dusty shoes

In an international city like Paris, it is quite fun to people-watch and try and decide your subjects' origins.

fanny pack = o' say can you see (shout out to you ma')
stilettos = european, prolly italian
etcetera etcetera

While in Versailles, deciding who was foreign became my forté. Why? Because of dusty shoes. The gardens of the Chateau de Versailles, truely beautiful and amazingly expansive, covered in a mystical white sand, leave their mark on their visitors.

As soon as I descended from the RER into the little town, I took note of the accusing powder.

dusty shoes = tourist

After visting the gardens (free entrance after 17h30 woot woot), and getting a bit dusty myself, I realized that had I seen me and my shoes on the street, I would have labeled myself as a tourist. The idea of being a tourist has always irked me, that outsider feel. I feel like after living in Paris for one month, I deserved better.

But, then again, what is so wrong with being a tourist? If visiting the gardens of Versailles makes me a tourist, then so be it. The idea all of a sudden felt fresh. By touring, we discover, et qui ne veut pas découvrir?

So, instead of patting down my dusty shoes, i'm just going to let them be. Surely, the dust will eventually naturally find another place to rest. And soon my shoes will be covered in something autre, the mark of an entirely new freshness to tour.

Speaking of shoes, check out this Parisian expo yo':
http://www.maisondudanemark.dk/eventpopup2009.aspx?id=1590