I was wandering the streets of Paris alone, near a metro station, when I noticed a man in a hoodie trailing behind me. He kept glancing back, almost like he was checking if someone was watching. Before I could process it, he stepped up beside me, looked me dead in the eye, and said, “You idiot.”
At first, I thought he was just being rude. But then, without warning, he grabbed my arm and tugged me toward a side street. My instincts screamed to pull away — after all, I’d grown up in Johannesburg and knew better than to trust strangers grabbing me. But before I could shout, he lowered his voice.
“Listen,” he said urgently, “there’s a man across the street. He’s been following you for blocks. I don’t think he’s here for sightseeing.”
Sure enough, I looked and saw him — a man in a leather jacket, pretending to study a map while his eyes never left me. My stomach dropped.
The man in the hoodie introduced himself later as Noam. He was quick-thinking, sharp, and oddly reassuring. To make us look casual, he started listing cheeses like we were having a silly conversation: Camembert, Brie, Roquefort. I played along, smiling while my heart pounded. Eventually, the man in the leather jacket melted away into the crowd.
That could’ve been the end of it. But it wasn’t.
Noam warned me about flashing my camera in public — an old Leica I’d inherited from my late uncle. He could’ve stolen it himself, but instead, he walked me toward my destination, cracking dry jokes and pointing out hidden gems of the city I’d have never noticed. Somehow, talking with him felt safe.
We met again that night for dinner, and then again “by accident” over the next few days — in cafés, museums, and bookshops. It became clear those encounters weren’t accidents at all, but I didn’t mind. It was easy. Natural.
Then came the break-in.
One evening, I returned to my rented flat to find the door ajar. Inside, everything had been ransacked. Worst of all, the Leica was gone. Shaking, I called Noam. He arrived in minutes, calmed me down, and stayed until the police finished their halfhearted report. Later, he even bought me a cheap replacement camera so I wouldn’t leave Paris empty-handed.
But fate had one more twist.
A few days later, we spotted the man in the leather jacket again. This time, Noam followed him discreetly, snapping photos to hand over to the police. Turns out, he was part of a pickpocket ring that had been targeting tourists through social media. They never found my Leica, but weeks later, the police recovered my uncle’s old camera bag at a pawn shop. Inside was a roll of undeveloped film.
When I developed it back home, I found snapshots of my uncle’s Paris — joyful faces, secret corners of the city, and on the back of one picture, a note in faded ink:
“Love is a city you build with someone else.”
By then, Noam and I were still in touch. Still laughing, still planning the next trip. A year later, he visited me in South Africa. Two years later, we returned to Paris together. I didn’t bring a camera that time — only memories, and the man who once called me an idiot but ended up saving me in more ways than one.
Here’s what I learned: when you’re traveling, stay cautious. Trust your instincts. But don’t shut yourself off from the people who might surprise you. Sometimes, the greatest connections begin with the strangest words.
