5 Scotsmen, an Aussie, and an American Walk into a Bar

I was just going down to the metro, minding my own business, and then I heard them. English voices. English spoken in public places is like my siren song. It's not exactly uncommon around here but still, every time I hear a "hello," or an "Oh my god," or an "I know, right?" my ears perk right up and my whole body subtly shifts toward the speaker as if compelled. The voices on this occasion came from a largish group of guys that I heard as I pushed past them at the Châtelet stop. 

"Sorry," I said. Not "Pardon" and certainly not "excusez-moi," but "sorry" as if to say, "We are kindred. Be a part of my Anglophone brotherhood." 

Evidently taking my hint, the 5 Scottish guys and their Australian friend immediately struck up an eager chat. By the time the train arrived 3 minutes later, the Aussie was saying, "Well we're going to this pub called the Aulde something or other if you wanna join..." The offer was seconded by some of the other guys and I think I was on the wrong train anyway and oh what the hell. Sure. Let's go. 

They were loud, a little tipsy, and fun. the Aulde Something or Other is apparently the only Scottish pub in Paris, and I find it hilarious that their goal while in Paris for the week was to find the one Scottish pub. When we arrived the lads were shocked and dismayed to find that the supposed Scottish pub did not actually have Scottish beer. 

"Is there Scottish beer?" I asked. 

"Like one," replied Craig. "But still." (There was however an American bartender from Texas who had been away long enough that he now sounded English.) So everyone got pints of Pelforth, a French beer and therefore generally the cheapest. I didn't even have to pay for mine. Because apparently by following "a bunch of randoms" to a bar for no reason other than that the mantra "do it! do it! do it!" is basically playing in constant loop in my head, makes me the coolest girl ever. "Who just follows a bunch of randoms to a bar? That is so cool," said James. Only he's Scottish so he pronounced it more like "kel."

They were all cute in their own goofy ways but the Australian was attractive. Never mind the pretty hair and face and really impressive biceps, he had that general sort of beaming, good-natured Australian-ness that is so damn irresistible. I asked why he was in Paris, and he said he'd just finished University so he had some time and was just traveling. You and me both, my friend. 

Well the bar was going to close and the lads were on their way to a club. They asked me to come along but I had to draw the line somewhere. I had to work in the morning for Christ's sake. "Oh come on!" they said. "It'll be such a good story!" It would have been. But I had to get up at 8 and if I stayed out until 5 I would never survive the following day. And not all of their cajoling and teasing could change my mind.

As they planned their next move at the top of the steps I waved goodbye and skipped down to the metro. Before I got to the turnstiles I heard my name. It was Mitch the Aussie and his beautiful arms.

"It was really nice meeting you," he said, giving me the kind of big warm hug that I've been missing since I left America. And before I could finish saying "It was nice to meet you too" he was kissing me. I remember looking at his face and thinking If I didn't know any better I'd say you were about to kiss me, and suddenly he did. In the metro station. In Paris. Zooey Deschanel should play me in a movie.

"What was that?" I asked.

"A story."

Best. Line. Ever. 

Then he left, and I left, and I've been crying myself to sleep ever since because I don't know his last name, his phone number, or how long he's in Paris. Damn, I should have just gone to that club.

Is There an Attractive Way to Eat a Burger?

This blog has gotten away from me a bit. I realize that. But I'm back now!

So, news for this week:

Le Petit has fallen ill again. He doesn't seem like a particularly sickly child, but I must be wrong because he takes more medication in a week than I think I did for the first ten years of my life. The prognosis this time is asthma (minor), pneumonia, and potential tuberculosis. So he's not going to school at all this week. Instead I am taking him to the park, the zoo, a kids' theater show, and his after school activities. 

...

I'd complain less if this week I didn't also have to babysit tonight (14 hour day!) and work for another 8 hours on Saturday. That's 55.5 hours for this week in total. 55.5 hours of snot, spit, tears, rectal thermometers, inhalers, butt wipes, potties, Octonauts, cooking, and housework. I'm sorry, I'm just not ready to be a stay-at-home mom. How did this happen?

I did escape relatively early last night for a burger date with Sophie. There's a "Brooklyn Diner" close to my apartment that serves Aunt Jemima pancakes in the morning, some salads, and a variety of burgers. There's the 14 euro Chicken burger, the 15 euro "Oh Yeah!" burger, as well as the Chuck Norris burger which goes for an inexplicable 18 euros. What could possibly be in the Chuck Norris burger that's worth 18 euros? But there's also the classic cheeseburger which is only 6 (this is my favorite option). Who knew that adding bleu cheese, bacon, or caramelized onions can drive the price of a burger up to more than twice its original value?

The burgers are good, but to be honest, that's not why we go. We go because the most gorgeous man in the world works there. You know that fantasy about going to some European city and you meet an unbelievably attractive guy who swoops you up onto his moped to show you the "real" Paris/Rome/Athens and you end up in some deserted public park or on a roof somewhere and somehow he produces a bottle of wine and tells you you're the most beautiful woman he's ever met and you're just thrilled that he said "woman" and not "girl" and you immediately fall in love with him? Well this is the guy from that fantasy. The man of your dreams works at a faux-American burger joint in Paris. I'm not an ogler by nature but he's like a walking Levi's ad. I can't help it. My internal monologue goes something like this: Oh god oh god he's coming over. He's looking at me did he just smile at me? Don't look at me! Look at me! How do you say hello in French? How do you say hello in English? What did he just say? Do I have ketchup on my face? Would it be sexy or disgusting if I licked cheese off my fingers? I wonder if he's handy. I wonder if he could build me a kitchen. Or a house. Or a children's tree house...

But eventually Sophie and I finish our burgers and our drinks and we have no excuse to stay unless we order dessert which we can't do because 1: we're poor and 2: we don't want to look fat. Which is such a silly, girly thing to think and usually I don't but when the guy who will be bringing you the enormous cheesecake looks like some sort of French Harrison Ford, Brad Pitt, Marlboro Man conglomeration, you think about these things. 

Long story short, Beautiful Burger Guy did not write his number on our bill, get off early to wait for us outside, or invite us to a party he's having at his apartment later. But there's always next week.

I Hope I Don't Get in Trouble with the French Government for This...

But I'm going to share with you the secret of French cooking. 

Are you ready?

You're sure?

Oh alright then. Here it is.

A little grain mustard and some crème fraiche.

That's it. Particularly the crème fraiche part. Crème fraiche goes in everything. We put a little crème fraiche in purées, baked goods, virtually any sauce, on chicken, beef, I've never made soup here but I feel pretty confident that any recipe includes a little crème fraiche. Not that I'm complaining of course. I mean, have you ever tasted crème fraiche? 

So, here is the sauce I have on basically any meat I eat here. In the skillet in which you've just cooked your chicken/pork/steak/what-have-you, add a dollop of Dijon to the leftover juices and stir. Then add a slightly larger dollop of crème fraiche. Add a little chicken broth or white wine for good measure. Pour over everything on your plate and congratulate yourself on mastering French cooking. 

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