Booze and Culture

Shortly after getting home last night, just as I began idly browsing Facebook and trying to decide what movie I was going to download, my phone rang. Expecting V, I was pleasantly surprised to find Bea on the other line. Apparently she'd had some sort of mix-up with the person she was supposed to meet and her plans fell through, but she didn't want to go home yet. Did I want to come out?

Always!

So Bea hopped on the Metro and I met her at Ecole Militaire half an hour later. She agreed to come to the 7th because it would be better than sitting around for half an hour and waiting for me to meet her at Bastille, but honestly I wasn't really sure where we'd go. I'd never been "out" in my neighborhood before, and there isn't exactly a hopping nightlife around here. I vaguely imagined that our best bet would be the O'Shea's, or O'Malley's, or O'Something pub that I'd passed the other day. (I'm convinced there are at least 6 of these in every city in the universe). We wandered past it, but for whatever reason beer is expensive in Paris, which sort of defeats the whole purpose of beer. We peered inside at a bunch of youngish dudes crowded around the bar drinking their 8 euro pints. Maybe not.

Instead we ambled up and down rue Cler until we spotted a likely looking brasserie, and installed ourselves in a corner, Hemingway style. The menu boasted several expensive and swanky looking cocktails as well as a wine list divided into sections according to price like on an airline: Low Cost, Economy, and Business. Handy! I'll bet you can guess what we ordered.

As a Londoner, Bea has a pretty distinctive accent that I am never tired of discussing. I'm beginning to fear that all of my new-found friends are going to get tired of my constant preoccupation with our linguistic differences. Anyone who knows me at home knows that I secretly long to be British. My hope is that some day I'll have perfected my British accent so as to fully assimilate and convince everyone I meet, including people from the UK, that I grew up in Sheffield, or Bristol or wherever. Just as long as I don't continue to confuse "pants" with "trousers" of course. On the other hand, I've also become really patriotic in the past few weeks. Whenever I see one of those "Brooklyn-style diners" I always think Oh, how quaint! And they're eating their burgers with a knife and fork! And I'm bizarrely proud to see the random Pizza Hut or Subway. Absence makes the heart grow fonder? 

Well anyway, as I was talking about how suddenly proud I am to be an American, it occurs to me that I couldn't be in a more stereotypically Parisian setting; sipping 3 euro wine on the terrace of this little brasserie. Couldn't we just bring that to America? I guess not. And I suppose this is the part of my experience that makes me more worldly and cultured. 

I'll let you know how that turns out.