Later that week, I met up with Minnesota and his family in Paris. It was pretty standard Arianna in the way that I rolled up to the hotel two hours later than expected – but in my defense, it wasn’t from being directionally challenged as usual, but rather my French isn’t exactly top-notch (sorry, Madame Saad, you did all that you could) and the metro workers’ English directions were far from fluent. As it was approaching midnight and I was still waiting for my train to arrive – at a deserted station, completely alone aside from a pack of older guys – I could only think that Minnesota sitting me down a couple days earlier to watch the Taken trailer (apparently I scream “Kidnap me” – who knew?) was poor timing. It didn’t help that the movie’s location was also Paris and Tim has been procrastinating with that taser license of mine.
But needless to say, I didn’t end up as a hostage! Another day, another victory. Everything went smoothly from there: we saw the Arc de Triomphe, visited the Louvre, forced Minnesota through a day of shopping, and never stopped eating mouth-watering food, including my favorite place for macarons and tea, Ladurée. Also we chilled outside the Eiffel Tower since we couldn’t actually climb up due to bomb threats. Pretty typical.
I was beyond ready to return to Paris, partly because all of my traveling adventures this spring had been scattered solely around England, and also since last semester’s trip had been nothing short of amazing. I still remember that Saturday night with Eric and the rest of our USD crew when this massive, menacing-looking French bouncer pulled me aside at the club. He said in his deep voice (which was more or less 10 octaves lower than the average human’s), “You. We’ve been watching you.”
Instantly, I tense up, due to my dark history as a club kleptomaniac.
“Oh, have you?” I reply, all while mentally replaying the night’s events to determine whether I had taken a swipe at their bottle stash or not. It was hard knowing with me.
“Yeah, for a while now. You and your friend over there.” His expression remains stern and voice just like I imagined a mafia hitman’s would. He gestures over to my friend, Lian, who was busy dancing and unaware I was the subject of an interrogation of Interpol proportions.
I struggle to keep my voice casual as I say, “Right, what about us?”
“You girls…” he begins, and guides me over to the bartender, who’s also staring intently at me. I was 30 seconds away from exclaiming, “I swear I didn’t take any tequila this time! I’ve changed since freshman year!” when his demeanor does a complete 180.
“You girls are exactly the type we want around here! Anything you want is on the house!” He gives me a jolly pat on the back and the bartender pulls out a glass for me, saying, “How does a Manhattan sound? I can get you a Cosmo too!”
No, I don’t understand how it happened either. All I know is free service for the remainder of the night wasn’t exactly a hardship for me. Plus, I met a guy outside later that night who offered me a VIP club pass since he wasn’t in the mood to use it, and bought me a banana and Nutella crepe “just because it’s absolutely necessary I try one.” Take that, rude French stereotypes.
So eating another banana and Nutella crepe was definitely a top priority for the 2013 Paris expedition. Obviously that dream came true, and although there was no bottle service at the club Minnesota and I went to this time around, it was still a solid pick. Girls got free champagne, and to decorate for the Easter theme, each table had a giant chocolate bunny. Is it at all surprising that one of them ended up in my purse that night? Probably no more surprising than the fact I binged on the entire block of chocolate at 3 in the morning the moment we got back. I guess some things never change.
The Art of Being Basic 