How to Spend All Your Money and Dignity in Paris

I finally arrived home yesterday morning at around 6:30, with two tipsy friends in tow. We stumbled into my tiny apartment and passed out like kittens in a heap on my bed. I didn't bother to even wipe off  my mascara or brush my teeth. I just vaguely hoped I wouldn't kick Sophie in the face during the night (morning) before I fell fast asleep, dead to the world, until my babysitting job in approximately five and a half hours. 

I am so tired. After 3 and a half months of spending at least half the weekend holed up with a bottle of wine and a movie, I suddenly have plans every night. I guess this means I'm cool now. Christ, that took a while. 

Let's back up. Two weekends ago was when Eloise and Astral's visitors from home were here; the night that I was in the fight outside Sacré Coeur. (Ok I know that I wasn't actually part of the fight, but it happened really, really close to me and I've never been in a fight, so I'm calling it, ok?)

The weekend after that was a doozy. For starters it began on Wednesday, and didn't end until the following Monday, which was a holiday. These are the establishments I patronized in those five days. 

Wednesday: Earth's Kitchen

Thursday: Bo Zinc

Friday: Tribeca, O'Sullivan's, The Apartment of A French Person I've Never Met and Am Unlikely to Meet Again

Saturday: That Crepe Place By Montparnasse, Bo Zinc again, Bar On Grands Boulevards I Can't Remember

Sunday: La Campanella, L'International

Monday: Jardin des Tuileries, Starbucks

I was pretty much wiped by Monday, so wiped in fact that I didn't wake up until around 3 in the afternoon. That weekend was spectacular for a number of reasons. The first being that my long lost childhood friend, Connie, arrived in Paris with her new French boyfriend Mathieu. That is the reason I was in a strange Parisian apartment. I didn't just follow somebody home one night, I promise. Suddenly tasked with showing people a good time in Paris, I did the best I could. I dragged them to a couple only slightly overpriced restaurants in my neighborhood and then out to the few going-out-y neighborhoods I know of. I think I did pretty well. I'm calling it a success anyway. Mathieu was lovely and Connie and I got along as if we'd never stopped hanging out. It was like if you're really hungry but there's no food in the house and then suddenly you realize that that jar of Nutella in the back of your cupboard isn't empty after all. So you take to that thing with a spoon and zero shame and it is awesome. (I'm kinda poor right now, so please don't judge. This is legitimately awesome in my world). We drank, we laughed, we made inappropriate jokes. What's ten years, anyway?

I capped this spectacular weekend with early evening wine and cheese and strawberries in the Tuileries with Bea, where we soaked in what sunshine we could and admired ourselves for our Parisianness. 

Well this last weekend wasn't quite so long, but certainly eventful. Friday I met Astral, Astral's best friend from Scotland, her other friend Ellyse, and their adorable accents. I'm sorry, I just can't get over how lovely Astral's Scottish accent is. Say English, but pronounce it, "Eyngllesh." Ah. So beautiful. 

Anyway, we met at Bastille and per Ellyse's suggestion, just went into the loudest bar on the street, called Charlotte Bar. Pros: As soon as we entered, the doorman/host-type-person/MC/bartender brought us to a table which was already occupied by three guys. He kicked the guys out, and we moved in. Mean? Unfair? Sexist? Sure! No, of course I didn't offer to give the guys back their table. Cons: We missed Happy Hour, which meant that I paid 20 euros for two drinks. Ponder that for a minute. No, seriously. The music was deafening, I think my ears are still ringing, and the place was so packed I got at least ten other people's sweat on me. It was fun though. They played a lot of Jay-Z, etc and we made friends with some lovely gentlemen inexplicably wearing Viking hats and carrying inflatable axes.

Saturday night we decided to go to Batofar, a rave of sorts on a boat that started at midnight and ended at six. We got there at one, all of us at least a bottle of wine in, got our cool-girl wrist stamps, and prepared to party. This was Bea's last Saturday night in Paris before she leaves this weekend, sob, so we made a pledge to go hard. And hard we went. I'm trying to decide what my favorite part of the evening was. One friend flirting heavily with the bartender and then yelling angrily at said bartender an hour later; making one gullible (French!) guy believe that I was French; actually dancing for the first time in probably years; calling out the creeps on the dance floor; meeting the world's least subtle MDMA dealers; the 700,000 pictures we took; fighting with the vending machine in the train station for barbecue chips... So many memories to choose from. 

Honestly, the thing I might like best about going out is recounting the evening the next morning with friends. You did what? I did what? Best night ever! It's just nice to have a friend there in the morning as you're unsticking the vodka from your hair and glugging water like you've just escaped a deserted island, and trying to deal with the fact that your stomach feels inside out and your head is trying to kill you, someone to confirm or deny whether you really were a complete and utter asshat the night before. This is how we bond, you see. 

Ah, to be young. Here's the truth about youth, all you nostalgic older relatives that I know are reading this: it's freaking exhausting. 

On the Steps of Sacré Coeur

In case you're not sure, Sacré Coeur is the cathedral at the top of the really big hill, and when you climb to the top of the hill to get to the cathedral, you look down onto all of Paris. It's a spectacular view, particularly at dusk on a clear night, when the Eiffel Tower has just been lit up. Also it's free. 

So drinking a bottle of wine with your friends on these steps at night sounds like a great idea, right? It definitely sounded fun when Eloise invited me. How lovely, I thought. How Parisian! How bohemian of us! 

Well. Eloise, Astral, Eloise's brother Angus, Astral's cousin Simone, and I arrived on the scene where apparently some concert had just ended. I had pictured clean, deserted steps with just us and our bottle of Johnnie Walker, but what we found was a decent sized crowd and steps absolutely covered in Heineken bottles, cigarette butts, and various snack wrappers. I wondered for a minute why exclusively Heineken bottles until I noticed the guys who were wandering up and down carrying 30 packs, and selling the individual beers, ball game style.

Relatively undeterred, we cleared off a cleanish space and cracked open the whiskey. Every now and then a Heineken bottle rolled down the steps and smashed. A large van with the words "Boom Bus" painted on the side rolled up below us. After some finagling, it eventually started playing dance music, and shooting out neon lights. Maybe seven people danced total, but it was fun. A little grubby but definitely cheap. 

I couldn't help but notice, however, that the crowd was mostly dudes. Which meant that our largish group of girls (not including Angus of course) attracted a bit of attention. Some of them were nice enough I suppose, but there was one dude, wearing a Bulls cap, which is bizarrely trendy in Paris, who seemed ready to hang out all night. Bulls Cap Guy has a girlfriend in every country he's visited, if you'll believe that. Bulls Cap Guy believes that if you have a boyfriend in a different country, he doesn't count. Bulls Cap Guy believes putting your hands all over your new friend's thigh is just friendly, and why are you being so uptight, you frigid bitch? Bulls Cap Guy was also apparently unconcerned when his very drunk and very huge friend passed out immediately behind me. Sort of on me, actually. 

"Um, is he okay?" I asked. 

"Yes, yes. He just had too much to drink, you know."

Well sure. Once you've identified the cause of your friend's passing out, there's nothing else to worry about, right? So when a couple other guys approached the King Sized Sleeping Beauty behind me, I asked them if he was okay too. They gave me a weird look, which I didn't understand at all until a few moments later. 

I felt Goliath stir behind me, and looked up to find him brandishing half a Heineken bottle, jagged edge up, at the two guys from before. 

I'd like to pause here to remind everyone that this is all happening right in front of one of the most famous and beautiful cathedrals in the world. 

Anyway, they started throwing punches and Bulls Cap Guy jumped up. They crashed into each other and then they crashed into us, and I felt a bottle smack the back of my head. As I registered the fact that I was just hit in the head with a goddamn beer bottle, with mixed feelings of rage and pride, I looked up to see that as they tumbled down the steps, they had somehow taken Eloise with them, rolling across the broken glass. I, very helpfully, yelled her name. But her brother was already there and pulling her out of the drunken, belligerent snowball.

When they got to the bottom of the stairs, the fight seemed to end somehow, and the last I saw of them they were stumbling away. And that's how we got rid of Bulls Hat Guy. 

I Went to Belgium and Didn't Get a Waffle

I guess it was two weeks ago now (wow) when I was sitting around feeling sorry for myself while Le Petit napped. This would be the week when it was school vacation and V was recovering from foot surgery so I spent Monday through Friday from 9 to 7:30 smearing antibiotic ointment on my inflated eye, playing cars, and watching Disney Junior in French. Now I love Disney Junior, and truth be told I really love Le Petit too, but by about Wednesday I was ready to fling myself from the Eiffel Tower if I didn't get to talk to someone capable of full sentences pronto. Luckily I was free as a bird the next week, and I live in Europe now, which means that visiting another country is as easy as taking the bus from Chicago to Detroit. 

"Hey wanna have an adventure with me next week?" I texted Bea.

"Ooh I like the sound of this!" she responded. 

And that's the story of how we decided to go to Brussels during our vacation. 

Our trip was shortened down to just a day due to snow (get it together France) but we managed to be on the bus to Brussels (capital of Europe, did you know that?) by 7:30 on Thursday morning. I know, I'm surprised I made it in time too. 

After a minor setback trying to figure out public transportation at the end of which we decided just to get a cab, we found our way to the hostel, dropped off our bags, and were handed a map. This is the best map in the history of maps. Not only did it include the lovely caption pictured above, but a list of shopping, restaurants, bars, sightseeing, clubs, and parks. It basically planned our trip for us. We wandered around the Grand Place for a bit, had an omelette served by a waiter desperately in love with Bea (actual quote "Be careful with that omelette. My heart's in there"), stopped back at the hostel for a nap, shook out our trusty guide, and tried to make a decision about food and entertainment for the night. I wanted to get moules frites, because that is another thing Belgium is supposedly known for, but we opted instead for a restaurant the map tagged as a "Local tip!" with traditional food. I am so glad we did. I got sausages with some sort of mashed vegetable thing and beer of course. Oh god, so good.

Next we headed to Delirium Village (home of the legendarily delicious, not to mention dangerous, Delirium Tremens), which boasts the largest selection of beers of any bar in the world. This seems like such an awesome thing, except that it makes actually ordering something impossible. After staring at the interminable menu for about 5 minutes I finally shrugged at the bartender and said, "Something good?" He nodded, and handed me something that was, indeed, good. I really love those super strong sour Belgian beers. You'd think they'd have more of them in France, seeing as Belgium is literally freaking RIGHT THERE. But alas, it's mostly Heineken and the like as far as beer selection goes in Paris. The live band was fun, especially the part where the lead singer read the lyrics to Beatles songs off of his music sheet in front of him. Seriously, who doesn't know the words to "Come Together"?

After that we went to a club called Madame Moustache, with free entry, but you had to pay to use the bathroom. Scam. Total scam. I sprung for all night bathroom privileges which cost a euro. One time use was 50 centimes. Scam, I tell you. Despite that bullshit, this was probably the most fun I've ever had in an establishment where dancing is expected. That's probably because instead of the same monotonous House music or some Jason Derulo/Rihanna/Drake pop nightmare, this DJ played 30's, 40's, and 50's music remixed with a hip hop beat. You guys I danced to Jailhouse Rock at a club in Brussels. Game over. Best night out ever. 

We left the next day in the afternoon. No, I didn't get a waffle, but I did get frites (they're fries) which were delicious. I also brought home a single Trappist Rochefort beer, which is sitting in my fridge. I'm saving it for the solo Brussels-throwback Elvis party I plan on throwing sometime in the future.

A Parisian Pity Party

The other night, before I went to bed, my eye felt bruised. That's weird. Like I got punched in the eyeball. Did I run into something and forget about it? Wouldn't be unheard of. So, being me, I went to bed and forgot about it. The next morning I woke up and my whole eyelid had swollen. Great.

I assumed that I had just gotten Le Petit's eye infection. I seem to have a special propensity for disgusting ailments. Remind me to tell you about the time I got a fungal infection in my ear on a family vacation one year. That's right, fungus in my ear.

So I dropped by the pharmacy for some eye drops or cream or something to de-deform me, and got to practice my French. I think it helped that I had something big and puffy to point to for emphasis. 

But though I used the eye drops exactly as directed, when I woke up the next morning the eyelid in question had doubled in size and raised me red, painful, and leaky. Dear V called her doctor to get me a script for something (on her way to the hospital for her surgery by the way), which turned out to be antibiotic eye drops. Well these eye drops didn't turn out to be any more effective than the original eye drops, and my eyelid was still inflated with God only knows what, and so heavy it started to drag the entire right side of my face down. Blinking hurt.

That night V called to ask how Tom was doing, and then asked if my eye was any better. It should be much better, she said. Having decided I was probably going to spend the rest of my life looking like I'd been socked in the face, I was choking back frustrated tears when I told her it wasn't any better. 

"Come over," she said. "I'm calling the doctor."

I went over to her apartment where her sister and niece were helping her recover from her foot surgery, grabbed a seat, and waited for the doctor to come over. Apparently here in the City that Goes to Bed Promptly at Ten, you can get a doctor to make a house call at 10:30. He forced the eyelid up and pointed his evil little flashlight at me. V's sister gasped slightly at whatever it was they saw up there. 

"It's a stye," V translated. I got a new script for an antibiotic ointment, which I smear on my eyelid three times a day. 

And when I woke up this morning, while still swollen, my eye doesn't hurt anymore. And unless it's just wishful thinking, I think it looks a little smaller. Maybe I'll go out tonight after all. Although I don't expect anyone to ask for my number. 

Because I'm always looking for silver linings and learning opportunities, here is a disgusting eye infection French lesson for the day:

1. swollen: gonflé

2. eyelid: paupière

3. stye: orgelet

I Hate Goodbyes

I realized fairly recently that I am the only one out of my current group of Paris friends who is going to be here all summer. Eloise leaves in July, Astral and Bea in late spring, and Ellie and Jane have already left.

A couple weeks ago, Ellie told us she was thinking about leaving her au pair family due to, ahem, creative differences. Sometimes I don't think I appreciate enough how lucky I got with my situation. Even if V was completely nuts, I still have my own apartment to hide out in. No little kids wandering in, no getting woken up at 7:30 in the morning, no judgment if I don't get home until 4 am. But Ellie was not so lucky and soon after she told us she was thinking about leaving, suddenly she was gone.

At this moment right now, I imagine that Jane is starting her first day at her new job. I vaguely knew that Jane was leaving around this time but I didn't really expect it to happen so soon. We sent her off with a farewell lunch of onion soup and waffles and ice cream on her last day. And just like that, another one bites the dust.

Is this like camp? You form these intense and close friendships for a couple months and then when the summer's over you never hear from them again? Like Cindy at Interlochen. I loved Cindy. She made chocolate chip banana cookies and wore men's pants and her mom knew one of the guys from Fallout Boy. And we promised we'd email and write letters and call and visit, and I haven't spoken to Cindy since I left Interlochen eight years ago.

Well that is just not happening here. I'm more grown up than that, surely. I don't just let friendships drop just because we no longer see each other every day!

So I'm planning a Grand Tour of the UK this summer. I will get to visit all the friends I met in Paris who moved back home, plus I get to see England which is the nationality of my soul. Or at least my sense of humor.

The tentative schedule looks like this. Early/mid July I go to London and stay with Bea. From there I take a train (or bus or something) up to Leeds to see Jane. Then on to Scotland to see Astral and Eloise. I'll finish near Bristol where Ellie lives. And then I'll try to convince her to go to Dublin with me because I've never been and I'm really trying to suck the marrow out of this living in Europe thing.

So this goodbye thing is really only a goodbye-for-now, since I'm going to see them when I definitely for sure no question about it go to England this summer. And who knows, maybe I'll like it so much I'll move there next...

City of Love, huh?

Well, here's what I'm thinking about the "city of love." (Please keep in mind that the flash is outdated on my computer and so I have no idea whether this video is the right one or not.)

and We Goin' Gorillas

I know, I know. I suck. 

Anyway. 

So most nights, after eating whatever mess I made for dinner with V and Le Petit, I go home, download a movie I've already seen a hundred times (The Departed!) and settle in with a sleeve of Oreos. I'm usually up until about 2:00, at which time I turn off the light and attempt to sleep. 

It has been suggested that passing my evenings this way is perhaps not entirely conducive to experiencing as much of Paris as I can. Yeah well, I'm lame, what can I say. I think that part of the problem is that I just don't know where to start. I keep telling everyone about how in Chicago I was different. I knew about everything in Chicago. I could give you bar and restaurant recommendations for any situation. I know secret places. I know which not-so-secret places to avoid. I went to shows and clubs (okay fine I never went to clubs but only because I don't own anything sparkly or short enough and I never feel like paying a cover charge). The point is, I know Chicago. I was in a long term relationship with Chicago. We share a toothbrush and know about all of each other's gross habits. That alluring mystery is gone, but it's more comfortable now, and I have to admit I'm still in love. 

I guess that means Paris and I are having an affair. (Has this metaphor gone on long enough?) You see I don't know much about Paris's night life. There's so much, and I'm so poor, I wouldn't even know how to start having one of those nights out where I stay out so late I catch the first Metro home at 5:30.      So basically, I never have any ideas for where to go or what to do on the weekends, and instead tend to wait until somebody else makes a suggestion. Again, I know. I suck. 

So when Eloise suggested we all go to this Metro Party, I immediately agreed, despite not being entirely sure what a Metro party entailed. It's pretty simple as it turns out. Everyone meets up at a metro stop with their booze of choice, and then we all get on the metro and ride it for about 2 hours, ending at a bar. That's it.

Well, I'm up for anything, so I bought a six pack and met Eloise and two others at the Nation stop, where about 100 other people were already hanging around. Other than one guy who offered us a biscuit and another who asked us for pot, we didn't interact much with our fellow metro partiers. To be honest, they all looked a bit weird, and Eloise and I began to wonder what exactly we were doing there. Was it obvious we were totally uncomfortable? 

Eventually it looked like the crowd was moving so we followed everyone down into the metro and then we all just got on the train. The poor people just trying to get home from work or meet their friends for a quick drink suddenly found themselves swarmed by a loud, raucous and slightly intoxicated group of young internationals. I was packed between my friends, a group of English girls, and a few dudes with shaved heads who I'd seen doing acrobatics on the sidewalk before we boarded. The organizer had brought a sound system which he propped on a seat that blasted hip hop through the whole train. Clutching my warm Heineken and bobbing as gracefully as I could (not easy on the best of days, nevermind on a lurching train in close physical contact without about 11 strangers) I sang along to Outkast and tried not to completely crush Bea. Poor Bea is approximately half my size and was unfortunately positioned directly behind me, so whenever the train lunged to a stop Bea fell into the seat behind her and I fell onto her lap. Every now and then a stage-diver passed overhead. Or metro-seat-diver I guess. It was usually the same guy, dressed in a fuzzy blue Halloween costume. I think it was Sully from Monsters Inc, but I can't be sure since the best view I got of him was while I gingerly supported his warm, furry ankle as he floated above my head. 

The whole event was hot, uncomfortable, smelled strongly of body odor, and weirdly fun. So take that Kanye and Jay-Z. N****s in Paris indeed.