Or: How I landed in the Paris Red Light district

The AirBnB was listed as “Good location, close to city center, metro stop & restaurants. Good bedding, clean and nice apartment, near Strasbourg St. Denis Metro stop.” The price was appealing and so I hit the “send” button for my credit card payment before I even read the comments. Big mistake. It was my first time renting an AirBnB. Live and learn. 

”Do not rent this property,” one of the comments said. “It is not safe. We were robbed there. They took $1,200 in cash and valuables. It was an inside job; someone with an access key.”

That’s when I started to panic. It was too late to back out; they’d already charged my credit card. 

I was staying at a peaceful chateau in Burgundy and about to leave for bustling Paris, an unfamiliar city. I didn’t speak French. And now this.  

“Is that area safe?” I asked my friend Janet, a frequent visitor to Paris. She shrugged. 

“It’s in the 2^nd Arondissement, that’s where some of the hookers hang out.”

Sophie, the grand dame of the chateau, who has an apartment in Paris and lives there part-time, tempered Janet’s assessment a bit.

“It’s not that bad an area. Very multi-cultural and diverse. You may see a couple of old ho’s hanging around on the street, but nothing to worry about.”

The German friend I was meeting in Paris and with whom I’d be sharing the AirBnB also seemed unconcerned. I was less enthusiastic and texted the host. 

“I won’t lie, it did happen twice,” he responded to my safety concerns. “We reported it to the police, and they are investigating, and we changed the locks. We’ll also install a safe.”

It was a fait accompli.  

The Uber driver dropped us off in the wrong place, and as we pulled our suitcases up the street looking for the right house number, we noticed some ladies standing discreetly at street corners looking bored. Were they … ?

The building of our AirBnB was like a fortress: Three locked doors to negotiate, and then take an elevator up to the fifth floor to reach the apartment. The two-bedroom flat was nicely furnished and had a tiny balcony with a spectacular view of the Arc the Louis, the busy intersection of Rue Saint-Denis, and the action on the street below, mainly at a bus stop located in front of a taxi stand. No bus ever stopped there, but there was lots of other traffic. 

It didn’t take long to pick out the working girls and their routines. Every afternoon, enjoying our daily café au lait and French pastries, my friend and I sat on that balcony to take in the buzzling square, and the action at the bus stop. The working patterns became clear fairly quickly. One working girl, I guessed her for middle eastern, always occupied the same corner of the apartment building behind the bus stop. She was a tad on the heavy side and dressed for comfort: Baggy gym pants, a bulky sweater, and tennis shoes. She must have been a regular at that spot because there was a lot of interaction with passersby. Sometimes she’d disappear with a guy around the corner, but she didn’t stay away long. She was definitely working alone.

Not so the Asians. They commanded the bus stop and always worked in threes, with a uniform dress code: Slim and styled, all dressed in black, wearing chic high-heeled black boots, perfect makeup, and always huddling together.

Occasionally, they crowded out another woman who worked by herself, forcing her across the street and near the arc. I guessed her for in her forties, southern European, probably Romanian, maybe Bulgarian or Yugoslavian. Decently dressed, neither overly stylish or provocative, low-heeled boots, tan overcoat, leather shoulder bag, and an outdated perm. She could have passed as a salesclerk or office worker, but she too, kept her regular hours at the intersection.

I was ashamed because of my unabashed voyeurism, but couldn’t help observing the scene below from my lofty viewpoint. Sometimes the negotiations going on below were made out of a car window, some sales pitches were proactive and others more restrained. The middle eastern woman openly approached passersby. The Asians were nonchalant and pretended to be indifferent and deep into their own conversations. They deigned potential customers with a response only after being specifically accosted. The southern European woman seemed almost shy, much less assertive than the tough Asians or the chatty Middle Easterner. She changed places often, moving with traffic. Maybe she was new to the profession and still trying to find her place. 

Whenever a deal had been reached, the girls either got into a car, or disappeared around a corner with their customer. That’s where our view reached its limits and we lost track of them. Sometimes we bet how long it would be until they reappeared, or we bet in the morning who’d be working that particular day, and what hours. The girls definitely had a sound work ethic; they showed up every single day. Except for the morning we left, which was on Liberation Day, a French holiday. When we headed for the airport at 9 am, the streets and the bus stop were deserted. 

I guess even ho’s celebrate a holiday.