tales of a twentysomething

a night to never remember

A few weeks ago, I wrote about an experience I had in Paris back in 2005:

Two guys sat to my right, both in their 50s, American expat types who were obviously regulars. They began talking to me, and eventually after a few glasses, I found myself in a deep conversation with one of them. The subject: love, of course. And right before I had got up to leave, he said something so striking. Maybe….”You’re afraid of love,” or “You don’t know you’re in love until…” but neither of those is right.

And now I can’t for the life of me remember what it was.

So last night, when a new girlfriend called and invited me to have a drink with her at the very same restaurant, I absolutely accepted, and decided to arrive a bit early to revisit the past. Maybe something would come back to me and I would remember what it was the man told me that made so much sense.

The place, which you can guess with a bit of research, is in the 6th, specializes in seafood, and is always packed with Anglophones. Last night it was especially crowded when I walked into the cacophonous cloud of Australian and American accents, and only one remaining bar stool was open. I began ordering a glass of wine in French, and realizing my bartender was American, switched halfway to English. The noise, crowd, and language switch had given me tunnel vision where I was concentrating only on the task at hand—getting my glass. So once it arrived, I finally took a look around the place. And I couldn’t believe it—the two wisealecs who had chatted me up four years ago were at the end of the bar. My jaw nearly dropped. It had to be them. I couldn’t shift my gaze for a good minute, and wondered if maybe, somewhere in the back of their (drunken, clearly) minds if they recognized the little American girl. Of course not.

I began to feel a little awkward. Maybe I had budgeted too much time for reflection and reminiscing because it had now been 20 minutes, I’d finished my glass of Anjou, and my friends had only just texted to say they were on their way. I shut my cell phone and sighed, keeping my gaze on the door so people wouldn’t think I was really alone.

A minute later, a French man wedged in next to me to pay his bill and a glass of white wine appeared at my side. “C’est pour vous,” he said with a smile.

“Um, really? Pourquoi?”

“I saw you sitting alone. A pretty girl should never sit alone without a drink.”

“Well, thank you. It’s very nice of you,” I said, accepting the glass, and then expecting him to prod me for more conversation. But no, he paid for the glass, said goodnight, and left. I was shocked. That has never happened to me before…a stranger buying me a drink. And he didn’t even want anything out of it?! (I’ve actually always wanted to find myself sitting at a bar to find a bartender bring me a glass of champagne and say, “From the gentleman over there,” then I’d look at it and say, “Send it back.”)

Ten minutes later, my girlfriend arrived and I told her about how I was experiencing a romantic movie cliche moment and simultaneously having deja vu, I said, motioning to the loud crowd at the end of the bar. “Oh yeah…” she whispered. “They’re always here…” I realized it didn’t surprise me, and even made me feel depressed. I never want to end up like that.

I wasn’t going to say anything to the man and his friend about meeting them years ago, but—and here is where I just go ugh—I did end up saying something, because the moment just happened. I would regret it, but know the man likely doesn’t remember most of last night. Anyhow, we stayed until the bar nearly closed (new girlfriend is friends with the bartender) and he and one woman were the only other people there besides us. “Hey,” he shouted over to me. “What’s your story? You live in Paris?” Yes, I said. “How long?”

“Well…I lived here for a year in 2005…” I began, doubting it would ring any bells, “And now I just moved back a month ago.”

I then told him that I thought “maybe” we had met back then, because I had come here once before and remembered someone like him. “Probably true,” he slurred. I went on a bit, but the awkwardness overcame me, and I ended up turning around the conversation mid-sentence. “Hey wait…” he said, confused. “Didn’t you just say something about how you met me before?” “Nope. Not at all.” “You sure?” “Yes. Not sure what you’re talking about.” “Oh. Ok,” he agreed and finished off his glass. “Then what were we talking about? I can’t remember.”

“Nothing,” I said, and turned back to my friends.

For my French readers/readers in France: anyone know if you can get reimbursed for timbres fiscaux? And where/how? I bought too many.

Monsieur Le Banquier, Part 3

I should have expected more nonsense come out of Monsieur le French Banker, the proudly misogynistic, feminist-mocking, Snoopy tie-wearing agent at my local bank—after all this is France, and why should I expect setting up a bank account to take one day? At this point, I have resigned myself to the fact that M. FB and I will be having many more business meetings before my account is actually functioning.

So far, our two rendez-vous have been hilariously insulting, where he tells me feminism is superfluous and men are masters of the universe. Today, I went to see him to pick up my bank card (because God forbid they would actually mail it to you).

“Ahhhh mademoiselle Epshhhhtein,” he says as he greets me. I cannot get anyone to pronounce my last name à l’américain (ehp-steen), but always super juif (ehp-shtein).

My card is not ready. Of course. He sits down to tap tap tap away at his computer. As he does so: “So, how’s it going? You working already?”

“Oui. Toujours.”

“And the French? Still mysogynists?”

“Hey - okay, I get it. I’m not making anymore critiques.”

“It’s just the way it is! Je suis bien comme ça. Il ne faut pas changer.”

Good lord, I say in English, but can’t help but smile.

“Men ahhr peeeegs,” he says in English.

“Huh?” Changing languages catches me off guard.

“Cochons,” he says. Snorting twice.

Stay tuned for episodes 4, 5, 6, and surely 7. At least.