Mathieu, the tour guide, introduces himself with shifty eyes. Dyed jet-black hair hangs to his chin in strips, but from the parentheses around his mouth, I bet he’s at least forty. He turns and leads us through a side exit; I follow the throng of black jackets into an alleyway. Crowds begin to form before the adjacent bars and clubs and amplify the silence among us. We walk for ten minutes, alternating our route with sidewalks on busy streets and narrow alleys. The air is cool, allowing the constant sheen of sweat on my chest to finally dry at ten o’clock at night.

Our guide pauses beside a brown door. The muted space is couched in neon spray paint lining each side, and the only other business on this stretch is a convenience store. Bells chime as two men exit the store carrying paper bags. They see us, then burst into laughter.

Mathieu clears his throat. “Here is the location of one of Paris’s most infamous brothels.” He gestures mechanically, using practiced movements. He explains this was a favorite haunt of top Nazi brass during the Occupation, but it has since been turned into a storage unit. I’m the only one who seems to have any questions, searching for reasons why I’m here. Does the Sorbonne study these sites? Do classes study sex workers? Mathieu dutifully explains prostitution has long been decriminalized in France. Only the johns are fined now.

We move to the next location. Mathieu uses a flashlight when the streets become crooked and unlit, while thoughts of every horror movie ever swirl in my head. Girl goes to Paris. Girl bonds with locals. Locals attack! Why did I come here? Why did Angela? She clearly wanted me to find this receipt—she drew a sun and moon on it. The tour isn’t on TripAdvisor, and I only found the one review on a French website that stated it was a good time for Parisians.

Mathieu halts in front of an abandoned three-story building, the structure leaning like a tenement. “Here we see the business of Madame Trudeau, famous proprietor of Trudeau’s Home for Girls.” Mathieu seems to zone out again while he recites this site’s history. I have a hard time staying focused. I’m only able to catch his meaning when he uses swear words I recognize. Lots and lots of fucking occurred here.

We move on, heading back toward the sound of glasses clinking and bass pumping. Mathieu assures us our final stop is coming, and the boys all perk up, fidgeting and adjusting their jeans. Groups of people clad in their Thursday night finest crowd the sidewalk, forcing us to pass through single file, with me bringing up the rear. Cigarette smoke mixes with the smell of sugary cocktails, engulfing us.