I feel like i need a disclaimer about how Kelsey and i are not lovers because if you read these stories out of context you would think her and i are on the most romantic ride of our lives.
No, Paris didn't magically turn me straight. If it did, this would be the newest destination for ex-gay camp. Call up Westboro Baptist!
On the contrary, I think Paris makes people "gayer."
You know, the men kiss each others cheeks when they greet? Gay.
You know, the men dress like chic models even when they are just running to the marchee ou la poste?Gay.
You know, they drink their coffe out of lil espresso cups instead of mugs? Gay.
You never know who's family over here.
Oh excuse me, "family" is a term the gay culture uses when talking about anybody who's gay.
They are really sneaky over here. It's a lot easier in the states to spot a homo. They dress nicely or look at girls in the eyes when they talk to them. It's like spotting a midget most times. But here, everyone's a midget.
By the way, that leads me into something else. There are a ton of midgets here. Like a ridiculous amount. And moreover, I swear to you that i see at least two people a day that are limping from Polio or something. Someone needs to launch an investigative research into the dwarfism and polio in this country.
Ok, now back to my point. I honestly don't know who is on the rainbow brick road.
I met kelsey yesterday again. I know it seems a bit much but when you are friends with only one person on a continent, you somehow always seem to end up with that person. I left my house and walked across the street to the train station. I can't begin to explain how luxurious that is. I stood in line at the machine to buy my ticket behind a short black man with glasses who was wearing a suit and a taller black man who was pushing a baby stroller. I peaked over the bushes and fence and i saw that my train, the RERA, was sitting in the station. I started getting all jumpy inside like a kid looking out the window at an ice-cream truck parked on his curb!
"Ok pal, hurry it along...come on!" Seriously, what is the problem here. He was taking ages and the douche bag didn't even buy a ticket. He jumped the train gate thingys. I don't know the technical name so lets call them gonad smashers.
The next guy was going through the buying process. I know by now how many steps it should take to buy one. 3 touches of the screen should do it.
"Come on, my ice cream truck is going to drive away and i'm going to throw a hissy fit."
Ok, my turn. 1, 2, 3! I run to the train and the buzz of the closing doors rang out with a bellow of "finally you made it."
If you ever rely on public transportation, catching your train or bus, before you have to wait for another interval is enough to give you a little tingle in your underpants.
I read or write on the train. I just finished my last book and i was going to start another one on my kindle but apparently the battery was dead. Oops.
Writing it is.
I feel like lately i have just had a writers block. I think when so much is going on in my life i can't put things into boxes yet. It's like waiting for things to calm down before you can have a chance to clean your room.
Finally, i felt lucid enough to jot some poetry. Poetry is my first love after all. As the train made it's jolts through each station into the city i scribbled these:
Untitled
A flying heart- scared to land
close your eyes
and
Breathe.
Coast on puffed up words
that gave you flight
at first.
The longer your feet
don't touch the ground
the harder it is to stand.
Your gravity will
crush these bones-
pound them into sand.
Where no castles are made
on Ocean Fronts
as dusk turns into dawn,
but moonlight tides will
wash your
heart
and drown you in the deep blue calm.
Untitled
Waves of color on these walls
painted by illegal hand, fill
the station with their
pops of territory brand.
Cryptic codes only meant
for the eyes who have the brain
to see, past gray
cement and the art which
has no name.
Finally, the train arrived in Chatelet, the Times Square/ 42nd st stop of the Paris metro. I made my connection to the 1 and arrived at St. Paul to meet kelsey. We had plans to walk to Sorbonne and get coffees.
We walked and jabbered away at how she had visited her school that morning and there was a cute 30 something year old colleague of hers who struck her fancy. I think it was the salt and pepper hair if i remember correctly. We finally arrived at a quaint little cafe at the corner of street and sat down.
We each got a cafe au lait. Coffee with milk. We decided to split a piece of apple pie. We sat at the cafe for seriously almost two hours. I was craving for a Waffle House service of re fill coffees but that was never going to happen. I also knew that i wasn't going to order another $5 dollar cup of coffee. My grandma would have slapped me all the way from the countryside outside of Nashville, Tn.
So i just stared down my empty coffee cup. It was like looking at an empty, dried up pool in the summertime.
We sat and people watched and i pointed out to her all the people with limps. Kelsey has now joined my investigation. We're going to get to the bottom of this.
We got up as the sun was setting and as the temperature was dropping. I tightened my scarf just a tad and we headed to the metro. We decided to go up to the top of the hill at Montmatre and see the Sacre Coeur.
When we walked above ground from the metro, night had fallen onto the city. We had to walk up at least 150 stairs to make it to the top. My legs were burning but all that subsided when i look out to the breath taking view. It was thousands of fireflies. The city scape here doesn't have hundreds of skyscrapers. There would no place to build. No building blocks the next. You could see for miles. I found my new favorite place in Paris.
I felt like i was sitting on the moon and looking down at the world. I don't even remember hearing anything or smelling anything. I think all my senses were focusing on the sight.
I took a deep breath and promised the view a hasty return. As soon as i could muster up the courage to climb the stairs again.
We made our way down the other side and into the bustling streets. Men were selling their fake bags, or jewelry. A gang of black men from west africa stand at the base of the stairs and try to use their charm to get you to stop and hold this string they are presenting you with. They want to make a bracelet for you. Innocent enough right?
Hell. to. the. no.
I made this mistake when i was 17 and young and naive--my first trip to paris.I will never forget unsuspectingly stumbling onto the herd and a guy with a big white smile and black as coal skin asking me to help him. He just wanted me to hold the ends of the string while he made a bracelet. I stood there, talking to him like a dumb bambi and before i knew it, he had tied the bracelet on my wrist.
"Oh, no i don't want it."
"No, you already have it on. Just give me something. Anything you have."
"I thought it was free."
"Just give me something."
He still had a hold of my wrist. I pulled out my wallet and had no coins. Just a 5 euro. He took it out of my hand. I was mortified and as soon as the theft had sunken in, I was pissed.
As i saw the gang, still there, almost 6 years later, it all rushed back. One of the men came up with me with a huge smile on my face. It took all my strength to not avenge my 17 year old self and squarely punch this douche in the face.
But i simply said, "Non merci." and walked away-- as hard as it was.
We made our way down an off street from the hustle and bustle and found a Indian-Pakistani fusion restaurant. I had been craving indian so badly so one taste of the chicken tikki masala had me in dining heaven.
I finally ate to a point that i was full. Yes, full. You have no idea how rare it is in Paris. They are so skinny because if you had to pay 100 dollars for a sandwich then you would happily eat a damn saltine cracker.
We made our way closer to the Moulin Rouge district and happened upon an irish bar. We had 2 beers. I had an apricot biere and a manaco. They are really into putting flavored syrups in there beers.
I woke up wednesday morning and had plans to go into the city again. I wanted to go see the famous cemetery, Pere Lachaise. I got dressed and was walking out the door and realized that i didn't have my wallet. I started the initial,"Hmmmm...where did i leave that thing" emotion. Soon it turned into "Okay, where on earth is this thing" and then snow balled into "fuck, my wallet is stolen" panic. I didn't see how on earth it could have been stolen.
I went to the grocery store the day before and remember checking my pocket on the walk home to make sure i had it. When could it have happend?
Then the gasp of the possible moment entered my mind. I didn't lock my door when i went to the kitchen to cook dinner last night. I had my phone with me and took my laptop to listen to music while cooked. They had nothing else they could steal. Surely no one who lives here stole it. It seemed like the only option.
I looked everywhere, even in the impossible place like the trash, the freezer, in my pillow case.
I suppose i could have lost it but it makes me feel less irresponsible if i say it was stolen. But its not like that is much better. that means i live with a thief!
Soon i realized that i had absolutely no money. No cash. no american card. no french card. I checked my pockets and i had 80 cents to my name-- not even enough to buy a baguette. I walked to my bank to tell them to cancel my card (which i had just picked up the day before) and withdraw some cash for a meal, at least. I walked up to the front disk. They don't have tellers here (that would be too easy). You have to go to the front and check in like a doctors office. This is third time i had seen this pudgy woman this week. She looked at me like i was a tax collector.
I walked up there and she stared at me through here reading glasses and stared right through my soul.
"Excuse moi, mais j'ai un grand probleme... quelqu'un a vole mon portefeuille et mon carte bleu." Some one stole my wallet and card.
She stares.
Um. Hello? Coo coo?
"Vous me comprenez?"
"Ouais"...with a deafening indifference.
She always looks at me like i'm speaking piglatin.
isten-lay itch-bay, i eed-nay ome-say elp-hay!
Then, my personal banker , Olivier Naude, walks out and smiles and greets me. The lady then said, "Oh, you know this man?" And i wanted to say, "Lady, this is the third time i've been in here this week. You look at me crazy then finally answer me. I have spelled out my name to you maybe 400 times by now? You have looked at my passport 200 times to set up an account and you don't KNOW me?"
I entered Oliviers office and explained to him the situation. I was tired, and literally starving by this point. It's not normal conversational french to try to explain what happened and what you need to get done. I guess i'm learning the language much quicker under pressure.
He said that i can't withdraw money after noon. It was almost 2:00 o'clock.
I said, "Olivier," with the sternness of an irritated father, "I need money to eat. I am hungry."
He went and got me money from my account.
I left the bank, thankful that i didn't have to go stand next to the gypsy girl and tag team the city for something to eat. I have already memorized the pitch."Excuse me sir or madame. I have 3 million children and they are all starving and they need to help. Please help me sir."
I was so hungry i was ready to dress up and jump in a stroller to help the cause. It would be the first time parisiens would have seen them with a child.
I ran to the boulangerie and got comfort food: quiche, a pastry, and a coke. I walked to the bench and bit into my quiche and was too hungry to realize that i was putting something around the temperature of Hades in my mouth. Quiche are like over microwaved hot pockets--they will fuck your mouth up.
Nothing else tasted good, you know the whole burnt mouth thing...where your taste buds are in mourning.
***
This weekend I met kelsey in Marias. There was a petit soiree being thrown in the 20th arrondissement by some other people we had met working in Paris. Some of them were teachers but others were au pairs. First, we grabbed a drink in Marais at a bar. We sat down and 2 waters came right away. This was the fastest service i had seen in France! Then i looked up and saw them drooling over Kelsey. "Oh...i get it now."
Kelsey is a man, but worse. She has the sexual aggression of a man with the tactful game playing of a woman. She's a dangerous woman i tell you. Before we could finish the drinks, Kelsey had them competing for her attention.
"We'll be back later," we whispered in my ear as she made sure not to turn around and tell them buy.
We ran by a liquor store and grabbed the cheapest wine we could find. We were planning on pounding whatever liquor was there and then make our way back to Kelseys neighborhood for the great bars.
We were pleasantly surprised at how fun the party was. We usually try to convince ourselves of how lame something will be so we don't get disappointed. I met a girl named Rosie. She was 18 and au paring in Paris. She is so young and so beautiful. She's 5'10" with beautiful brown hair and the most adorable accent. I met 3 American girls. One was from NY, she had a french boyfriend that she had met when she was 19 and he lived in the US. Another was from Atlanta and we shared a little southern love. Then i met this girl named Rachel. She was from freakin bo beakin Nashville, TN. Could you believe that? She knew exactly where i worked and lived this summer. What an incredibly small world? Then, i met to girls from Sweden. They were very cute, scandinavian looking, with perfect english. One had a lisp tho so that was interesting. And finally, the host, Rhea, was from Australia. She had moved to Paris when she was 19, fell in love and had been here for four years. She was living with her boyfriend, Fred. They are paxing--it's a legal partnership to allow for a foreigner to stay if they are in a relationship with a french citizen. Everyone talks about it.
Kelsey and i stood in the corner of the room chatting Rhea up about her apartment and thanking her for inviting us. She talked about how she barely has an Australian accent now when she speaks english.
Um...i beg to differ. She could have been on an Outback add no problem. But i just shook my head in agreement. I was drunk at this point.
It was a little after midnight and me and kelsey exited the party. We had plans. Two French servers were on our hit list...well kelsey's hit list to be exact. But i always like to see the chase and the catch. I'm a big discovery channel fan.
We walked into the bar and kelsey went up to the more agressive of the two, Arnauld. She explained how we had just returned from the party and was asking where a good place was to go. *giggle, hair toss, giggle, touch his arm*..
"Umm...you stay hair for zee drink and aftorrr we cloze , we take yew to a friendzzz bar, okay?"
Score.
We had learned by our American warthog friend the weekend before at Sollys that you have to get with the in crowd here in paris to drink after 3 am. According to him, it took him almost a year. Well move over oink oink, it took us 9 days.
We sat down and had a beer. The less agressif server, Alex, came over and said he was glad we were going with them. I sat there and kind of though how funny it was that I knew I was just the friend who was riding on her coat tails...or short mini skirt to be more clear.
Alex informed us that two girls were joining us as well to go to their friends bar. He pointed to the corner and i could see two brunettes of some hispanic decent. The two girls waved and giggled. The place shut down and kelsey and I, along with the two Argentinian girls waited for the guys to count their drawer. We piled into Arnauld's car and Alex got on his motocycle. Then we drove to the bar in front of the Louvre. I was fairly buzzed so everything seemed so surreal. I was listening to french techno, kelsey speaking spanish with the argentines and thinking in english, "Wow." We hopped out of the car and went into the bar. Clinks of glasses walked our way and 6 glasses of champagne were poured. The alcohol kept flowing till 430 a.m. Gin and tonic, vodka sodas, and this delicious drink with apple juice vodka--the devils brew, i titled it. We talked about everything over music and laughter. We joked about stereotypes and we had a wonderful time.
I looked at kelsey and she looked at me and we both stood up. Time to go. Thank god she was as tired as i was. We exchanged numbers, thanked them accordingly, and said we would see them soon. We sobered up on the walk home. We jumped in bed and debriefed.
She preferred the less agressive one.
I preferred the apple juice vodka.
Something told me it would be harder for me to get that vodka.
No, Paris didn't magically turn me straight. If it did, this would be the newest destination for ex-gay camp. Call up Westboro Baptist!
On the contrary, I think Paris makes people "gayer."
You know, the men kiss each others cheeks when they greet? Gay.
You know, the men dress like chic models even when they are just running to the marchee ou la poste?Gay.
You know, they drink their coffe out of lil espresso cups instead of mugs? Gay.
You never know who's family over here.
Oh excuse me, "family" is a term the gay culture uses when talking about anybody who's gay.
They are really sneaky over here. It's a lot easier in the states to spot a homo. They dress nicely or look at girls in the eyes when they talk to them. It's like spotting a midget most times. But here, everyone's a midget.
By the way, that leads me into something else. There are a ton of midgets here. Like a ridiculous amount. And moreover, I swear to you that i see at least two people a day that are limping from Polio or something. Someone needs to launch an investigative research into the dwarfism and polio in this country.
Ok, now back to my point. I honestly don't know who is on the rainbow brick road.
I met kelsey yesterday again. I know it seems a bit much but when you are friends with only one person on a continent, you somehow always seem to end up with that person. I left my house and walked across the street to the train station. I can't begin to explain how luxurious that is. I stood in line at the machine to buy my ticket behind a short black man with glasses who was wearing a suit and a taller black man who was pushing a baby stroller. I peaked over the bushes and fence and i saw that my train, the RERA, was sitting in the station. I started getting all jumpy inside like a kid looking out the window at an ice-cream truck parked on his curb!
"Ok pal, hurry it along...come on!" Seriously, what is the problem here. He was taking ages and the douche bag didn't even buy a ticket. He jumped the train gate thingys. I don't know the technical name so lets call them gonad smashers.
The next guy was going through the buying process. I know by now how many steps it should take to buy one. 3 touches of the screen should do it.
"Come on, my ice cream truck is going to drive away and i'm going to throw a hissy fit."
Ok, my turn. 1, 2, 3! I run to the train and the buzz of the closing doors rang out with a bellow of "finally you made it."
If you ever rely on public transportation, catching your train or bus, before you have to wait for another interval is enough to give you a little tingle in your underpants.
I read or write on the train. I just finished my last book and i was going to start another one on my kindle but apparently the battery was dead. Oops.
Writing it is.
I feel like lately i have just had a writers block. I think when so much is going on in my life i can't put things into boxes yet. It's like waiting for things to calm down before you can have a chance to clean your room.
Finally, i felt lucid enough to jot some poetry. Poetry is my first love after all. As the train made it's jolts through each station into the city i scribbled these:
Untitled
A flying heart- scared to land
close your eyes
and
Breathe.
Coast on puffed up words
that gave you flight
at first.
The longer your feet
don't touch the ground
the harder it is to stand.
Your gravity will
crush these bones-
pound them into sand.
Where no castles are made
on Ocean Fronts
as dusk turns into dawn,
but moonlight tides will
wash your
heart
and drown you in the deep blue calm.
Untitled
Waves of color on these walls
painted by illegal hand, fill
the station with their
pops of territory brand.
Cryptic codes only meant
for the eyes who have the brain
to see, past gray
cement and the art which
has no name.
Finally, the train arrived in Chatelet, the Times Square/ 42nd st stop of the Paris metro. I made my connection to the 1 and arrived at St. Paul to meet kelsey. We had plans to walk to Sorbonne and get coffees.
We walked and jabbered away at how she had visited her school that morning and there was a cute 30 something year old colleague of hers who struck her fancy. I think it was the salt and pepper hair if i remember correctly. We finally arrived at a quaint little cafe at the corner of street and sat down.
We each got a cafe au lait. Coffee with milk. We decided to split a piece of apple pie. We sat at the cafe for seriously almost two hours. I was craving for a Waffle House service of re fill coffees but that was never going to happen. I also knew that i wasn't going to order another $5 dollar cup of coffee. My grandma would have slapped me all the way from the countryside outside of Nashville, Tn.
So i just stared down my empty coffee cup. It was like looking at an empty, dried up pool in the summertime.
We sat and people watched and i pointed out to her all the people with limps. Kelsey has now joined my investigation. We're going to get to the bottom of this.
We got up as the sun was setting and as the temperature was dropping. I tightened my scarf just a tad and we headed to the metro. We decided to go up to the top of the hill at Montmatre and see the Sacre Coeur.
When we walked above ground from the metro, night had fallen onto the city. We had to walk up at least 150 stairs to make it to the top. My legs were burning but all that subsided when i look out to the breath taking view. It was thousands of fireflies. The city scape here doesn't have hundreds of skyscrapers. There would no place to build. No building blocks the next. You could see for miles. I found my new favorite place in Paris.
I felt like i was sitting on the moon and looking down at the world. I don't even remember hearing anything or smelling anything. I think all my senses were focusing on the sight.
I took a deep breath and promised the view a hasty return. As soon as i could muster up the courage to climb the stairs again.
We made our way down the other side and into the bustling streets. Men were selling their fake bags, or jewelry. A gang of black men from west africa stand at the base of the stairs and try to use their charm to get you to stop and hold this string they are presenting you with. They want to make a bracelet for you. Innocent enough right?
Hell. to. the. no.
I made this mistake when i was 17 and young and naive--my first trip to paris.I will never forget unsuspectingly stumbling onto the herd and a guy with a big white smile and black as coal skin asking me to help him. He just wanted me to hold the ends of the string while he made a bracelet. I stood there, talking to him like a dumb bambi and before i knew it, he had tied the bracelet on my wrist.
"Oh, no i don't want it."
"No, you already have it on. Just give me something. Anything you have."
"I thought it was free."
"Just give me something."
He still had a hold of my wrist. I pulled out my wallet and had no coins. Just a 5 euro. He took it out of my hand. I was mortified and as soon as the theft had sunken in, I was pissed.
As i saw the gang, still there, almost 6 years later, it all rushed back. One of the men came up with me with a huge smile on my face. It took all my strength to not avenge my 17 year old self and squarely punch this douche in the face.
But i simply said, "Non merci." and walked away-- as hard as it was.
We made our way down an off street from the hustle and bustle and found a Indian-Pakistani fusion restaurant. I had been craving indian so badly so one taste of the chicken tikki masala had me in dining heaven.
I finally ate to a point that i was full. Yes, full. You have no idea how rare it is in Paris. They are so skinny because if you had to pay 100 dollars for a sandwich then you would happily eat a damn saltine cracker.
We made our way closer to the Moulin Rouge district and happened upon an irish bar. We had 2 beers. I had an apricot biere and a manaco. They are really into putting flavored syrups in there beers.
I woke up wednesday morning and had plans to go into the city again. I wanted to go see the famous cemetery, Pere Lachaise. I got dressed and was walking out the door and realized that i didn't have my wallet. I started the initial,"Hmmmm...where did i leave that thing" emotion. Soon it turned into "Okay, where on earth is this thing" and then snow balled into "fuck, my wallet is stolen" panic. I didn't see how on earth it could have been stolen.
I went to the grocery store the day before and remember checking my pocket on the walk home to make sure i had it. When could it have happend?
Then the gasp of the possible moment entered my mind. I didn't lock my door when i went to the kitchen to cook dinner last night. I had my phone with me and took my laptop to listen to music while cooked. They had nothing else they could steal. Surely no one who lives here stole it. It seemed like the only option.
I looked everywhere, even in the impossible place like the trash, the freezer, in my pillow case.
I suppose i could have lost it but it makes me feel less irresponsible if i say it was stolen. But its not like that is much better. that means i live with a thief!
Soon i realized that i had absolutely no money. No cash. no american card. no french card. I checked my pockets and i had 80 cents to my name-- not even enough to buy a baguette. I walked to my bank to tell them to cancel my card (which i had just picked up the day before) and withdraw some cash for a meal, at least. I walked up to the front disk. They don't have tellers here (that would be too easy). You have to go to the front and check in like a doctors office. This is third time i had seen this pudgy woman this week. She looked at me like i was a tax collector.
I walked up there and she stared at me through here reading glasses and stared right through my soul.
"Excuse moi, mais j'ai un grand probleme... quelqu'un a vole mon portefeuille et mon carte bleu." Some one stole my wallet and card.
She stares.
Um. Hello? Coo coo?
"Vous me comprenez?"
"Ouais"...with a deafening indifference.
She always looks at me like i'm speaking piglatin.
isten-lay itch-bay, i eed-nay ome-say elp-hay!
Then, my personal banker , Olivier Naude, walks out and smiles and greets me. The lady then said, "Oh, you know this man?" And i wanted to say, "Lady, this is the third time i've been in here this week. You look at me crazy then finally answer me. I have spelled out my name to you maybe 400 times by now? You have looked at my passport 200 times to set up an account and you don't KNOW me?"
I entered Oliviers office and explained to him the situation. I was tired, and literally starving by this point. It's not normal conversational french to try to explain what happened and what you need to get done. I guess i'm learning the language much quicker under pressure.
He said that i can't withdraw money after noon. It was almost 2:00 o'clock.
I said, "Olivier," with the sternness of an irritated father, "I need money to eat. I am hungry."
He went and got me money from my account.
I left the bank, thankful that i didn't have to go stand next to the gypsy girl and tag team the city for something to eat. I have already memorized the pitch."Excuse me sir or madame. I have 3 million children and they are all starving and they need to help. Please help me sir."
I was so hungry i was ready to dress up and jump in a stroller to help the cause. It would be the first time parisiens would have seen them with a child.
I ran to the boulangerie and got comfort food: quiche, a pastry, and a coke. I walked to the bench and bit into my quiche and was too hungry to realize that i was putting something around the temperature of Hades in my mouth. Quiche are like over microwaved hot pockets--they will fuck your mouth up.
Nothing else tasted good, you know the whole burnt mouth thing...where your taste buds are in mourning.
***
This weekend I met kelsey in Marias. There was a petit soiree being thrown in the 20th arrondissement by some other people we had met working in Paris. Some of them were teachers but others were au pairs. First, we grabbed a drink in Marais at a bar. We sat down and 2 waters came right away. This was the fastest service i had seen in France! Then i looked up and saw them drooling over Kelsey. "Oh...i get it now."
Kelsey is a man, but worse. She has the sexual aggression of a man with the tactful game playing of a woman. She's a dangerous woman i tell you. Before we could finish the drinks, Kelsey had them competing for her attention.
"We'll be back later," we whispered in my ear as she made sure not to turn around and tell them buy.
We ran by a liquor store and grabbed the cheapest wine we could find. We were planning on pounding whatever liquor was there and then make our way back to Kelseys neighborhood for the great bars.
We were pleasantly surprised at how fun the party was. We usually try to convince ourselves of how lame something will be so we don't get disappointed. I met a girl named Rosie. She was 18 and au paring in Paris. She is so young and so beautiful. She's 5'10" with beautiful brown hair and the most adorable accent. I met 3 American girls. One was from NY, she had a french boyfriend that she had met when she was 19 and he lived in the US. Another was from Atlanta and we shared a little southern love. Then i met this girl named Rachel. She was from freakin bo beakin Nashville, TN. Could you believe that? She knew exactly where i worked and lived this summer. What an incredibly small world? Then, i met to girls from Sweden. They were very cute, scandinavian looking, with perfect english. One had a lisp tho so that was interesting. And finally, the host, Rhea, was from Australia. She had moved to Paris when she was 19, fell in love and had been here for four years. She was living with her boyfriend, Fred. They are paxing--it's a legal partnership to allow for a foreigner to stay if they are in a relationship with a french citizen. Everyone talks about it.
Kelsey and i stood in the corner of the room chatting Rhea up about her apartment and thanking her for inviting us. She talked about how she barely has an Australian accent now when she speaks english.
Um...i beg to differ. She could have been on an Outback add no problem. But i just shook my head in agreement. I was drunk at this point.
It was a little after midnight and me and kelsey exited the party. We had plans. Two French servers were on our hit list...well kelsey's hit list to be exact. But i always like to see the chase and the catch. I'm a big discovery channel fan.
We walked into the bar and kelsey went up to the more agressive of the two, Arnauld. She explained how we had just returned from the party and was asking where a good place was to go. *giggle, hair toss, giggle, touch his arm*..
"Umm...you stay hair for zee drink and aftorrr we cloze , we take yew to a friendzzz bar, okay?"
Score.
We had learned by our American warthog friend the weekend before at Sollys that you have to get with the in crowd here in paris to drink after 3 am. According to him, it took him almost a year. Well move over oink oink, it took us 9 days.
We sat down and had a beer. The less agressif server, Alex, came over and said he was glad we were going with them. I sat there and kind of though how funny it was that I knew I was just the friend who was riding on her coat tails...or short mini skirt to be more clear.
Alex informed us that two girls were joining us as well to go to their friends bar. He pointed to the corner and i could see two brunettes of some hispanic decent. The two girls waved and giggled. The place shut down and kelsey and I, along with the two Argentinian girls waited for the guys to count their drawer. We piled into Arnauld's car and Alex got on his motocycle. Then we drove to the bar in front of the Louvre. I was fairly buzzed so everything seemed so surreal. I was listening to french techno, kelsey speaking spanish with the argentines and thinking in english, "Wow." We hopped out of the car and went into the bar. Clinks of glasses walked our way and 6 glasses of champagne were poured. The alcohol kept flowing till 430 a.m. Gin and tonic, vodka sodas, and this delicious drink with apple juice vodka--the devils brew, i titled it. We talked about everything over music and laughter. We joked about stereotypes and we had a wonderful time.
I looked at kelsey and she looked at me and we both stood up. Time to go. Thank god she was as tired as i was. We exchanged numbers, thanked them accordingly, and said we would see them soon. We sobered up on the walk home. We jumped in bed and debriefed.
She preferred the less agressive one.
I preferred the apple juice vodka.
Something told me it would be harder for me to get that vodka.
What a great lunch time read... Can't wait to read your first book! : )
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Really glad I stumbled upon this, Josh. It's quite a cultural travelogue and I enjoy reading it. So I subscribed. And I re-started an old blog on Blogger: yankeekudzu.blogspot.com You're welcome to check out my ramblings.
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