Day 3
While I was coming to terms with the fact that I may be a bonafide cougar, our trio strolled over to Café de Flore for brunch – purely because the restaurant had been featured in Gossip Girl, and I consider myself to be a West Coast Blair Waldorf with fewer headbands but just as much sass.
Per usual, we each ordered three courses, which I was able to justify because Brandon and I had been forcing ourselves through daily jogs, since exercise is the one thing that stops me from becoming an unhinged Tarantino character. (Meanwhile, Hayden preferred to sleep until 10 then take a solid two hours to lay in bed and read Buzzfeed articles on his phone.) That morning’s run had been particularly rough, and I could still taste the cheap vodka, fast food, and bad decisions from the night before.
Sidenote: whatever you do, DO NOT go to Au Pied de Cochon. At 2 am, it was the only restaurant flashing their “Open” sign, but starving would’ve been a less painful alternative. We all ordered their “American cheeseburger” (I would like to add that any place that advertises American anything will automatically serve something as far from American as possible), which consisted of soggy buns, wilted lettuce, patties so overcooked they were unidentifiable, and a sad slice of what I assume was Kraft cheese that they didn’t bother to cook at all. This was for NINETEEN EUROS. Shit didn’t even include fries.
The restaurant name also translated to “The Foot of the Pig,” which is a red flag in itself. As I begrudgingly nibbled at my burger – literally chasing it down with swigs of Coke to mask the taste – I contemplated writing them a mordacious Yelp review, but then realized I would be obligated to give them that mandatory 1 star, and ethically I couldn’t bring myself to even do that.
But anyway. Sacré-Cœur, or the Sacred Heart of Paris, is a Roman Catholic Church in Montmarte and basically the only tourist attraction we hadn’t already seen before, so we rode the metro over there. I bought Marti a few icons for her collection – our house could pass as a Greek Orthodox church – and pondered the many reasons why I was probably going to hell. (It was mostly tax-related, nothing exciting.)
Next up was Moulin Rouge, where we enjoyed a delicious lunch, shopped at vintage clothing stores, and attempted to walk off our excessive calories. Being young and naïve, I had expected the dreamy Baz Luhrmann movie version… but in reality, it’s just a dingy street with flashing neon lights and tons of sex shops that sell edible underwear and bedazzled nipple clamps. So, even better, really!
Fast forward to later that evening, and we decided to meet up with a fellow USD-er, Henri, to hang out on his uncle’s boat. Well, he called it a “boat,” but it was actually a massive yacht perched right at the docks of the Seine, complete with a full kitchen, family room, two separate bedrooms, and a downstairs. I also noticed there was a vibrant fur rug under one of the beds that settled any questions about whether or not this was a bachelor pad. Also, there’s the fact that it was called the Don Juan.
(Later, Henri dished out a fun fact for us: Winston Churchill had also raged on this yacht back in the day. Because I enjoy being difficult, I told Henri I didn’t believe him, so he scrounged up some fancy postcards featuring the yacht… and yes, he was 100% telling the truth. Now he could say two famous people had been there!)
More people filed in, and I was pleasantly surprised to see another friend from school, Courtney, who coincidentally enough was living in Dublin, Ireland – our next destination after Paris. The stars were really aligning for us here, folks. We asked her what the messiest bars and clubs in the city were, and I jolted it down in my iPhone notes for future reference. To be continued in entry #36.
It was creeping towards midnight at this point. Hayden, Brandon, and I bid adieu to our host and then meandered down the cobblestone streets towards the safe haven that was our apartment.
“You hungry?” Brandon asked me as we linked arms.
“Always,” I groaned like the diva that I am. Not only was I feeling the effects of my three glasses of pinot noir (which, for normal human standards, is like… ten), but it had been a harrowing four hours since my last meal so naturally I was on the brink of starvation. My fast metabolism wasn’t cut out for times like these!
“Same here,” Hayden said, waiting for us to catch up. “There’s got to be somewhere open around here.”
So we walked. And walked. Stumbled a little, too. Every store, café, and restaurant had their lights turned out and curtains drawn shut… either because a) it was tourist season b) Paris tends to shut down early during the week or c) God hates us. Most likely C. My stomach growled for what I’m guessing was the billionth time.
“I. Just. Want. A. KEBABBBBBB!” I screamed out into the wind, on the verge of a Kanye Twitter-esque meltdown. (On a related note, “Shut Up and Enjoy the Greatness” will be the new sequel to my memoir, “Dimples and Debauchery.” Coming soon to a Barnes and Noble near you.)
I was approximately two seconds away from curling up in fetal position in the middle of the street – it’s worked out well for me in the past – but I forced myself to march onward, since I still plan on working for Interpol some day and should probably master self-discipline.
Come on, Arianna, I told myself, You’re at peak hotness in your life. You can’t die now.
Still linking arms, Brandon and I sped up into a slow jog, hoping to give our bodies the necessary wake up call. It was true, I couldn’t die – not when I had so much more to live for. Season 2 of “How To Get Away With Murder” wasn’t out yet and I still didn’t know who shot Annalise!
“A kebab sounds like heaven right now,” Hayden said. “Man, that makes me miss Madrid.”
“Those were the days,” I agreed. Reminder: we both studied (I use the term loosely) in Madrid during undergrad, and it was pretty standard to stuff your face with street food after a solid 6 hours of partying at the 7-story club, Kapital.
I smiled at the memory. “God, I was so in love with Carlos.”
“Our program director?” Hayden rolled his eyes.
“Age is only a number,” I declared.
(Carlos, if you’re reading this, call me.)
We were still walking. My heeled boots were half a size too small and it was growing more noticeable by the minute. Curse you, Steve Madden, I thought as I mentally tried to drown out the fact that every bone in my body ached and one of my limbs was going to fall off any minute now (hopefully it would be my right arm, as a leftie I didn’t have much use for it).
This was even worse than that time I tried to compete with the pill-popping LA housewives in my ‘Sweat Til You Die’ bootcamp class – and that had briefly landed me in the hospital. Brandon and Hayden paused to take a breather, so I steadied myself on a nearby lamp post. My starvation was getting the better of me. It was time to accept that I would indeed be the first to die in The Hunger Games. Everything was going dark…
Then suddenly, a soft light appeared, and it was clear that I was being whisked into the afterlife. I had always envisioned myself dying via drowning in a pool of chocolate, but I suppose human beings lack control over these sorts of things. The light grew brighter. I reached my hand out towards Hayden and Brandon, one final goodbye before my earthly soul departed.
“Tell… Ryan Gosling… I love him.”
Wait, it wasn’t heaven, it was a sign! A restaurant was still open!
…. And it was Au Pied de Cochon.
“Oh, for the love of God,” Brandon moaned. Seriously, we trekked – what I assume were – THOUSANDS OF MILES (clearly channeling Vanessa Carlton over here) just to stumble upon the same overpriced, pig-themed natural disaster of a restaurant from the night before?
“Those burgers,” Hayden said, literally shuddering at the thought.
“There’s a 100% chance we’ll get salmonella if we go in there,” I added. “We already beat the odds last time. We can’t tempt fate again.”
“But what choice do we have?” he replied.
We exchanged uneasy glances. The boys both sighed, signaling that they were ready to admit defeat and torture themselves with that repugnant cesspool of a ‘cheeseburger’ one last time. We all dragged our sore, drunken bodies over to the hostess, who undoubtedly recognized us as the Americans who had barged in at 2 am 24 hours ago. And who had made it crystal clear that we would be suing them for our inevitable case of e coli.
Just to be safe, I pulled the ‘food poisoning symptoms’ WebMD page up on my phone and drafted a text to my parents telling them that I loved them.
“Trust me, we’re about as happy about this as you are,” I said to the waitress, and took a seat. Talk about running through Paris with your woes.
The Art of Being Basic 