February 12th, 2024 / µ

My Tragi-Absurd Parisian Nightmare

Why did I choose to go back to Paris in 2019? To anyone who knows me and my past, the first and most obvious answer to this question might be:

I am an idiot.

However, I do have one rational reason, plus a bucketful of emotional baggage and a lifetime of disillusionment, to explain myself and my decision.

We all want to go home. Rats return to the safety of their sewers; refugees long for bombed-out cities, and Navalnyj returned to Russia. Life’s hard, and then you die, and troubles and tragedies will find you, no matter where you are, so it is always better to be where you feel at home in your heart.

Denmark stopped being my home long ago, so over the years, I created a new one in Paris. And in 2019, I wanted to go home. That’s the emotional reason for my bad decision.

The rational explanation to justify my decision was that I wanted to, once and for all, stop the monsters that the Danish police on Funen had de facto granted the right to crush my life. Now, back to Paris and what happened in September, October & November 2019.

If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.

Ernest Hemingway

Ready To Move On

There will always be criminals because humans are not angels; some are scheming, some are perverts, some are notorious liars, and some are sadists. So you have police forces and courts to protect the rest of us from those who trespass against and abuse us. But on Funen, experience has taught me it is different.

In the fall of 2019, I was ready to pick up my life where I felt I had mentally left it years earlier. I had had enough of Denmark, especially the local police force (Fyns Politi), who had treated me like garbage, and I was tired of living in my mother’s house. And I had a plan to stop the monsters; the monsters that the Danish police refused to stop.

The plan was that I would move back to Paris, pick up my life where I left it (more or less), and finish a fictional text set in central Paris, while placing my faith in the French legal system if the monsters followed.

To avoid any unpleasant surprises, I checked with all relevant authorities in Denmark, before leaving. I had no debt, no charges against me, and no lawsuits on the horizon. And given that I am a single woman and business owner with no kids, I have no contact with Social Services.

But let’s get back to Paris.

As long as you have your own apartment and you can pretty much make rent for the next year, you’re golden!

Ari Shaffir

An Apartment in the Latin Quarter in Paris

I had had problems in Paris in the past (read: Huge problems). But at this point in my life, middle-aged and disillusioned, I had concluded that single and independent women will face prejudice and problems wherever they go. In Paris, I had the advantage of knowing the system, the labor market, and how to live. And most importantly, I knew how to get an apartment.

With the usual bureaucratic craziness it takes to rent an apartment in Paris, I managed to secure a ground-floor apartment on Rue Malebranche in the 5th arrondissement. It even had a small yard for my dog, Gavroche.

Gavroche was used to Champ de Mars back in the day (Parc du Champ-de-Mars), and we could get there relatively quickly by bus, so he could revisit his old friends and old girlfriends and pee on what needed to be peed on seriously after five years’ absence.

As with most apartments in big cities, it looked perfect online. And like most apartments in big cities, it was far from perfect in the real world.

The apartment was quite cold, as it was just above a basement that seemed to have been dug out before the wheel was invented. It was located behind an old, noisy elevator, and the only window in the kitchen area had one layer of old glass and faced the property’s trash cans. The toilet was in what appeared to be a former closet with no sink. It was dark and moist, and one of the former inhabitants had definitely been a male cat!

Or, in the words of a big city real estate agent, it had charm and atmosphere!

But apart from those minor issues, there was nothing unexpected when renting an apartment in Paris if you are pre-rich. The problem was not the bricks or what may have been mold on the walls. The problem was the Danish monsters.

The Monsters

The day I found out the Danish monsters were inside the building, I was preoccupied with my own life and on my way out. But as I turned the corner up the stairs to the lobby behind the old, noisy elevator, I had to pinch myself to make sure I was awake because in front of me, in conversation with an older woman, stood two monsters and honorary members of The Gutter Squad from Funen.

The Danish monsters hadn’t just followed me to Paris, as expected. No, they were in my building, which was definitely not expected!

I was in shock. Everything went black as if all the lights in the world had been turned off. My heart was going 500 miles an hour, my throat was as dry as the Sahara Desert, and it felt like the 5th arrondissement in Paris had turned into The Twilight Zone.

Despite the psychopath’s lack of conscience and lack of empathy for others, he is inevitably better at fooling people than any other type of offender.

Anna Salter

That wasn’t part of my plan! The plan was to move back to Paris because the monsters did not know the city and thus could not have friends in the police force to help them, so they would not be let into buildings, and would eventually give up. And I would have the documentation I needed, and possibly a restraining order against them.

And I am sure the plan would have worked, and I would have been safe, had the plan not had one minor but, admittedly, foreseeable built-in flaw – all great generals know that little ups - the Danish monsters knew and teamed up with dodgy characters from my past—more on these people when the story is published in its entirety.

To make a long story short, I was, as too many times before in my life, alone on a continent where single women are de facto second-class citizens. You work, you pay your taxes, and you are a burden to no one, but whatever happens to you, you had it coming! After all, you got out of your single woman bed and started breathing!

For legal reasons, I am ending the factional account here to protect the names and privacy of all parties involved. But there’s still a bit more to this story for now. Keep reading!

The French Police

You might think that I am outrageously hypocritical, not blaming the French police on this blog for not helping me in 2019. I hear you. But please, let me explain.

The situation spun out of control so quickly, and I had no idea whether the Danish monsters had managed to involve the French police through their usual lies, slander, identity thefts, falsifications, and so on. And, truth be told, my confrontations with the Danish police, and knowing what they had done in the past, my faith in police forces was below zero at the time.

Instead, after a month in the first apartment on Rue Malebranche, I decided to move. Being naïve, I had not imagined that the Danes and their buddies would be able to get into another building just like that. But the monsters did get in.

The minute I heard the voice of a specific Dane and saw this same Dane chatting it up with a person from my past in the courtyard of the second apartment building, in Rue du Montparnasse, I decided to document instead of going to the police, a police force I am sure would have exhaled, taken a report, and been glad to see me walk out the door.

I wanted to once and for all prove who these people were, what they did, and how they did it. Plus, the Danes spoke Danish amongst themselves, so they were easy to distinguish. And the Parisians were quite outspoken.

I documented as much as I could, within the limits of the law, including run-ins with the locals, like this one, one evening in the second building, coming back, and a woman I had never met before hissed at me:

Foreigners like you are the ones ruining France!

Of course, she didn’t talk to me. No, she just blew off her unrefined and primitive French steam in my face, most likely thinking that I had no idea what she was saying – the Danes had, to my knowledge, informed the inhabitants of the two buildings that I didn’t speak French. This might explain why people were so willing to state things to me in passing:

Putain du merde !

Vous êtes complètement fou !

Casse-toi putain !

You know, standard niceties and primitive human behavior!

I only mention the above encounter because that encounter was my friendliest encounter with anyone in that building, the absolute most amicable! That should give you an idea of how the situation was: People behaving like primitive morons, questioning nothing, because they felt they could.

Now, what I can do is tell online who they are, where they are, and what they did. And I will.

I spent 2 weeks documenting. When things eventually got entirely out of hand, I left.

I did seek advice, though—a lot of advice. I even asked for help from the Danish embassy and the PET, whom I, in a moment of total desperation in November 2019, told what was happening and asked to please call the French police on my behalf. I got no help from anyone—more on that when the story is published in its entirety.

Thanks for reading! I hope you found it valuable and worth your time! Until next time, remember to get your facts straight and that whatever good times you have will never come back as bad times,

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Fact Box

If you haven’t read my posts about stalking yet, here’s a bit of personal knowledge acquired through experience:

1. In my experience, stalkers see themselves as above the law and see other people as objects, animals, and entertainment.

2. In my experience, stalkers feel entitled to hurt, humiliate, and terrorize others, and their violent, narcissistic, and voyeuristic natures destroy people’s lives.

3. In my experience, stalkers are monsters!

4. My overall experience also shows how dangerous and destructive gang-stalking is. Gang-stalking is where a group collectively targets a victim and hunts in groups. Stalking groups can be anything from 2 – 3 creepy bastards to groups of more than 100 individuals, where some may abuse their jobs in the public sector, including the police force.