With a scant 3 days before the end of the program, and 21 until my return to Beantown, it’s becoming difficult to walk down the street and not wonder how long it’ll be until I can grab a leisurely espresso for only a euro at a café counter again. How long before I’ll spend five minutes too many trying to sympathize with a one-footed pigeon that’s hobbling around on its nub, being cursed at by passing Parisians on the sidewalk in front of me? Before a jolly accordion player comes through the aisles of the Metro for tips after a morning commute cover of La Vie en Rose and everyone gracefully turns their head away?
The thought is almost too sad to ponder.
So, in order to properly close out this saga in a few weeks, it’s time to begin the Balls in Your Coffee-style adieu to the City of Lights—the people, the food and the bizarreries, which really should be a word in English.
A certain photo album that one of our friends, Lily, put together inspired the idea; she whittled down her archives of Paris photos to a succinct 44, each paired with a “Best Of” category. In any case, that’s the way Paris will be truly remembered—snapshots of moments.
In our case, it’s more like snapshots of awkwardness. Same thing.
Best Drink In Paris That Will Make You Forget Your Name:
A few months into our stay here, we discovered a certain bar with a certain name that shall not be named, for selfish reasons—we shall call it Bar Voldemort—and began trooping to it’s worn wooden booths and collaged walls (good luck finding a bar in Paris that is not like this. Insert evil laugh here) once or twice a week. After a short while, we were bestowed with the best present an expat could ever receive: the cheek-kisses upon entry. Making it as regulars, and getting to “faire la bise,” is like receiving a sparkly flying unicorn that stomps glitter out of it's hooves and does your homework for you for your 6th birthday, when all you wanted was a pony.
Anyway, at Bar Voldemort, there's this beautifully hefty cocktail list. On this list, there is a drink that when purchased and subsequently sipped, makes one believe first that there is no God, and then (after half the drink has been put away) that one is God. My one and only experience with said drink left me having this key conversation, yelling over the music, with a young French guy with slicked back hair and too much cologne.
“So, what are you all doing in Paris?”
“Oh, students! We are here for four months being students.”
“Nice. What are you studying?”
“Journalism! And French. Hahahahaha...ooooof course.”
Some time passes, I quietly work on my cocktail, and conversation flows around the table. We’re on fire, speaking French like mentally disabled locals, feeling good, ignoring the fact that our lips have gone numb. About a half-hour later, Cologne Man turns back to me. What he truly said, I can only guess at.
“So, the other night I was saying to my friend, this government is seriously out of control! Sarko thinks he owns us, man! And I’m like, yeah man, I just want to live my life, you know? Fuck this communist shit! Then he’s like, ‘Technically Sarko isn’t a communist.’ And I’m like, ‘Man, everyone is a communist these days right?’ That’s what all Americans think right??"
I reply, with a great big smile on my face:
“STUDENTS! We are here for four months being students.”
“….right. Have you had a chance to see any good stuff around Paris?”
I laugh heartily and slurp the rest of my Drink of Death:
“Journalism! And French. Hahahahaha...ooooof course.”
(*photo credit to a fellow Voldemort-going drunken comrade. We shall call her...N'Irelande.)
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