Montmartre, Paris and Bloody Marys

During June of 2012, shortly before my family's move to Malaysia, I went on a trip to England and France with several other students from my school, and somewhere around thirty students from all over the US. At the time, I was only fifteen--a mere three months from my sixteenth birthday. This is one of my favorite stories from the entire twelve-day trip.

Note: If there is a legal drinking age in France, it is not adhered to. At all.

France is known for its fine wines, breads, and war tactics* art. Montmartre is a section of the city that resides upon a hill--the Sacré Couer church-steps overlook all of Paris, and is stunning itself. Visiting Montmartre also happened to be my favorite part of the trip, excluding the portion of the time I spent there regarding this story. Let the post commence!

Our tale begins in an alley, through which we were walking to a bar our tour guide wanted to show us--I believe his name was Peter. Anywho, we arrive at this establishment, take our seats, and peruse the menu. I decided to order a Bloody Mary, as I had recently discovered my love for tomato juice and spices. Up until now, I had never knowingly tasted vodka, or ordered an alcoholic drink for myself.

My drink comes, and along with it a champagne bottle filled with water for the table. I take a sip of the bloody mary, fight the urge to spit it out, and swallow, immediately taking a few gulps of water. Peering at the glass again, I wonder how I'll be able to drink even half of it. I repeat my routine of taking small sips of bloody mary followed by gulps of water until 2/3rds of the beverage is gone. Several times throughout this harrowing experience, I got up to use the restroom: This, I later found out, was my biggest mistake.

Apparently, there's a thing called "the seal" when you drink, and it is broken by going to the bathroom, resulting in the need to constantly relieve oneself. I was not aware of this at the time.

About an hour after arriving at the bar (or perhaps more time--I really don't know. The light only changed slightly), the group of us left for the Paris Metro Station, on our way back to the hotel. As soon as I stood up, the room around me teetered. Oh God, I thought. Please, let me walk. I took a few steps--success! But my victory was short lived, as upon arriving outside a wave a nausea washed over me unlike any I had felt before. Thankfully, a friend's mom, Kim, who helped chaperone the trip, took a hold of my arm and walked the half mile downhill to the station with me. We walked slowly. So incredibly slow that I'm not sure how we even managed to keep up with the group. Bless her. I don't think I would have been able to make the walk without this wonderful woman.

Finally, we reached the station, only to stand above ground at the stairs for half an hour. To this day, I still have no idea why we didn't just go into the metro, buy the tickets, and ride home, but oh, well. On the bright side, the famous Moulin Rouge was to our left. I, on the other hand, could hardly focus on the ground without my dinner threatening to come back up, much less look through a lens to capture a picture. I handed my camera to Peter, asking him as politely as possible to take the picture for me. He takes it. Woohoo! I had proof. But I digress.

Around this time, I realized that I had to go to the bathroom again. Great. We still had to enter the damned station. We waited. Eventually, we were granted access to the metro, bought our tickets, and boarded the train. Fully sober at this point, and no longer nauseous--thanks to the power of mints--but still needing to pee, I sat uncomfortably on the metro for as long as humanly possible. Twenty minutes later I couldn't hold it any longer. Looking up at Kim with terror, I say, "I have to go to the bathroom. Right. Now." We disembarked the train and set off looking for a bathroom. At 10:30 PM. Neither of us speaks French, might I add.

We find one restroom--it was closed due to some accident. We begin running, frantically calling out, "Le toilet! Le toilet!" at passersby. Following the corridor, we come to this mall-like center, whereupon a wonderful Frenchwoman understands what we are trying to accomplish, and runs with us to the entrance center, across the street to a café, and hurriedly speaks to the owner. He nods and directs me to "le toilet" and all is well in the world.

Once I emerged from the safety of the bathroom, I profusely thanked the café's proprietor, along with the Frenchwoman who directed us there. "Merci beaucoup"'s were not in short supply whatsoever.

Kim and I make our way back through the tunnels we had just torn out of, board the metro once again, and arrive at the hotel without further delay. The last thing I'll add is that I had just memorized our metro stop that day, and Kim didn't know it. I've always liked that coincidence.

-Lily

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*see: Maginot Line and Why You Don't Invade Russia