The Arc de Triomphe stood only a hundred yards away.

Cars circled it from every direction.

Tourists stood atop. Black jackets and colorful hats against the gray sky.

I followed the sidewalk until it simply… ended.

Ahead, the pavement sloped into six lanes of traffic.

There was no crosswalk.

No stoplight.

No fence telling pedestrians they couldn’t continue.

Just the monument sitting in the middle of the roundabout, as though everyone else already knew the way.

I asked another group of tourists.

“How do you get over there?”

They looked at the traffic.

“I… don’t know.”

Neither did I.

~

I watched the cars.

Motorcycles slipped between them. Buses lumbered through. Drivers changed lanes without warning.

The traffic never really stopped; it only breathed.

I had crossed roads like this before.

So I waited.

I studied the gaps.

“…that one was too small.”

…maybe the next.”

If I reached the island there…”

I looked at the people standing atop the monument across the way, the traffic circling inches from my feet.

There had to be a way.

The longer I stood there, the more reasonable it seemed.

Twenty minutes passed.

Then I happened to glance behind me.

A blue sign with a white arrow and a jagged line.

It looked like… stairs?

It pointed beneath the street.

I started to laugh.