With another subtle glance over my shoulder, I nudged my sister. “They’re still there?” she whispered, without moving her lips. I nodded slightly. Walking back to our hotel from the café, we had just finished watching Les Bleus win yet another game in the world cup. The metro had closed for the night, and like typical twenty-somethings we had carelessly missed the last bus by about 20 minutes. “What should we do?” she asked under her breath. She had clearly deferred all judgement to me, the Francophile of the trip. Either that, or she thought my two years on her had prepared me for late-night muggings. “Just keep walking like nothing’s happening. If we…