I've Got Worms

Part 2: Ben, Dana, and James' Parisian adventure that also killed Nicole...

After only a day to recover from Berlin, I met Ben, Dana, and James at Gare du Nord. Thanks to Paris' lack of open container law, we picnicked in the Tuilleries with bread, cheese, and some wine. Since it was Saint Patrick's Day, we decided to find an Irish pub. I know of a total of 1 Irish pub in Paris, so after first visiting our favorite cheap bar in St. Michel, bartended by a crotchety old man with a rather large bump on his head, we headed over to the aforementioned Irish pub. There we ordered Irish car bombs, a request that illicited nothing from the bartender other than a profoundly confused stare. Further attempts to explain the drink succeeded only in rendering the bartender more confused. We finally decided to just order pints of Guinness and shots of Jameson/Bailys. We sat at a table next to one with two French men seated at it, effectively boxing them in so they couldn't leave. This was not our original intention, but in retrospect their continued stay at the pub may have been due to this fact. We chatted with them in a mixture of French and English, although their English was beyond terrible. They asked at one point if Americans considered French men to be (insert gesture here that suggests the adjective "fruity"). I responded with a perhaps too eager "yes."

We took a break from partying the next day to fit in some touristy things, but recommenced the following night on the left bank. After relocating from a Canadian bar, we ended up at a bar whose most notable drink was the "Burn Island" - a long island ice tea with a French version of Red Bull in it. Just one of these, in conjunction with some persuasion by Dana, fueled my several minute session of dancing on the bar. The drink can also be partially blamed for the fact that Evan later passed out in my bathroom with the door locked and was unretrievable for quite some time.

The next night, we were supposed to meet Evan and the other GW friends he was with at a club called Showcase, which is located under the Pont Alexandre near the Champs-Elysée. The entrance was free before midnight, so Ben, DJ, James, Dana, and I decided to get a head start. We arrived just after midnight, but were prepared to pay a cover so we could meet everyone else. When we finally approached the door, we found it manned by both a huge bouncer and a small woman wearing a fur jacket and Christian Laboutin heels. She stared at me snootily and asked in French, "You are how many?" I replied that we were 5. She then demanded to see all 5 of us. I counted us off. She then looked us each up and down and responded (still in French) "It's not possible," and motioned for us to leave. Initially, I was shocked, but then later saw the humor. After this epic failure, we met Evan in the Bastille and went to a somewhat less discriminatory club. On the way out, Dana somehow found herself in the middle of an all out brawl. Being that she had finished an entire bottle of champagne by herself, she has limited memory of the pickle she was in.

And so concludes my over-partying. This week will include lots and lots of sleeping.