Paris (Nov. 9, 2006) -- Much like the Democrats who won Tuesday night are accused of doing, I waffled on
whether I wanted to stay up late after work to watch the election returns come in.
The six-hour time change meant that the first returns would be broadcast in Paris at midnight and the
relevant ones would not arrive until the early morning.
I returned to my apartment, still undecided about my plans for the night, to find my French neighbor Thomas (pronounced Thomah, of course) awake and listening to music.
The fact that he mentioned the elections to me without prompting was taken as a sign that I should indeed watch the results. But we had a little time to kill first since it was only 11, and so we headed down to the corner restaurant/nightspot Chez Prune for a drink. So first, a little about Thomas, who is not really like Kramer from Seinfeld, but he is a character.
Thomas, 24, is a gardener who lives on the same floor as me in the building, only in a much smaller apartment. His flat does not have a bathroom. It's in the hallway. He doesn't get paid much, but he has weeks off at a time.
Last week, Thomas, who has a 40-year-old French girlfriend, met a girl at Chez Prune who was visiting
Paris from New York City. They hit it off and spent lots of time together until the tearful separation at the airport on Sunday. As intense and blissful as their relationship certainly was (judging by his sullen mumbling later in the night), it was also dramatic. I played a role in fueling this drama because I accidentally buzzed
Thomas' French girlfriend into the building while he and the NYC girl were in his apartment.
A pounding fist on his door followed by an equally violent argument came after she gained access to the
building. It's a mystery to me and Thomas how she knew about the NYC girl. He doesn't know how she got in the building.
Me and Thomas recounted all this drama and then, as the drinks at Chez Prune began to take hold, he started getting misty-eyed about how he missed the NYC girl and how he wants to visit New York but is scared
to fly.
"I am romantic," he said in highly accented English.
"Yes," I agreed.
"But girls like that," he countered.
Especially girls visiting Paris for a week.
Thankfully, it was about time to head to the Canadian bar, The Moose, to watch the results come in.
We finally got a cab (they're difficult to get after the Metro closes at 12:30) and saddled up to the bar
at the Moose right as the returns started dribbling in. Hockey had been on the TV, but since no one was
watching, the bartender flipped it to CNN. Over the next few hours, I explained American politics
to Thomas -- it's the House of Representatives, not the Parliament -- and told him about how I knew one of
the people running, John Yarmuth in Louisville.
The bar was scheduled to closed at 2, much too earlier to get a real feel for how the night would conclude.
"Is 50 euros enough to keep this bar open another hour?" I asked of one of the two bartenders working.
"You guys can stay until 3, but we'll stop serving at 2 and then we'll start bringing up kegs and closing,"
he replied.
So with the 50 euros I didn't have on me safe in the bank, Thomas and I ordered another and final round and
paid less attention to the returns and more to the music the bar was playing.
One of Thomas' favorite things to do while we drink is to have me explain what the hell American songs are
about. He's listened to them all his life, but doesn't have the foggiest idea what they mean.
At first, this was a little annoying. But now I have fun with it; explaining rap songs is interesting. And
hearing his impressions of songs is amusing. He thought "Ramble On" by Led Zeppelin was about running
into things. Kind of, I said.
So the conclusion became clear by 3 and Thomas piled all our change onto the bar, thanked them for letting us stay late and we rambled out into a new morning.
Hope this finds you well.
Take care,
Brett
