Day 2
Tragedy struck when we trekked all the way to Marais, only to discover the Beyoncé wall was history.
To whoever painted over it: you’re officially on my hit list, right after the beez from 2nd grade who never returned my lit Lisa Frank notebook and whichever TV executive decided to cancel Freaks and Geeks.
So, we held back our tears and moved on to explore the rest of Le Marais, a pocket of Paris known for its medieval, pre-revolutionary architecture and prominent LGBT community. From there, we visited the first house ever built in Paris (it was pretty beat), and gradually made our way over to Champs-Elysées. It’s a more bougie part of Paris, home to numerous high-end stores, such as Chanel and Swarovski, as well as an Abercrombie & Fitch I definitely thought was a classic art museum at first… but is really just your standard dimly-lit cellar where you can buy cheap t-shirts courtesy of child laborers for $50 and choke on cologne.
A little #tbt from my first Paris trip:
Anyway, because I enjoy pretending I’m more sophisticated than I actually am, we took a breather at Ladurée for some Vanilla Earl Grey tea and pistachio macarons (my favorite flavor, for those of you interested in showering me with gifts… remember, my birthday is a mere seven months away!).
The conversation ranged from presidential candidates to Taylor Swift to how we were all going to die single but were actually completely chill with that, to a discussion about our Myers-Briggs personality types. (As an ENTJ and ENTP, Brandon and I are destined to rule the world, while Hayden’s type is described as ‘nice’ and ‘not judgmental.’ He seemed to think that was a good thing, so I kindly explained that was just their way of saying he’s basic.)
The woman next to us bitched to the waitress about her table not having the ideal amount of sunlight (only peasants let themselves get hit by rays that aren’t coming at an exact 63-degree angle!), so all in all, it was a magical afternoon.
After more walking and much more eating, we watched as the sun slipped down behind the buildings and left an inky night sky behind it. You know what they say: when the stars come up, the bottles come out* – so that was our cue to hit the booze Ernest Hemingway-style. A French buddy of mine, Lionel, suggested we try out Oz, which was apparently all the rage with the kids nowadays.
Those of you who have followed this blog since its inception/my abroad days (so… my mom), may remember me gracing it with my presence the last time I was in Paris. Quick refresher: huge clusterfuck of a club, tables decorated with enormous chocolate bunnies, I ate said chocolate bunny in all its entirety at approximately 3 am. Anyway, Oz was closed on account of it being tourist season… but we didn’t let one stroke of bad luck stop us, and cruised on over to the least questionable looking bar down the street.
*No one actually says this.
The atmosphere was fairly nonchalant – people were lounging around tables, lazily sipping on watered-down cocktails and chatting. Soft pop music of the (vomit-inducing) Katy Perry variety played in the background, and Brandon and I shared a Long Island Iced Tea because neither of us could commit to going full ratchet (yet). Half an hour in, I wandered down the bar’s spiral staircase to a big metal door in their basement, hoping to locate their restroom. It swung up and WHAM – my senses were assaulted with blaring music, flashing fluorescent lights, and… rather musky odors. This just in: the French most certainly go up on a Wednesday.
We quickly made friends with a group of locals who enthusiastically bought us a round of vodka shots that more or less burned the inside of my throat. To this day, I remain convinced they spiked my drink with rubbing alcohol and/or acid… or maybe I’m just confusing that with Smirnoff. The DJ earned himself major points by playing miscellaneous Beyoncé classics and “Ai Se Eu Te Pego,” my official Madrid pregame anthem, since no party playlist is complete without it. (However, I must advise against Googling the English version; it all sounds much more innocent and less rapey in Portuguese.)
But I digress. Brandon and I were killing the choreography to “Single Ladies” when a random – yet notably attractive – guy approached me, saying things (that had better be compliments) in French. I shot Brandon a panicked look – he had been my dutiful translator all night – but he gave me a reassuring nod as if to say, “Go on now, child. You’re ready.”
(In hindsight, he was probably just sick of playing messenger and having to report, “This French guy says you’re pretty and that he wants to dance with you.” And me going, “Tell him I’ll consider it if he buys me some sort of tequila-based drink.” And then, “He wants to know if you have any tequila preference” and so on. Sorry, B!)
So, in my very best inebriated French 201, I told this Gaspard Ulliel lookalike that my name was Arianna, I was from Los Angeles, and yes, my life was totally like The OC. Based off of it too, probably. He responded, and to my great surprise, I was able to hold a conversation with him – an extremely primitive, 4th grade level sort of conversation, but a conversation nonetheless.
As he was rehashing his life story, I found myself thinking, “Wow, I’m actually great – no, a professional – at French! All I needed was to be excessively drunk to tap into my true talents. How did I not realize this before? I should probably shoot Madame Saad an email now with the joyous news…”
“Et parce que je suis dix-neuf…”
Wait, wait, wait. Hold on a second here. Didn’t dix-neuf mean nineteen? Was he nineteen years old? I racked my brain back to French 101. Seize, dix-sept, dix-huit… True, unadulterated panic was beginning to set in, so I took a hefty sip of my trusty tequila soda and formulated a plan.
Stay cool, Arianna. You probably misheard him. Just casually work in what year he graduated high school and assess from there…
“Je vis ici depuis grand un certain temps-” he continued.
“Did you say ‘dix-neuf’ before? As in nineteen? You’re not nineteen-years-old, are you? Tell me you’re not nineteen.” I blurted out in English. Zero chill.
“How old are you?” he countered, completely dodging my life-or-death question.
“Twenty-two. But I’m literally turning twenty-three in a week, so twenty-three, basically.”
“Oh. Well, I’m twenty-three as well.”
Yeah-freaking-right, I knew a youth when I saw one! Homeboy was lying straight through his (baby) teeth.
So, it was official: I had just spent the past hour flirting with… a teenager. Quelle horreur.
I regained my composure and stood up off the couch – much more dramatically than necessary because pretending my life is a soap opera is a huge hobby of mine.
“Well, then, this is going to be a ‘hard pass’ from me, garçon. I’m no Demi Moore.”
“Nineteen isn’t even that young. Come on, I’m a university student!”
“Like that makes a difference. Honey, the last time I dated a college guy, I was in high school.”
(This isn’t true.)
I gave him a sassy wave of my hand, a bitter farewell to our tragic Shakespearean love story. Alas, I had too much pride to let him be the Harold to my Maude.
“Au revoir, kiddo. Call me when you hit puberty.”
Thoroughly discouraged, I retreated back to Hayden and Brandon, who were polishing off their drinks and seemed ready to call it a night. They raised their eyebrows at me, immediately expecting the deets.
“So, did you get his number?”
“Yeah, you guys were talking a while…”
“He’s the best looking guy here.”
“Are you going to see him again?”
I glanced back at Monsieur Jailbait. He had returned to his own group of friends, and as the generic white boys gathered ’round, I realized what a babyface he truly was. No one in his squad seemed remotely capable of growing facial hair. Still, the kid was undeniably fine. Maybe it didn’t matter that he was born in ’96. I could overlook the fact that he had probably never listened to Nirvana or owned a Furby or could discuss the intricacies of Zenon with me. Maybe…
Then one of his friends began picking something up. It looked like… was that a backpack? Oh my god, it was. His friend brought a goddamn Jansport to an underground bar. Probably because they had class. Probably full of Algebra textbooks and #2 pencils and PB&Js his mom made him. Crust cut off and everything.
I turned back to Hayden and Brandon.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
The Art of Being Basic 