Anna remembers it as one of her more particularly embarrassing moments. There she was, in the city of love, the European summer just breaking, in a dress of olive cotton, her hair in a tres chic scarf. It was pouring with rain, Paris’ gift to the hordes of tourists who clog its beautiful streets for the months June through August. It was supposed to be a movie-esque run through the rain, a carefree moment of shrieking and laughter, perfect for the opening sequence of a French indy film, perhaps. Instead, she would end up face down in a muddy puddle, splayed out in the most undignified manner. It went a little something like this …

Emerging from an internet café, tucked deep into one of the tiny side-streets that wind their way through the city, little houses of croissants and café au lait for struggling artists and pontificating Parisians, she and her two best friends flattened themselves against the wall.

‘Shit.’ Jess held an open palm out and let the warm rain splash it, before snatching it back in and sticking her head out like a turtle.

‘You look like a turtle,’ Anna said, her bag clasped against her chest like a baby. In it are diaries and papers, receipts and tickets, records of this trip she could not bear to see turn into a rain soaked mess of ink and pulp. She poked her own foot out – the red leather sandals will probably say goodbye at the end of Paris, they will surely not withstand the endless traipsing through Italy.

‘Turtles are hot.’ The word hot sounds ridiculous coming from Jess’ mouth – Jess, who packed 4 tee shirts, 2 pairs of shorts and hiking boots in her uber sensible backpack, Jess who has since rotated these items in a series of unimaginative outfits that only such slim pickings can offer. ‘You look like a flamingo.’

‘Everybody knows flamingos are the supermodels of the animal world,’ Anna responds, swivelling her foot around to kick Jess’ sensibly-panted-leg.

‘Let’s just run, aim for a café, there’s one a bit further back, it even had red checkered table-cloths.’ Dana, one hand over her hair, breaks into the bickering. ‘But be careful, these stone pathways are bloody slippery.’

And so they took off at a brisk run, Anna leading the way, a streak of olive against the stormy sky and slick sandstone. Heads tossed back, shrieking with gay abandon, the warm rain darkening their summer dresses – and Jess’ tee shirt and shorts ensemble – in droplets. It dripped from their lashes onto their lips, perched like quivering diamantes on their hair. Puddles were dodged, uneven stones leapt over. And then … it all happened rather quickly. Anna’s ankles, weakened from years of tennis, did not take well to the lack of traction between her flimsy shoes and the wet path. Those who bore witness to the spectacle that day are still uncertain as to what exactly happened, that sent Anna gliding across the road, ultimately on her belly, like a well dressed seal. The left ankle seemed to roll, sending her surfing across a particularly large puddle, still upright, arms flailing for balance. Then her knees, damaged by the same punishing game as her ankles, seemed unable to bear the burden of her weight alone, and they buckled. She plunged, face first, arms outstretched, into a puddle, landing on her stomach and slithering along, carried by momentum. Gradually, she came to a halt, sprawled in the murky wet, a giant starfish, her bag discarded nearby.

Dana was the first to reach her, having been close behind. Jess, much to her utter dismay, had been unable to see any of it. It was only when Dee stepped aside and Anna’s prone form was revealed, did she realise what had happened.

‘Oh my God, you’re going to get a whole in your leggings.’ It was a strange thing for Dee to focus on, as she watched Anna plummet, but they had been her parting words. Now, she bent over Anna and gently rolled her over, trying extraordinarily hard not to cry with laughter. Anna, however, had already beaten her to it. She was in hysterics, unable to move she was laughing so hard. Tears mingled with the rain, her mascara a thing of the past.

‘I … am … so … fucking mortified,’ she panted, ‘please tell me no one saw that.’

Dee looked around, ‘clear coast,’ she choked out, although this wasn’t entirely true. Several cool, calm and collected locals had witness the entire display.

Jess was bent over, leaning on her knees, almost whinnying with laughter. She stepped forward and helped Dee pull Anna to her feet. A large whole in the right knee of her legging and scraped elbows were her war wounds. Later, sitting in a café with highly disapproving wait staff, when she peeled back her leggings, a playground scrape on her right knee joined the list of ailments.

Jess slurped at her thick hot chocolate, and glanced around. ‘Everybody is staring at the dishevelled Australians.’

For Anna, embittered by the embarrassment of her fall and the gall of the rude wait-staff to charge 5 Euro for a thimble of hot chocolate, the general public’s disapproval at their somewhat dismantled appearance, was the last straw. She narrowed her eyes. ‘You know what?’ She took a slug from her thimble. ‘I fucking hate Paris.’