Pretty lights, big rats and an anniversary

Well, well, well, boys and girls, would you look at that? Balls In Your Coffee turns one year old today.

It’s been quite the long haul; for those of you who have been here since the beginning, I thank you from the bottom of my heart, and for those who have jumped on board during the past year, it is for you I keep writing these shenanigans down.

We’ve escaped The Martini, entered the world of organic groceries, and skipped off to another continent together, and I can’t wait to see what happens next. Here’s to many happy returns for this little blog with big dreams and a dubious name.

As this Monday finds me slumped at my work desk, sharing YouTube clips with my coworkers and counting down the minutes until lunch, here’s a tidbit from last weekend.

Saturday night we were huddled along the Champ de Mars, the Eiffel Tower in the foreground casting a subtle golden glow over the grass, the temperature dropping to a wintery chill. We had stuffed our purses with the basics; a bottle of Bordeaux, a mammoth bunch of grapes the size of a two-month old child, 99 centime brie, baguettes and a packet of Milanos, intent on picnicking à la française for the last time before the snow arrives.

During the winter months, the grass in Paris is legally in “hibernation,” which means that our picnic was relegated to the cold benches lining the lawns as we watched the rats romp and frolic on the tourist-free green pastures to their rodent hearts content. I know endearing scenes from Ratatouille are currently replaying in your heads, and I hesitate before stomping on those fantasies, but I’m positive that none of these rats could make little rat-sized omelets or render a horrendous sweetbread recipe edible.

Like the real rebels we are, we passed the wine back and forth, despite the so-called police disapproval of open bottles in public spaces. We even put on nonchalant, very French faces as we were approached by three flics making their nightly rounds. The open Bordeaux sat on the ground in between us, and as the three cops sauntered by, we nodded, chimed “Bonsoir!” and smiled, my leg slowly moving to cover the wine.

As we sat together, sharing the brie and the Milanos, my hands going numb from the cold, the clock struck 8 p.m. and the Eiffel Tower burst into life, glittering as it does every hour of every night. Despite the regularity of this routine, it never fails to evoke a reaction from the milling crowd beneath the pillars or the starry-eyed tourists strolling along the paths of the Champ de Mars; it’s almost a shock every time the sparkling begins, as if you weren’t really sure it was going to happen after all. Everyone claps and whistles and screams like it’s a sign that yes, the world will indeed continue to turn and yes, Santa Claus DOES exist and that yes, this contraption of metal and lights and hauteur will continue to blow minds for years to come.

As we lapsed into silence and watched the shimmering Tower for a minute or two, I turned my head and caught a rat crouched a few feet behind our bench. Maybe he was waiting for us to drop some baguette, or waiting to pounce and infect all of us with a 28 Days Later-esque strain of rabies, but for a second, it almost seemed like he was watching the twinkling lights like the rest of the crowd.

So, alright, perhaps mini-gourmet chef rats exist. It is Paris after all.