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You can read all about my adventures through 48 cities in 26 countries on 4 continents on my blog Traveltio. Which is why I was only half surprised when my friends Derrick and Josh and I landed smack dab in the middle of an honest Parisian brothel and not the charming kind either. The night started out like any other. We made a couple of cocktails at our Airbnb flat somewhere within eyesight of the Eiffel Tower , and sat on the rooftop terrace drinking enough to get the happy buzz before heading out for a night at the Moulin Rouge for our last night in the City of Lights.
After watching the sun go down, we took to the streets, and that was definitely our first mistake we should have taken a taxi. We made a left down at the end of our street, and this was our second mistake we should have taken a right. Two blocks in, everyone started to get the jitters that we had made a wrong turn somewhere. No longer was the tell-tale windmill of Moulin Rouge somewhere in the distance, just buildings and building of darkness.
And we were getting nowhere fast. Before either of us had the chance to oppose the idea, Josh was running down the street, shouting about getting to the Moulin Rouge. One guy who seemingly popped out of nowhere came forward, arms open, with answers.
Josh went after him immediately and Derrick and I reluctantly followed afterward, not sure how to get out of the situation without raising any flags and getting us murdered. We just wanted this to end peaceably. And preferably with all of our body parts intact. Dark passages and crooked streets one after the other got us deeper and deeper into Nowheresville until we came up into one door, illuminated with soft light, into a cozy looking bar.
I pretended to drink—a girl knows better than that—but all of a sudden I realized Josh was no where to be found. Sidling up to Derrick, the drinks kept coming but Josh stayed gone.