What travelers hope to find on the Wandering Blogger

I’ve picked up the habit of posting the most popular search terms used to find my other blog, Migrant Blogger, and I think I’ll do it here. Wandering Blogger is finally picking up some momentum! Well, since launching, the most popular search term appears to consist of variations on “Cafe Mozart closed,” often including “Manhattan” or “New York” in the query. Yes, the restaurant did close, much to my chagrin (but not my father’s). The place lost its lease, which is why it shut down (to answer one search engine-based question).

For those of you looking for absinthe in Naples, FL, your SOL– at least if you’re looking for real absinthe. You can’t get it anywhere in the United States. But, if Naples, FL is on your mind, you might want to check out the Ritz-Carlton Golf Resort. I spent a weekend there and loved it. Learn more at TraderDaily.com or TripAdvisor. Gare du Nord, a train station in Paris, Albert Maes, and foreign street signs are popular as well.

Also, someone was looking for “Blue Lagoon Spa fucking.” I get it. The Blue Lagoon Spa is a great destination not far from Reykjavik, Iceland. I assume they frown upon sex in the lagoon, but I guess it’s worth a shot.

Do You Speak English, Part 2

Like Gare du Nord, the Eiffel Tower hosts countless “Bosnian refugees”. They fan across la Tour’s waiting area, eager to tap the sympathy of tourists waiting for a trip to the top. Instead of attempting to penetrate the jaded locals, the girls can attain a higher hit rate with the Iowans, Japanese and yes even New orkers who flock to this international landmark.

Already suspicious of the refugees because of the congregation I found in front of Gare du Nord, I was eager to find more of these supposed travelers and get some pictures.

I hunted for a bathroom around la Tour and heard over my shoulder, “Do you speak English?” Her timing was awful; nature would not wait. I assumed my Bosnian would be there when I finished, so I continued to the bathroom.

I came back, and she was there. I couldn’t shake the belief that they were nto random homeless girls with a shared identity.  Thus, I figured that they would be camera-shy. I held my flimsy camera waist high and used my body to judge the angle (as best I could – and thanks, John P., for the technique).

My refugee is approaching a group that probably is local – and not interested. I returned to the ticket line to find my wife.

I turned my head as I waited and saw the jackpot, a crowd of about 10 Bosnian girls getting ready to leave. The line advanced, and I felt my opportunity evaporate as the guard chastised me for trying to take “drinks” (by which he meant my unopened, sealed absinthe bottles) to the top. He turned me away, and I was pissed because I had waited in line for nothing and missed a group shot of the Bosnians socializing.

I pushed out of the queue and caught a few awful shots of the union, apparently on a break. Their presence at a snack kiosk indicated niether poverty nor starvation (or, so it seemed).

I wound around the food stand and saw one girl arguing with the vendor (in French) and the other sitting on a split-rail fence. Neither approached, so I lingered. They were on a break, so why would they bother coming to me for change? I started to believe that everyone in France belonge dto a union.

Finally, I looked confused enough to be approached. “Do you speak English?” she asked with a heavier accent.

“Oui,” I replied, and she began to unfold her index card. Before she could display it properly, I continued, “Je vous donnerai un euro si je peu le photographe.” My French was good enough rather than good, but she got the idea. If she let me have a picture of the index card, she’d get a euro. I pulled the coin from my pocket as an offer of proof.

She smiled and nodded.

She doesn’t speak the language? Not only did she speak euro, she understood French. I surrendered the coin and asked, “Un autre?” She agreed, until she saw the lens pointed at herface.

“Non, non,” she objected and pulled the index card higher.

Her firend, who had been arguing with the snack vendor, finally realized what was going on.  “Donnez?” she asked, “Give me?” My refugee smiled and flashed the euro; her friend evidently noted the amount. Her face lit up, her expression buoyant. The girl bounced to her feet and commanded, “Donnez! Donnez!”

I waved my camera and replied, “Je suis fini [I'm finished].” Her disappointment was unmistakable, though her card probably lamented her inability to speak French, too.

Do You Speak English, Part 1

I rarely ask, and never in English. I struggle a bit before retreating to, “Parlez-vous anglais?” But, I am asked, often by pretty, young women with slight British accents and sincere eyes. They wear long, breezy skirts, sometimes head scarves.

Yesterday, I heard such a plea at Gare du Nord, when I was leaving to meet my wife at the airport. As usual, I was looking for an ATM (Paris hates my credit cards). While I wasn’t running late, I still felt the need to hurry.

She picked me out of the crowd, though she approached with a meandering style. The girl did not want to look like she was targeting me. “Do you speak English?” she asked gently.

“Yes.”

The girl said nothing, unfolding an oversized index card for me to read, the contents in broken English.  Of course.

I had seen this method before, in Paris last year. She had fled Bosnia, her family broke and starving. Sometimes, she had children – or a mother – for whom to care. She was desperate to survive.

I hurried past, as I would when faced with the forward requests of a Manhattan homeless guy. No offense, but how many of the homeless can I save? I was a bit frightened as well; this girl and the many others on the streets of Paris showed a certain earnestness. You don’t see it in New York, where such levels of distress are noticeable only in those too infirm to ask.

I was suspicious, too.

Had she come to Paris of her own volition? Sarajevo is a long walk, across a few countries. Maybe she was brought to Paris? Were the girls interconnected, feeding their earnings to some pimp who lorded over their days? If so, my donation would hurt rather than help. She would realize not une cente, and her productivity would perpetuate the system.

I found the exit, still in search of an ATM.

Outside the station’s main entrance, a crowd of about 20 “refugees” gathered. They stood calmly, some talking with each other. The scene resembled a construction site without the hard hats. Five minutes remained before the shift had to punch the clock, and union rules precluded an early start. Alors, they waited outside the gate, index cards neither concealed nor displayed.