they don’t care. You can get away with anything.” He’s lived in Paris for years.

And I like that. I’ve never tested this statement but I think I should. So in that respect, I shouldn’t suggest I know Paris. I haven’t stayed here long enough to peel back the layers, and if there’s anything I’ve learned from living in different cities it’s that they change for you over time. They open up the same way people do, so that the initial impression – the tourist’s impression – is all flash. Over time, if it’s an interesting city, it starts to unfold. Additional layers reveal themselves.

My friend also said that my hotel happens to be near Paris’ best club echangiste, or sex club, of which there are several. He also told me that, like New York, the best events are private.

I’ve learned that clubs here have someone called a physionomiste – literally, a physiognomist – who stands at the door not just to make sure you’re dressed well, but also to make sure you’re the right kind of person for their scene. Like a bouncer, but not.

He said, “You could be the most beautiful woman in the world and still get rejected. It isn’t even about looks.”

“So, what is it about?”

“I have no idea.”

I’m curious to see if this is true. And I’m curious to see if physiognomy plays into any of this.

*

To get here, I took the TGV, the high-speed train that connects Paris to Lyon. I sat across from a man with nice wrist cuffs. I noticed because my eyes always fall on the wrists.

We had matching iParaphernalia, and after I finished tapping away at my computer, I shut it down and closed my eyes. Then I felt his foot tap against mine.

My first thought: Let’s not be greedy with the leg-room, Pushy.

I closed my eyes again and turned up my iPod. Then I felt his foot brush the outer edge of my foot. This time I decided to ignore it, figuring he was mistaking my foot for something else. Then his foot moved up just slightly, and with that, I couldn’t think about anything else. Suddenly, my foot was the most sensitive part of my body – I was reliving flirtation, middle-school style. I wondered if I should feign sleep. Or maybe respond with a counter-attack. And then I started thinking, “Well, where does footsie actually go?” It’s a limited game and I’m pretty clumsy with flirtation. I have the nuance of a billboard.

So once he slid his foot up my leg, I needed to cut it short. I straightened up, removed my headphones, smiled, and then scooted out of my seat to go for a train-walk. It felt best to leave it at that, with his toes pausing mid-calf. When I returned, he smiled back. We both put our headphones back on.