That Ester would have even looked at me, let alone become a long-term travel companion, is still an amazement. She was regarded as "top drawer", the Princess of Port Elizabeth, and you'd never expect her to sleep on a filthy pavement in Paris. But that's exactly what happened.
We arrived by train at night, only to find there was no accommodation available; never mind at hotels beyond our budget, not even at hovels beneath it. (Never did find out why).
We returned to the railway station after a fruitless search to find several dozen other travellers in the same predicament.
But any thoughts we'd had of settling down for the night on platform benches were quickly shattered by a rude, red-faced guard who herded us all brusquely out onto the street.
The rattle of steel, door shutters sealed our fate. The City of Lights dimmed.
We spread out against the station wall, head to feet, like a long row of caterpillars, cocooned in our clothing.
Despite the discomfort, a gentle snoring started.
I was woken by a feeling of dread that something bad was about to go down.
Sure enough, there was a man rifling through our sleeping companions' possessions, hair matted and eyes glazed in desperation, working his way towards us.
I nudged Ester awake, "Stay calm. I'll handle this."
As he approached us, I said in Afrikaans (as one does in awkward situations overseas), "Voetsek vuilgoed! Los ons uit!"
He was overjoyed! "Julle praat my taal!"A homesick heroin addict from Pretoria. Ester, bleeding heart gushing for one of her countrymen, invited him to join us for coffee at a pavement café as the city started to stir, ignoring my protestations.
"You're such lekker people, I've decided to travel with you," he said, excusing himself to quickly go to the toilet (to shoot up?). As the toilet door shut behind him, I threw some cash on the table, grabbed Ester by the hand, and we fled Paris at the speed of light.
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