His wife plopped herself down beside us and yawned.
“Is there another bottle?” he asked, and she stared at him with red-rimmed eyes. She nodded slowly.
“I should go,” I said, and she agreed with me a bit too quickly.
I hopped in a cab at 10 pm, and I was in that happy place where you feel impenetrable to harm. I loved talking to cabdrivers when I was like this; those impromptu conversations were one of my favorite parts of living in New York. I would hop in their Yellow Cab and perch myself up by the clear plastic divider, and I would scrutinize their names, their faces, trying to divine the landscapes that had shaped them.
“You’re from Senegal,” I would say, and the guy would laugh. No way. Not Senegal. Totally wrong.
“You’re from the Ukraine,” I would say, and the guy would gasp with recognition. How did I know that? Why was I so good at this?
My Paris cabbie didn’t know much English. But he let me smoke in his cab, so I loved him. I was watching the cherry of my cigarette leave tracers across my line of vision. We zipped past tall white buildings that looked like wedding cakes in the peripheral blur. When he slammed on the brakes, I went hurtling onto the floorboard, my shin slamming against a piece of hard plastic.
He whipped around. “You OK?”
Later, I would find a throbbing bruise on my shin. But in the cab, I couldn’t feel much at all. “I’m fine,” I told him, hoisting myself back up and crossing my legs in the seat. “I’m great.”
THE NEXT DAY I woke up early, full of possibility. I made a short appearance at the reality host’s photo shoot near the Sacré-C?ur. His family posed on the butte Montmartre trying to look like they weren’t freezing.
“I was paying for that last bottle this morning,” he told me.
“Oh, I know,” I said. I didn’t feel that bad, but I liked the camaraderie of the hangover.
“Did you do anything else last night?”
“Nah,” I said, omitting the two glasses of wine I had at the hotel bar.
I left them on the frigid hill, feeling nearly guilty for how easy this assignment had been. I had an entire day to myself in Paris. Should I go to the Louvre? Walk along the Seine? Instead I went back to my hotel, curled up in the fluffy white bed that felt so safe, and took a nap.
IT WAS DARK when I woke up. This was my last night in Paris, and I had dinner plans with a friend and a hefty per diem burning a hole in my pocket. I made myself extra-glamorous that night. I straight-ironed my hair and wore the black corset top that erased 15 of my extra 30 pounds.
My friend Meredith lived in an apartment a few blocks from my hotel. I met her when she worked at the New York Times, but she had since moved to Paris to work for the International Herald Tribune.
“I’m having a cognac,” Meredith said as we stood in her kitchen. Cognac was an after-dinner drink, she conceded, but it was one of those days when 9 pm needed to arrive sooner. “Would you like one?”
I’d never had cognac before. But I was trying to be more refined. I’d started ordering high-end vodkas in Manhattan clubs where labels mattered. I’d been drinking Patrón tequila, and I liked to inform anyone who would listen how tequila was intended to be enjoyed slowly, not knocked back in one gulp.
“I’d love one, thanks.” Her apartment was very Architectural Digest. The first floor had a glass ceiling, and if you looked through it, you could see the second-story skylight, and beyond that the stars. I wondered how many reality hosts I’d have to interview each month to afford a place like this.
I sat on the midcentury modern couch, rocking the snifter back and forth. I took a sip, and flames ripped down my throat. Goddamn. Why hadn’t I been drinking this all my life? The buzz was warm and total. Cognnnnnnaaac. I liked the voluptuous sound. Two syllables, so much music. Meredith asked if I wanted another glass, and I hesitated for the briefest second. It was my last night in Paris. I had to say yes.
We ate dinner in Montparnasse at a restaurant that had once been Fitzgerald’s favorite. Meredith worried it was a bit touristy, but I was excited to roll around in Lost Generation history. Art deco fixtures, high ceilings, white tablecloths. Meredith ordered a bottle of wine in fluent French, and I pretty much fell in love with her.
Did I blurt this out at the table? “I’m a little bit in love with you.” I might have. I made such pronouncements all the time when I was lit, because most women walked around with their self-esteem around their ankles, and I felt a duty to help them lift it up. You are really pretty. Did I ever tell you about the time you ordered the wine in perfect French? Alcohol turned all my jealousy into buttercream.