I’m taking a week off classes (and column) to go to the south of France. But in the mean time, enjoy the musings of my good friend and very talented writer, John Maas:

Have you ever heard of the Bois de Boulogne? Or, perhaps a better question: Have you ever heard of the prostitutes of the Bois de Boulogne? Apparently, they are world-famous. I swear I remember them being in The Da Vinci Code, and my Paris guidebook refers in lurid detail to the celebrated Brazilian transvestites who work the Bois at night.

The Bois itself is maybe best known for offering more... genteel pleasures to the citizens of Paris. A person can come to the Bois to boat on its lakes, hike on its trails, or ride its miniature train among the trees and streams. That’s exactly what we did this past Tuesday, having the day off and welcoming a change of pace. In fact, the Bois is technically a British — or “Anglochinoise,” in the case of the corner we visited — garden in style, so it provides a welcome respite from the rigid formality of Paris’s cultured parks. No gravel here, no trees tormented into unnatural shapes, just soft green lawns and clusters of plants. It was an agreeable place to spend the afternoon.

As the sun set, we decided to take our leave of the Bois. Since this is Paris, the park is laced with a number of broad, leafy avenues, and we set off down the side of one towards the entrance gates. The air was calm, the sky warm and inviting... it was a beautiful evening. And suddenly, to our left, we saw a prostitute. It was as though she had emerged from behind a tree trunk or something, like a wood nymph, except wearing a bright pink minidress. She ran a comb through her blond wig and looked at us with pouty eyes. There was no doubt as to her occupation.

We walked and saw another, another, more. Sinuous figures with fabulously tacky clothing, pacing and swaying. Like most Parisians, they wore black — our first friend, with her pink, was apparently an eye-popping anomaly. Each had a little leaf-lined glade set back from the road in which she sashayed. In general, it felt like a perverted reimagining of window shopping. If I remember correctly, the French expression for window shopping is literally “licking the windows.” What a disturbing image that brings to mind right now!

The great irony of all this, of course, is that Tuesday was May Day, the international celebration of workers and the reason we had the day off. On such a holiday France is supposed to close entirely, giving every laborer a chance to rest. And indeed this is largely true, even in a city like Paris; its international flavor gives way to its Frenchness for once. Every non-essential store is closed, even big chains, and only a handful of restaurants, cafes, and grocery stores are open (although the anxious reader will be glad to know we were still able to buy food for a picnic). And yet there in the Bois, what was to be, I’m sure, a long and unpleasant workday was just beginning. Some professions don’t get the day off — police, bus drivers, pilots, and apparently at least one other as well.

I’m tempted to point out some kind of connection between the hard-working prostitutes and the contentious issue of the French workweek, so prominent in the upcoming elections, but I’ll resist. To be honest, I’m not quite sure what to make of those prostitutes. Are they a scandal? Are they a sign of liberal European attitudes? Apparently they’re an institution; is that better or worse than them being a dirty secret?

I should stop speculating. We left the prostitutes behind that night and traipsed around Paris, looking for a restaurant, dining out, coming home to our host families or (in my case) prison-esque dormitory mattress. But coming home in any case. I doubt the workers in the Bois de Boulogne got to do that until well after sunrise, workers’ holiday or not.

John urges readers not to worry, Vicky will be back next week. Email him at johnmaas@stanford.edu.