Enjolras wasn't particularly inclined towards Carnival and its tumultuous, frenetic whirl of festival even in his own day's Paris. In the more scantily clad 21st century, in a city which is a sensory overload just in its lights and blaring music and vehicles, far less so.

But the chance to wander a living city of living people -- a city where he speaks at least one language of the town, besides -- well, he's not for an instant going to turn that down. He's hungered for it, fiercely, in the quiet stagnation of an afterlife in Milliways' limited space.

So he has some American money in his pocket, a map of the city in another, his watch-communicator as well, a little phrasebook of English just in case. He's in clothes of the 21st century, though they're extremely staid for Mardi Gras: linen slacks, a t-shirt, a knitted jacket of deep red. (Bar picked the color; he gave her an ironic look, but took it.) The fabric feels very light to him, but it makes sense in the heat, and they cover everything he feels it's decent to have covered.

He's wandering, sometimes with friends, sometimes alone. To see the city; to explore, to turn away from the wild (screaming, glittering, entirely too naked) carnival and into what quieter corners he can find, to drink up the tangled streets and bustling life of a city full of people living their own lives. That will probably mean a café at some point, but it will also mean plenty of side streets.

He's aware that he doesn't know the area, doesn't know which quarters he stands out in, is an utter gawping tourist, and might find himself in trouble because of it. He's not particularly worried. If he finds trouble, he'll find his way out of it, and it's all worth it for every dizzying moment of this taste of life.