To spot an American student in Paris, you don’t have to examine their clothes or keep an ear out for words spoken in English. Just look at how much the person is drinking.
The Paris subway was standing room only, typical for a Friday night. A friend and I were deep in conversation when I felt a hand up my skirt. My head whipped around and the hand retreated, but not before I spotted the drunken middle-aged man who had groped me.
In the past week, I’ve climbed the Arc de Triomphe, roamed the halls of Versailles and visited the grave of Oscar Wilde. I’m still stunned as I pass the Eiffel Tower on the way to class each morning.
By the time the leaves turn golden in Chapel Hill and we’ve settled into the rhythm of another semester, it’s easy to forget about the communities that graciously welcomed us for the summer.
