Day 4
It was our last full day in Paris – cue the crying face emoji – and dear Hayden’s birthday. Brandon and I made a pit stop to a local bakery that morning while he slept his usual ten hours and had them prepare a custom “Joyeux Anniversaire, Hayden!” chocolate hazelnut cake that tasted like Nutella, Saturday mornings, and childhood dreams.
We attempted to actually follow my itinerary for a hot sec and spend the day in Versailles, but tourist season struck again, and there was a severe lack of trains going over. So we compromised by visiting the Luxembourg gardens instead and, under the blistering summer sun, sweated out our alcohol (and utter disgrace of a cheeseburger) from the night before. This was followed by the usual walking around, shopping, and excessive overeating. My belly – which resembled a pregnant woman’s in her second trimester – was coming along nicely.
Later that evening, after a homemade meal courtesy of our marvelous chef, Brandon, we surprised Hayden with the cake. Where is our ‘greatest friends ever’ award, am I right? Then one champagne toast later and we were off to the birthday boy’s favorite spot, the banks of the Seine.
It would’ve made a perfect scene for some feel-good indie flick: the three of us camped out by the winding ribbon of water, glittering soft cream and gold by the light of the street lamps and clear night sky overhead. We gazed up at the Notre Dame as we passed around a bottle of vino, chowed down on cake, and discussed work, love, which of our classmates had a coke addiction (spoiler alert: many), who had committed a felony (not as many, but give it time), and the uncertain haze that was our futures. Solid memory for the books: check.
(That cake didn’t stand a chance.)
What wasn’t so touching was the fact that the 6-euro wine we purchased tasted more like the contaminated water in Flint, Michigan (when is the government going to sort that out, by the way?), than rosé. Of course, that didn’t stop us from peer pressuring Hayden to chug the bottle for 24 seconds, or until his liver gave out, whichever happened first.
After devouring so much cake we were guaranteed diabetes, we each grabbed a bottle of wine and meandered through the city in search of the trifecta of nightlife: a bar with dope music (90s hiphop is a must), hot foreigners, and cheap liquor specials.
After polishing off our alc in an alleyway like the classy Americans that we were (private school taught us well!), we wandered over to the first watering hole we could find. The second we stepped through the door, every head spun in our direction. I assumed it was the fact that Brandon’s Ferragamo shoes were so on point, because who doesn’t appreciate a good leather loafer? The bartender, a drag queen, twirled around and flashed us a charming smile.
“Beautiful dress, honey, but what on earth are you doing here?”
I glanced to my left. I glanced to my right. Wall to wall, the room was congested by men, men, and more men. “It’s Raining Men” was probably even playing in the background. It then dawned on me that everyone wasn’t gawking at the three of us; their eyes were all on me. We were in a gay bar.
Brandon, also noticing how Y-chromosome heavy our location was, whispered to me, “We can leave. I don’t want you being the only girl here.”
But every bar and club we had popped into thus far had been predominately hetero (see entry on how I tragically flirted with a nineteen-year-old). And I’m sure it got real old, real fast for Brandon and Hayden to constantly babysit me to ensure I didn’t get lured away by strange men with promises of Godiva truffles, Louboutins, and their Amazon Prime password. (That’s really all it takes. I’m not proud of it.)
Plus, I was hellbent on landing Brandon a bae on his level – unlikely, unless we stumbled upon Swedish royalty, but you never know! – so I shook my head. “No way, this is for you!”
Hayden raised his eyebrows. “You’re not going to feel awkward here?”
There was clearly a 100 guy to 1 girl ratio (your lovely author being that 1 girl), but I shrugged my shoulders. I had given up my fucks long ago*.
“Screw it! Let’s get some drinks.”
*Probably sometime in ’96, if I had to take a guess.
I’ll admit it was somewhat uncomfortable at first to have every guy there hardcore eyeballing me, probably wondering whether a) I had gotten hopelessly lost; Americans are dumb that way or b) I was on the prowl for gay besties for my new reality series. But that nervousness evaporated after a few minutes once countless French men began approaching me, gushing over my dress or heels or comparing me to some decently hot Hollywood actress. And since I’m incredibly shallow and shamelessly won over by compliments, I was in heaven! (Again, not proud of it.)
Brandon: “It’s concerning that you’re getting more numbers than me at a gay bar…”
By the end of the night, I had 7 new Instagram followers, 3 new friends on Facebook, and a French penpal. I loved it here.
However, after a few hours of discussing fashion and dissecting Kanye’s latest album with my new posse (mixed feelings across the board), it was time to head over to the main attraction of the night, Nobu, to reunite with our other USD friends. Now, if I could remember what actually went down at Nobu, I would love to tell you all about it…
But I don’t, so let’s end things here. Thanks for reading!
Stay tuned next week for my final highlight of 2015: our misadventures across Ireland! Get ready to hear tales of touring the Guinness factory with small children, being mistaken for Kendall Jenner, almost drowning at sea, and getting hazed by an Irish businessman. You know, just your standard vacay.
The Art of Being Basic 