Wolf Hudson and I had walked from the first arrondissement up to Pigalle in the 18th, stood outside the Moulin Rouge (a landmark in the history of sexualized spectacle) and then looked for an hourly hotel.
On a hunch we headed down to Boulevard de Sebastopol. I’d stayed near there earlier in the year. Every morning I’d walked past older women in red lipstick, giant hats, and delightful lingerie covered by long furs. Nothing signifies a sex work zone like people outdoors in underpants and fur coats.
Sure enough, the maps app on my phone turned up an hourly place a few blocks away.
Video Editor Wolf Hudson