The Paris chronicles: part deux

Jonathon Fairclough / Production Manager

Jonathon Fairclough

Production Manager

It’s day two in Paris and my travel companions and I are already getting comfortable; we’ve been parading around town, drinking wine, making noise and capitalizing on every cheap thrill that confronts us. It’s been a wine-fuelled parade, and the beautiful neighbourhood of Montmartre, Paris’ former artistic district, is our next showcase.

We sit on the stairs in front of the Sacre Couer church and look across the city in wonder. At this point, brothers Daniel and Dave, Medina, our adopted American counterpart and I are sharing stories as we walk, occasionally met by tourists who’ve been looking at their feet for too long in their ascent up the stairs and have realized that we’re blocking their route. “Sorry!” we said. We weren’t. It was funny.

We drink a bottle of wine each, passing around the baguettes, and we finally decide to grab dinner. We find a nice little restaurant, where have more wine and have some terrific French beef. The West-Virginia girl we’re with slaps down cash on the table and covers the bill – over a hundred Euros – but we’re way too gone at this point to really show our appreciation. “I make good money back home, you guys are taking me out, consider us even.” We were stunned.

We metro back to the apartment to gather our stuff for the big night. Medina knows of a small bar we can go to in an elbow of the city and we’re all for it, mainly because we aren’t aware of how dodgy this place really is. Fifteen-plus metro stops later and we’re in a rundown mess of a neighbourhood. Nobody knows where we are.

We buy two bottles of whisky and drink one on the street corner. A guy comes up to us and begins conversing with those in the party who speak French, occasionally taking swigs of the red label. He tries to sell us drugs, and we kindly decline. Poor fella.

We head to a hole of a bar where the group splits up – some of us smoking outside and some swaying and drinking on the inside. I finally sneak in a kiss with the American. Success. The bar is full of French students, all of whom are aware that there are some loud and obnoxious American-sounding buffoons in their presence. We feel odd and estranged. The bar closes, and we think that’s it.

Oh no, that wasn’t it. Far from it.

The bar next door – scratch that – the pit next door says it’s open. Once some people from the outside fill the place in, they shut the doors and, unbeknownst to us, lock us up – metal girders on the windows and everything.

Yes, it’s a bar, but hardly. I suppose there are certain French laws which prohibit such establishments from existing in the wee-hours of the morning. They serve shitty beer and the staff are all North African and extremely stern-looking. We keep drinking with no intent of stopping. We’re far gone at this point.

One of the guys in our party steals a woman’s crutch and begins hobbling around the bar with it. This isn’t taken very lightly, but hey, it was just one of those nights. At this point, Dan has a woman yapping and slobbering into his ear, stealing his cigarettes. He’s forced to sit through the degradation, in fear of upsetting the others.

In retrospect, we were waiting for something to happen, something to go wrong, but we were either too drunk or to confused to care. It was only until I wanted to go outside for some air, since the place was locked up and full of smoke, that I actually realize we’re locked in.

At this point I get it in my head that this is a setup. When I ask how I get outside, the people at the bar don’t have an answer for me. I begin to panic. I look across the bar to see my friends completely oblivious to the knowledge I’ve come upon.

I talk to the staff, I ask how we can leave, and finally one person says they’ll escort us through a back alleyway. I share our situation to the group, which falls upon deaf ears, but after a little persuasion we decide to leave.

We’re escorted through a back alleyway in which I was certain we were going to be robbed and we made a quick exit. Three of our party are missing, all girls (including the American girl), but they quickly re-appear. We wander the streets for a cab, breaking bottles and making noise on the way.

We cab back to the hostel, slam on the door at 4:30am and wake up all those sleeping soundly inside. We make an incredible amount of noise – comparable to that of the bar from 30 minutes earlier – and really mess up the joint, banging shit around, waking up new hostel guests. Complete terror. And so there we were, left way-gone on a beautiful Parisian Tuesday night. And it didn’t matter what city we were in, or the way we got there. What mattered was the company.

No, it wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t elegant or civilized, the way it ought to be in a place like Paris. But I will say this: it was something.

You don’t need to see the sights to feel enthralled. You don’t need to stare at a painting to find meaning. Sometimes, if the time is right, all you need is a few friends, a few strangers, a few baguettes and a crutch.

Oh, and a shitload of wine.