Now don’t get me wrong – I adore Paris. It’s absolutely beautiful. But our first trip together there was proving to be a bit… challenging. We had already been laughed out of Hermes (refer to a Parisian Screwing: Part 1) and the jet lag was starting to catch up with us. So we decided to go to an absynthe bar around the corner from our fancy hotel.
That was our next mistake.
Since I don’t remember much about the actual bar, let’s just fast-forward a few hours… to utter delirium.
Now when BR gets really drunk, two things happen: he gets really hungry and he likes to wrestle. I don’t like to wrestle, so the only way to keep him at bay is to stand several feet away and throw pizza or beef jerky at him. Since I didn’t have either of those things, I immediately called room service when we got back to our room and ordered him up a club sandwich.
We wrestled for a bit until the sandwich came. BR scarfed down half of it before passing out cold on the bed. I undressed and climbed into bed beside him but the smell of the half-eaten sandwich was bothering me. So I threw on a towel and decided to put the tray outside the door.
Now I’m not exactly sure how this happened – oh wait, I was drunk – but as I was clumsily trying to slide the tray outside the door with one hand, while holding a towel around myself with the other, I heard a “click”… and turned around to find that the door had shut behind me. I was locked out. In a towel. At three in the morning. In a fancy hotel. Drunk on absynthe.
Plus my hair was really messy from the wrestling and my makeup was smudged all over my face. I looked like a cross between a cheap hooker and a scary clown.
SHIT!
So I knocked on the door.
Nothing.
I knocked louder.
Still nothing.
Me: BR! (knock knock knock) BR!! Open the door! I’m locked out!
BR was obviously out cold and wasn’t waking up. So I started to pound on the door.
Me: BR! BR!!!
BR still didn’t wake up but a very angry Frenchman across the hall did. He swung his door open and glared at me.
Angry Frenchman: HEY! SHUT UUUUUUPPP!!!
Me: Oh, sorry. I’m locked out of my room.
Angry Frenchman: Stupide woman! (SLAM!)
So that was a bit harsh. Not wanting to get a another severe scolding, I realized I had no choice but to go down to the front desk. Unfortunately the hotel was really old and the lobby was waaaaaay at the other side of the building. So I took the elevator downstairs, staggered past the bar, then the restaurant, then down a couple of very long hallways, past a few perplexed guests, in a towel… until I finally got to the front desk.
Now some things get lost in translation, but other things do not. Like the look on the young man’s face that said, “who the hell is this hot mess staggering through my lobby.”
I explained that I had been locked out of my room and asked if he could please give me a new key.
Maybe it was because I couldn’t remember my room number, or because I was slurring, or because I wasn’t wearing any clothes, or because I looked like a scary hooker-clown, but I could tell that he didn’t “believe” I was an actual guest. Finally he agreed to help me.
But this was an old hotel and they didn’t have any spare keys. Or so he said. He would have to escort me back up to my room and let me in himself. Excellent.
My head was pounding. All I wanted to do was go to bed. I looked like a hot mess in a towel. And I had no choice but to do the unbelievably long walk of shame back to my room with a strange young man who seemed somewhat amused, but mostly appalled.
The walk itself was awkward enough – but then we had to somehow get into the absurdly tiny elevator together. It was one of those really old European elevators, about the size of a small refrigerator. There wasn’t even enough room for us to stand side-by-side, so we had to turn and face each other. Awesome.
Could I look him in the eyes? I could not. Was he laughing at me? I think so. Was it the longest elevator ride of my life? It was.
Finally we got to the room. He opened the door, stuck his head in and did a very slow, deliberate scan of the room – probably to make sure it wasn’t littered with bags of cocaine and dead hookers. Fair enough.
I crawled into bed and tried to wake up BR to tell him what happened. But he was in no condition to comprehend what I was saying. He just kept slurring, “shhhh… isss ok.” He was trying to pat me on the head but he ended up knocking me over and shoving my face into the pillow.
Me: BR, you’re suffocating me.
BR: Shhhhh… isss ok.
Me: It’s not really ok… I can’t breath!
BR: Shhhhhhh… isss oh-khaay.
In the morning we felt terrible, but we had a good laugh about everything. We figured it might be best to check out and spend a few days in the country.
Because what could possibly go wrong in the country…
How to Live with a Millionaire 