I was in Paris solo traveling, just wandering through the streets near a metro station, when I noticed a guy in a hoodie walking behind me.

He kept glancing over his shoulder like he was watching me. Before I could think much of it, he suddenly stepped up beside me and said, “You idiot.”

For a second, I froze. I thought maybe he was talking to someone else. But no—he was staring right at me, like I’d done something wrong.

I opened my mouth to say something, maybe cuss him out or at least ask what his deal was, when he grabbed my arm and tugged me hard toward a little alley.

Now I’m not naïve. I grew up in Johannesburg, where you learn fast not to trust random strangers grabbing you off the street. I pulled back, ready to scream, but that’s when he dropped the act.

“Look, just trust me for five seconds,” he said, lowering his voice. “That guy across the street? He’s been tailing you for three blocks. He’s not just sightseeing.”

I glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of a man in a leather jacket, walking slowly, eyes locked right on me. He was pretending to look at a map, but he was awful at pretending. My stomach did a full cartwheel.

I didn’t even realize I’d been watched. Not really. I thought it was just street noise and tourist chaos.

The guy in the hoodie—his name was Noam, I found out later—wasn’t much older than me, maybe late twenties. Scruffy beard, nervous energy, but alert. He steered me casually toward a side street, walking like we were friends.

“Keep moving,” he muttered, “and for the love of God, smile like we’re talking about cheese.”

So we talked about cheese. Or rather, he said the names of cheeses and I nodded like we were having the time of our lives. Camembert. Brie. Mimolette.

Behind us, the man in the leather jacket hesitated, then disappeared.

When we were far enough from the metro, Noam stopped under the awning of a florist shop.

“You shouldn’t be walking alone with that camera out,” he said, eyeing my bag. “You’re basically a blinking target.”

I’d heard the warnings, but I’d been careful—or so I thought. I was carrying my late uncle’s vintage Leica, something I’d inherited just before this trip. It was worth more than the rest of my luggage combined.

He could’ve taken it himself. But he didn’t.

Instead, he offered to walk me to the museum I’d been heading toward. I almost said no, but something in his tone wasn’t pushy. Just… concerned. Protective, even. I shrugged and said sure.

As we walked, I found out he wasn’t even French. Moroccan-Israeli, born in Haifa, studying architecture in Lyon, and in Paris just for a week. He had a dry sense of humor and this way of pointing out things I’d never noticed—tiny street carvings, weird graffiti, even a hidden café tucked into a stone archway.

The museum ended up being closed due to a strike. Typical Paris. But I didn’t mind.

We ended up sitting on the steps of a fountain instead, drinking Orangina from glass bottles and trading travel stories. I told him about my uncle, who’d lived in Paris for ten years and always told me to visit. He told me about his mom’s obsession with garden gnomes and his dad’s disastrous cooking.

It felt like I’d known him longer than an hour. Maybe even longer than a day.

Still, when he asked if I wanted to grab dinner that night, I hesitated.

“I don’t know you,” I said.

“You know I didn’t rob you,” he replied, raising an eyebrow. “That’s something.”

Fair enough.

We met again that night in Montmartre. He brought me to a tiny place I never would’ve found—no sign outside, only locals inside. We ate duck confit and split a crème brûlée, and it was stupid how easy it was. No pressure. Just laughter and stories and long glances that felt… safe.

For the next few days, we kept running into each other “by accident.” Museums, bookstores, cafés. I’d turn a corner and there he’d be, pretending to read a menu or frowning at a pigeon. It was playful. Sweet. But also deliberate.

And then came Thursday.

I had plans to go to Versailles. He offered to come, but I told him I needed some alone time. I meant it. The trip was supposed to be for me—to grieve, reflect, figure things out. I wasn’t looking for romance.

He smiled and said, “Text me if you change your mind.”

I didn’t text him.

I should have.

Versailles was stunning, obviously. But crowded. Loud. By the time I got back to Paris, I was tired, sweaty, and craving a simple night in. I headed back toward the little apartment I’d rented in Belleville.

That’s when I noticed my door was cracked open.

My heart dropped.

I stepped back into the hallway, heart racing. I knew I’d locked it. I always double-checked. Always.

I backed away, went down the block, and called the landlord. No answer. I called the non-emergency police line. Twenty minutes on hold.

Then I called Noam.

He picked up on the second ring. “What’s wrong?”

He was there in ten minutes. I don’t know how he got there that fast. Maybe he was already nearby. Maybe he never really stopped watching over me.

Together, we went in.

The place was a mess. My suitcase had been rifled through. Drawers open. Closet emptied. My Leica was gone.

I sat down on the floor and tried not to cry.

Noam crouched beside me. “It could’ve been worse,” he said softly. “You weren’t here. That’s what matters.”

Later, we learned it had been a string of robberies. Tourists targeted through Instagram geotags. They’d followed me for days, probably. Seen the camera. Tracked me to my place.

The cops weren’t much help. Neither was the landlord. But Noam? He didn’t leave my side. He helped me file the report. He argued with the landlord in French. He even found a place that sold old film cameras and bought me a cheap replacement.

“I know it’s not the same,” he said, handing it to me with this embarrassed shrug. “But maybe you’ll take better photos with this one.”

I smiled through tears.

I thought that would be the end of it. But two days later, something wild happened.

We were walking near the same metro station where we’d first met when Noam suddenly stopped. He grabbed my arm.

“That’s him,” he whispered.

Sure enough, there was the leather-jacket guy. Same build. Same walk. Brows furrowed like he was late for something.

Noam didn’t hesitate.

He trailed him discreetly for two blocks, then took out his phone and snapped a few photos.

“Just in case,” he said.

We turned the photos in to the police, who matched them to a known pickpocket ring. Apparently, the guy had been arrested before. My report gave them enough to reopen a case.

They never recovered the Leica. But the man got arrested. And I got a call from the police two weeks later saying they’d found my uncle’s old camera bag at a pawn shop. The camera itself was missing, but inside the bag was a roll of undeveloped film.

I almost cried again.

When I got it developed back in Cape Town, I found something I didn’t expect.

Photos of my uncle. With people I’d never met. A smiling woman with sharp eyes. A boy sitting on his shoulders. A Paris I’d never seen before—personal, joyful, soft.

On the back of one photo, in faint ink, were the words:

“Love is a city you build with someone else.”

I showed Noam, later, over video chat. He was back in Lyon by then. We still talked. Still laughed. Still planned our next trip.

Eventually, that next trip turned into something more.

A year later, he visited me in South Africa.

Two years later, we went back to Paris together—and this time, I didn’t bring a camera. Just memories. And a man who once called me an idiot, and then taught me how to pay attention.

Here’s what I learned: sometimes, the people who shake you up the most are the ones who were never trying to impress you. They were just paying attention. And sometimes, losing something precious leads you right into the arms of something even better.

If you’re traveling solo, trust your instincts—but don’t be afraid to let someone surprise you.

And hey… maybe pay attention to the ones calling you an idiot. They just might be trying to save you.

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