Other than being felt up by a flower-wielding Filipino, Paris was great

It was Saturday and I was in Paris. You'd think that would be special enough, but no, without knowing it I had picked the coolest Saturday possible to be in Paris. First reason: twice a year, and only twice a year, every fashion shop in Paris slashes prices to clear out inventory for the new season, and this was the first weekend of Les Soldes. Second reason: as if in direct reaction to the fashion steals, that Saturday was also the day of the Pride parade. Purely coincidential, I'm sure, but half off LaCroix certainly makes me want to dance in the street.

I found out about Les Soldes and Les Gays from a CL poster who was an American looking for someone to attend Pride with her. It being the only sane post, I took a chance and emailed her. It turned out to be a great connection and we became instant friends. She was relieved to have an English-speaking pal to walk with her since her gf was out of town, and I was pleased to have someone show me around some of the less touristy parts of Paris. We poked in and out of the shops in the Marais, went to a cafe, and then caught up with the parade, which, apparently, was a lot mellower than the year before but still a blast. Every kind of person was out in the street, marching or watching; this was not a gay parade so much as it was a parade celebrating choice. Every kind of Parisian was there: gay couples, straight couples, children, eldery. I was impressed with the complete diversity of the population that came out that day, whether to march or watch, it was an amazingly inclusive and positive experience.

And what a party! Each float had a DJ and everyone danced alongside, and when the DJ built up the music and finally dropped the beat, the entire parade stopped and exploded in dance before moving on. The parade finished in the gigantic roundabout at the Bastille and the monument was covered in people as well as every other available inch of the square. The local gay radio station hosted more prominent DJs that played into the night.

So the day was a success. I had made a new friend, found a gorgeous bag at half off, got some great photos of the quirky French, and tromped down Saint Germain with ten thousand Parisians dancing and celebrating life.

Then on my way back to my hotel, a Filipino flower seller felt me up. I never thought I'd have to kick the ass of a drunk man smaller than myself but it almost came to that. He got an elbow and me shouting in two languages and I got groped. Paris is a relatively safe city, but it is a big city with plenty of crazies. And while some stodgy people might think the pervs were at the Bastille waving rainbow flags and dancing to the mixes of Boy George, I can affirm that, actually, the pervs were on the other side of the Seine posing as meager flower sellers.