It was the last day of a 5-month trip, and I was down to my last $4.  In those days I always arrived home flat broke. It was May, 1980. I was 24.

My all-night train from Switzerland rolled into the Paris train station at 6am. I had twelve hours to see the City of Lights for the first time before catching my flight home.

I was nervous – I’d heard the French could be pretty awful to non-French-speaking tourists.  I stashed my pack in a train-station locker, and got in line at the Tourist Information booth.

Sure enough, when I asked in English for a city map, the attractive young woman behind the counter reacted like I had struck her. She rolled her eyes, looked at me like I was an insect and suggested I learn French. She was haughty and rude. It was extremely unpleasant; even worse than I’d feared. And this from someone whose job was to assist tourists like me. She gave me the map, though.  I started walking.

It wasn’t far to the River Seine and Notre Dame Cathedral. It was already open, and, more importantly for me, it was free.

I stopped in the nearby Sainte Chapelle.

As I walked the city, the beautiful shop windows of Paris tortured me.

I made a big circle through the Left Bank and St. Germain, to the Tower.

Joni Mitchell’s “Free Man in Paris” echoed in my head as I made my way down the Champs Elysees, past the cafes and cabarets. After some time sniffing the roses at Le Tuileries, contemplating the pros and cons of the guillotine at Le Place de la Concord, and gawking at Monet’s water lilies in L’Orangerie, it was time for the final event: The Louvre.

It’s takes about three days to really see the Louvre; I had about three hours. I raced through the ancient Greek and Roman stuff, checked out the Mona Lisa (smaller than I expected) and spent most of my time on the Impressionists. It was dazzling.

Now my time was getting short – I needed to catch the metro to the airport. I walked back to the train station for my pack. I looked everywhere, but couldn’t find my locker. I couldn’t even find the dreaded Information Booth. I started to panic.

“Excuse me. May I help you?”

It was a pudgy, middle-aged man in a suit. A well-dressed French businessman. Speaking English. I explained my problem.

“Ah. From where did you take your train to Paris?”

“From Basel, in Switzerland.”

“I see. Well, there are seven major train stations in Paris. Your bag is in the Gare de Lyon, but this is the Gare du Nord. It’s some ways across the city.”

“Oh, my god. I’m going to miss my flight. I’m out of money. Shit. Shit. Shit. Oh, my god. Shit.” I started pacing and grinding my teeth.

“Don’t worry, monsieur. Come with me.”

That conservative-looking French businessman led me to the metro, bought my ticket, rode with me across town to the correct train station, helped me find my pack, took me back to the metro and put me on the right train to the airport. He spent about 45 minutes of his day crossing Paris with me, helping a complete stranger. He saved my ass. I made my flight.

That’s why, whenever I hear someone bad-mouth the French I will always say: I love the French.

Plus, they were right about Iraq. “Freedom Fries” my ass.