C’est Trop Rouge
I’d heard mixed things about Paris. That the architecture and scenery were, of course, amazing, but the food was overrated, the museums were crowded, and the people hated Americans. I’d heard some version of the “I-tried-to-order-a-croissant-and-the-guy-behind-the-counter-was-rude” story, from most of my friends who’d visited.
So far, I haven’t had anything like that happen to me. Everyone has been friendly, patient, and accommodating. I just have to keep up my end of the bargain: I don’t talk to anyone, and I stay away from cafés.
In fact, I stay away from anywhere I’m likely to have to speak to an actual French person. As I write this, I’ve got a pretty nasty dehydration headache, because I’ve been too afraid to ask for water. The word, “eau” is a pronunciatory nightmare, and I’d just rather not bother.
The only water I’ve had for the past 36 hours has been from my hotel room’s minibar. It costs 8 euros ($11) a bottle, and I think that’s a bargain. I’ll gladly pay the 400% markup to save myself from the humiliation that would inevitably come from trying to buy it out on the street.
So far I’ve only been to one café, and I learned my lesson from it.
I’d been walking around all day without drinking anything, and my throat was starting to stick to itself. Buses drove by with Evian ads on their sides, mocking me. I picked the place with the most sympathetic-looking staff, and sat down at a sidewalk table to order a beer.
When the hostess came over I said “mahn-yoo.” She nodded, went inside, and came back with two menus.
The beer list was disappointing—American domestics at import prices—so when the waiter came to take my order, I pointed to one of the two beers on the menu that I didn’t recognize. “Un Monaco, s’il vous plaît,” I said. “Un Monaco?” he repeated. “Oui.”
The view from my table was perfect, like the Paris you see in pictures. Fashionably dressed people, walking down narrow sidewalks, under high white houses that the sun reflects off of, making everything pale. I was sitting in the middle of all that, feeling like the fucking man. Like James Bond in between fight scenes.
Then the waiter came back with my drink. It was a tall, skinny glass of what looked like red Kool-aid, with a wisp of pink foam on top.
In fact, the word “red” doesn’t even do it justice. It looked like one of those electric torches that airport workers use to direct runway traffic. It looked like, if I put a light behind it and set it on my windowsill, people walking by would think I was a Dutch sex worker. At one point, a little girl, about 4 years old, walked by and pointed at it. It looked delicious to her.
I took a sip and my stomach spasmed. The taste was like someone had mixed Smirnoff Ice with Children’s Tylenol. I considered finishing it; then I considered the consequences of vomiting on the Boulevard St.-Germain. I decided to cut my losses, and called the waiter back over. In my best French, I tried to explain. “Je n’aime pas,” I said. “C’est trop sucré. C’est trop…rouge.”
I paid my bill, stood up and started walking back towards my hotel. I was still thirsty, and now I was nauseous, too, but it helped knowing that a refreshing $11 eau was only a few blocks away.
