I usually had no trouble in the Marais. It was one of my favorite places to walk: not only was it beautiful, but in the heart of this quarter no man ever commented on or tried to grab my breasts, my ass, my smile, or any other part of my person. Today, though, I got a few chilly looks for being so gonflée, that is having the nerve to bring such a cute guy into Paris’s gay quarter while holding his hand and flaunting his heterosexuality. This was the only part of Paris where men walked hand in hand without hesitation, and we passed some extremely fashionable couples eating up the sidewalks with long, aggressive strides. Café tables spilled into our path, always a few feet beyond the café’s government permit, and chalkboard menus stood between the short iron posts protecting the sidewalks from the street. These posts were set close enough together to prevent a car from parking between them, as no Parisian would hesitate to do should the space be free. Mopeds, however, could fit between the posts nicely; and here a bright yellow one, there a red tucked against a post as a backdrop to a menu. A Parisian mother walked by: super slim, with four-inch stiletto thigh-high leather boots, a black skirt with metallic pink dots glinting in a decorative splash near the hem, her hair dyed ash-blond and held back in a ponytail, her baby in a little black carrier at her chest, her head bent down to the child as she smiled and cooed while she walked.