Bargain!

    The first thing anyone says about Paris is that it's expensive. Shopping, eating, traveling, living, everything is over the odds and everyone is trying to make the extra buck. A sign of the times perhaps? Not really. One of the biggest parisian cliches there is is how an espresso can cost you €2.20 on a cafe terrace, but €1.00 if you stand at the bar. It's perfectly normal here to charge extra for sunshine and fresh air. So the events of this evening were more than just a little surprising.
    It started with a conversation exchange. This involves meeting up with people who happen to speak a language you would like to learn and speaking to them in a language they want to learn. It costs nothing and you get to meet - if my first rendez-vous was anything to go by - some pretty interesting people. Mine turned out also to be a teacher who, upon seeing how expensive the half pints were at the bar I'd chosen, suggested heading to a vernissage next time. A vernissage is, she explained,  when an artist, or artists, exhibit their work, for free, while often providing expert insight to the work, for free, as well as nibbles and wine, yes, for free! I needed no further convincing.
    Feeling pretty good about my new-found social foray, but also pretty hungry, I made my way down to the Metro towards home. In the carriage a lady of a certain age apologised for her bag blocking the way. I replied that the Sciatica-Inducer was of equal annoyance to many. She started up a conversation with me and it turned out that, not only was she heading the same way as me, but that she also spoke English. While rumbling through the airbrushed evening, amicably chatting about this and that, Francoise ably demonstrated to me how even little, old parisiennes could outmuscle the burliest back-packer with a strategic jab of the elbow and an "excuse-moi" of a certain tone and volume.
    Bidding goodbye to my second bilingual conversation of the night, but still pretty starving, I headed for the "two Snickers for €2" offer in one of the Metro vending machines. Fishing about for my choc-and-peanut double-pack I felt something lighter and crinklier in the tray of the machine. It was a packet of barbecue-flavoured Walkers (don't get me started on the Lay's nonsense). First thinking that the wrong snack had fallen out I groped around some more and yes, there was what I had asked for.
There is was; tonight, in the city where fresh air costs you money, the stereotypists had been well and truly told to BOGOF.