It's more like half naked nipping man. But international fool times indeed.
Louvre ruined my museum experience for the rest of the trip. I’m really not into old art or sculpture of this type, and I’m not down to spend 64 days in a museum (If you spend 30 seconds at each piece of art, it will take you 64 days to see all the Louvre offers). I need more active type stuff, this museum stuff I’d rather do when I’m 30 (Haaaaaave you met Ted?). I’d rather do yoga or run around the city, this passive looking at stuff and learning history I don’t want to learn, not my style. Mind you this is after our bus ride and I only want to sleep and I am almost falling down standing up at this place. Modern art like Hirschhorn I’ll do, active stuff like International Spy Museum yes, even our tour guides that have interesting stories, but museums are draining my somewhat young still life away. //rant over
Breizh Café is recommended by the Let’s Go Europe book as the best crepe restaurant in Paris. Ready for the night, dress pants, button down shirts and blazers, Naren and I stroll out for a night on the town. As we walk by the restaurant and gander in, this French guy passing us says to definitely eat there; they have the best crepes in Paris. Good sign. The flour was from Bretagne, the area of France known for crepes. So this should alleviate the French Quarter’s concerns. This place has bottles of ciders, I’m in love. Naren and I start off with a bottle of cider as we are waiting and get to our tables to order. The people here are smiling and nice. I get this caramelized onion cooked in cider, egg, and sunny side up egg crepe for my main course. For desert I get this chocolate crepe with whipped cream that is nothing like any crepe I’ve had before. After an excellent crepe dinner mandate with Naren, we start walking around.
We wander down the street, past a couple busy cafes. We end up walking by a bar with a Guinness sign. I bet it’s an Irish pub. I am correct. We (by we I mean Naren) get swayed inside by an older bald man who likes Naren’s hair. We ask him where to go out, and he asks us if we are straight… yes? This isn’t the area then; this is apparently Marals, the spot for the LGBT scene. Uh oh. Drink some Strongbow draft at the bar and meet some Irish girls who are going to the French open tomorrow. We also talk to an old lady from Miami who is awesome and possibly a lesbian. She says she always comes to Paris with her girlfriend, and I am thinking tricycle times. Next to us is a German family who are also really nice and huge tourists; the father has a shirt from the Arc de Triomf and has stitched in the years he’s come to Paris. The other father gets introduced with emphasis on the fact that he is the father of one of the girls. Psshhh at 16 she is far too old for me. Finish our Strongbow, say bye to everybody and head out.
We walk over to the Bastille area and there are a good amount of people. Some of the bars/club have big black bouncers, and people are walking in, so what do I do? Walk in like I belong. The bouncer tells Naren to say bisou or something. Next bar the bouncer tells us there is a 10 euro cover even though no one else was paying. Sidenote: one of Laura’s email to me is what I though the same word, Bisous!, and I look it up and it means kisses. So I’m thinking the big black bouncer wanted us to say kisses to him… weird.. But anyways the other word is good evening or something. So we are safe… OR ARE WE? The rest of the night I chode around, we try to ask French people a good place to go, but people are hard to talk to and we can’t get into some of the places easily in the section of bars. Decide to go home and just proceed in debauchery around. I start making nursery rhymes into dirty dirty songs and singing them as loud as possible on our roughly hour and a half walk back to our hotel. Examples include:
Fucked a Hoes-ey
In the Nosey
Herpes Herpes
We all break out!
Twinkle Twinkle Little Shart
Didn’t know where you start
From beneath my thighs somehow
Forget the last line in the skyy (vodka) -- hopefully ill remember this at some point, or make some new muddy rhymes. (dirty nursery rhymes)
We go on a walking tour for like 4 hours in the afternoon, I hate doing touristy things so much but our tour guide is this New Zealand-ian guy Phillip who is fun and doesn’t drone on and on for too long. After we get back, Naren and I have a drinknic – drinking picnic by the canal and chill to some music as we eat some bread meat and cheese. Wine was good for the first few sips, but we still don’t really have the taste for wine. The cider though was good; France has like many different types of ciders which tickles my fancy. Meet up with the other four guys Anuj, Surmeet, Amin, and Benny. Hooray for drinking buddies.
We get some booze from the episteria and drink on the street before we go to the bars. Naren gets horribly drunk in about 20 minutes and starts slapping everybody. The music venue/club across the street wants to charge us 18euro for entrance when the French guy that told us to go there said it was free. At a bar across the street, we ask this guy for recommendations, and while all the guys are talking to them, I decide to dip out and go sit down and talk to the girls at his table. While this is not much talking since French people are impossible to communicate with, I end up comparing jewelry with this blonde girl. I show her my engineering ring and she has a simple looking band too on her ring finger, so I put my engineering right on my ring finger and my hand on top of hers aligning the rings up. French vanilla I want to call this girl because she is well, white, looks like Cali girl white if that’s a race, and French I’m assuming; takes her hand and rotates her ring to reveal a rectangle inset of diamonds. Owned. I try to do the same thing with my ring, but am constantly surprised when my diamonds do not show up. What does show up is the D-bag French guy that the guys were talking to; he is talking to me in French in a blaze of fury, probably needs room to sit? I scoot closer over to French Vanilla and continue playing around with her and ignore the French guy as he is grabbing my arm from across the table and going a million miles a minute in French. “You’re friends are over there, what are you doing here?” he gets out when I look to him. “Yeah, I know, I’m just relaxing here.” D-Bag Frenchie says something to the two girls on my side and they look over at me. French Vanilla, who I’m assuming at this point doesn’t speak or understand a lick of English, comes out in a perfect sentence of “You see, I am his girlfriend, and he doesn’t want me talking to you.” I turn to French Douchie Bag and tell him I’ll talk to him and spend all night hanging out with him then. This turns into a no fly zone and French Douchie asks me my name and we shake hands. Meet everyone else at the table and try my luck at the bar with a couple other French girls as the Rolling Stones are playing, but with no such luck. We take about a couple hours walking home and toss around the idea of biking home on these rental bikes, but every bike station we get to they only have 4 bikes... we have 6 people.
There are like British Jewish (British accents + yamakas) people at our hostel as part of a bachelor party and they ask us if we want to help them saran wrap their friend who is the groom to be. I am always down for PRANKS. Sadly the groom threw up twice already and is sick at a 9 on a 10 scale so his friends decide to pull this PRANK another night. Naren does what he does best when he comes to DC and prays to the porcelain goddess at some point in the night.
Next morning we do touristy stuff and by France’s grateful wishes I somehow scrape by, Naren is even worse hung over. He sits out on a ledge by the Notre Dame cathedral with a plastic bag ready to throw up as families are walking by. He’s thrown up on the German church by Ivory; we both have excellent karma. He decides he does not want to pull any biological warfare and joins us for some food. Random touristy things cloud my memories but notable memories include the Eiffel tower at night which is a good sight to see. Also when we went up to the top of the Eiffel Tower, there’s a guy who takes off his shirt and has his wife take a picture. I love this guy, decide to join in European Stripper: Eiffel Towering on Top of the Eiffel Tower and take my shirt off and have a picture taken.
If France had a threat level, it would be crimson. I roll with a full out sleeper cell:
Naren and I sleep in the Charles De Galle Airport because the last train is at like 12:30am and our flight leaves at like 7am. Never doing this again, so not worth it. We were in survival mode with only enough change for a little bit of water from the vending machines and we scoured the airport for places to sleep. Naren contorted himself around chairs and I slept on the floor on top of toilet paper covers to make it somewhat sanitary. Blazer worked well as a pillow, but whole experience was super tiring and definitely not doing this again.
