Toulouse-Lautrec, In the Salon of the Rue des Moulins

As I walk out of the Mayflower, a Frenchman cries out

'Salut!'

and for a second there the look on his face is of such comraderie that I think this old man is going to bro-fist or high-five me. He just walks on, smiling proudly.

Three minutes forty-six seconds earlier, three girls had surrounded me in a dark little lane, right outside the Mayflower. They invite me to come see their bar, and I politely refuse; but my hand is in their hands and I'm being pulled in. Inside, several women of all shapes and sizes sit around looking coy.

I am pushed into a little cubicle and this little lady is explaining the rules to me.

10 Euros and I can choose any one of them and have a dance in the cubicle. It doesn't look or smell like it's been used for dancing in many times. I say

'Thanks, I really just want dinner and a drink,'

and it's about half-true.

'I can come with you for dinner if you like,'

she says.

'Yeah, I'd like that, really would, but I don't think my girlfirend would so much.'

She laughs, somebody steals my hat, somebody's dancing, somebody's trying to pull me back in. I grab the hat and dash out.

This old Frenchman sees me come out of that brothel and smiles like I'm the only tourist he's ever liked.

'Salut!'

the old man cries.