EDITOR'S NOTE: OA lifestyle reporter Matthew J. McGowan is traveling Europe for the next few weeks. Check out his blog at oaoa.com (click on Blogs) to read about his travels. Matt will give readers a chance to vote on where he should go next in the coming days. Reprints from his blog will run daily in the OA.

I apologize for not finishing yesterday's post yesterday, but jet lag set in, and I fell into a deep, deep sleep.

So where did I leave off? Oh, yes, the hostel search.

Well, I ended up getting off the subway too soon, leaving me miles from the hostel.

I searched and searched, finding many hostels that were booked, but not the one for which I was booked.

Getting lost in Paris, admittedly, was still one of the most enjoyable experiences of my life, save the tremendous weight of my hiking pack and an episode that later occurred.

The streets in Paris really have no rhyme or reason to their layout. They all just kind of snake around different, oddly shaped squares of picturesque buildings, often converging at a manic traffic circle filled with the sounds of honking scooters. Also, because they are all so unique, all of the streets strangely look alike. They are uniform in their distinctiveness.

As I strolled these streets in search of my hostel in Caulaincourt Square, I was ripped off - not three hours after my plane landed.

In a square not far from one of Paris' many breathtaking cathedrals, I encountered a man who approached me and quickly put a strand of several strings around my finger with a smile.

I was hesitant, having read about these sorts of scams in the travel guides before I left, but he assured me. Plus, he spoke English, which is a fantastic thing for an American in France. And I needed directions.

So I let him put it over my finger, looking over his shoulder for the accomplice I knew would sweep through and, my finger being bound, grab all my stuff and ride off into the European sunset, laughing all the way.

But no. This wasn't that type of scam.

He wove the yarn into a pattern he said he learned in Senegal that - what else? - would bring me good luck.

"Do you know how to get to Coulaincourt Square?" I asked him.

"Yes." He grinned at me. "Where are you from?"

"America."

"Oh, yeah?" He said, pointing at his jacket. "New York Knicks. I love America. You know Akon?"

I sighed. "Yes."

"Well," the man said, "he's from Senegal."

I should have asked him for the directions again.

Instead, I stood silently as he finished the bracelet.

"Now you just give me a little something," he said after finishing the braid, pointing to himself. "Just a little something."

"Well," I said, thinking about the ten-Euro bill in my pocket, "all I've got is ..."

I'll give you change," he interrupted, showing me bills in his wallet.

"OK," I said. "How about you give me that five right there and we'll call it even?"

He grew impatient, itching for my money, itching to hustle another American with a giant backpack.

And he got his wish.

I ended up paying about $13 for a piece of yarn, but what upsets me is what he said to me when I asked for my change after he pocketed my bill.

"Twenty!" He shouted. "I usually get twenty. I'm giving you a special deal."

He took me, plain and simple. He hustled me, and I do not like how that makes me feel.

Walking away, I vowed not to let that happen to me again.

Last night, I tied the bracelet on tight so I don't lose it, so I'll have a reminder on my wrist to keep me ever-suspicious of street thugs and on my toes.

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