I was flipping through my favorite and trusty Parisian guidebook – the Avant Guide Paris …

Which I happen to do on a regular basis and which I happen to treasure because these Avant Guides are no loner being published. Plus, isn’t it fun … reading and flipping through guidebooks in foreign, exotic locales … for fun? Or is my idea of fun completely nerdy?

As I flipped through the bar section and came upon Cafe Charbon, I was assaulted with one too many rampant and hazy and utterly fabulous memories.

During my Paris study abroad days, or should I say, nights, this was one of our go to haunts.

We were definitely and quickly noted as the regular Americans. I mean, come on … it’s just too cool and swank in that “I’m so not cool that I am” way {see below, need I say more?}

 

 

 

You walk in and feel this creative, bohemian chic vibe. The decor, the mismatched knick knacks that somehow start to blur together into a match against the old wood and that original bar, still there … you can just picture the bourgeois roaring 20’s crowd.

Cafe Charbon is a significant Paris stomping ground for me, for many reasons.

It’s where I fully realized just how sleazy and forward French men are – I was actually asked, before even a “Bonjour”, if I wanted to go to an apartment and have zee sex.

What?

Surely I misheard or misunderstood that.

Mais non. I did hear correctly.

It’s also where I learned I can be just as witty, straightforward and if need be – mean, in French as in English.

It’s the place where I first felt I was becoming truly fluent in French, though that might have been around the time of my 7th glass of vino.

It’s also where, one late late night, we missed the last run of the le metro and were stranded.

At 4 a.m.

I don’t like being stranded anywhere in my own country, let alone France, even if it is Paris.

I’m much too practical and sensible, even under the influence. There’s too many things that can go wrong.

So I had to pull it together.

A group of girls walking the early morning hour streets of Paris gives one idea and one impression only – yeah, and I wasn’t fond on the idea of having to shoot down any more sex offers.

Really! Who in their right mind just comes right out and asks if you want to have sex?!

Or is this the norm and I’m just the naive girl that I am?

I can’t think of a bigger turn off … besides in Craigslist, under “Casual Encounters” where guys actually post pictures — pictures! Of their junk.

Is that supposed to be a turn on?

Cause it sure as hell is a big turn OFF to me.Not to mention – reaches serious creeper status.

As I was trying to figure out what to do as we were waking along, since no one else was worried – i.e. they were too drunk – and there were zero taxis – a car stopped.

One of those little VW Golfs.

Down rolls the window. A voice asks, “do you need ride?”.

“I give ride, you give me money.”

I couldn’t see him, because one of the street lights was shining on the windshield and the glare was too strong.

HELL no we don’t need a ride.

But one semi drunk voice does not come anywhere close to three very drunk voices.

Great. I really didn’t feel like being abducted, even if it was Paris. Though I could think of way worse places to have something horrible happen to me.

I decided to run interference and question this young lad.

How far did he think he’d have to take us and how much? Did he have family in Paris? What was he studying? Favorite color?

Yeah, I try to ask personal questions. I heard once on Oprah — and we all know Oprah knows her shit — that if you’re going to be kidnapped it helps in scaring the kidnapper away.

After five minutes, I decided he seemed normal and safe … enough. I did happen to use the verbs “kill” and “fight” and the phrase “don’t ask to have sex with us”.

The fight and kill were to try to scare him, but it’s not like I’m miss guns of steel. I’m sure he was very humored at the time.

So in we went. Crammed into that Golf.

He spoke barely any English.

And it was on me to get us back. He was actually interesting … and funny.

23 minutes later, after a few wrong turns, we were home. He turns to me and says in French:

You can kiss me instead of paying me.

So I didn’t have to have sex, but I still felt like I had to whore myself out.

You can imagine I didn’t have much support from the lushes. They were all about us conserving our Euros.

What was one kiss, they wanted to know?

Can a kiss just be a kiss? When is it ever just a kiss?

The drunkettes were exasperated with me.

Apparently I had missed out on a whole time at college when you’re supposed to be a kissing whore.

As they countered: it’s not like you’re actually sleeping with a stranger, it’s a god damn kiss!

Call it peer pressure, call it sudden boldness. Or call it liquid courage.

Just a kiss … one kiss … right?

I thought I better clear that up and added no tongue.

The last thing I wanted was to have someone shove their sloppy tongue in my mouth. Yet another turn off.

My heart started beating too fast. I was nervous. What was the big deal. It wasn’t … was it?

And I wasn’t even attracted to the guy … it’s not like I was being swept off my feet in Parisian bliss by a Brad Pitt look alike … I could do this.

He started leaning in and I was suddenly grossed out. Who goes that far over for a lean in? I started picking him apart.

The eyebrows were horrible. I could smell smoke on his breath. Ewww. Smoke. He had heavy breathing, almost like a weird dog like pant, after they’ve had a long walk on a warm day. But this wasn’t anywhere close to those conditions, unless he had hidden animalistic tendencies. Ewwww.

Lord almighty, it was time for a quick prayer.

God must have been listening, because I came up with the most brilliant idea.

I leaned right on in there, saw his eyes were closing, and I gave the classic lip peck.

Fini!

Ah ha. Neither one of us had said anything about no quick pecks.

I hauled out of that car as fast as I could and so did he.

He insisted that it wasn’t fair, I had tricked him.

Um. Non. I totally did not.

Deal with it.

And then he started laughing. Kind of an eery laugh. Is this where he was going to abduct me?

No. Instead he taught me a French phrase I know I will never ever forget: C’est l’heure des braves.

Why yes, yes it was … time to go to bed. Alone, mind you.

Goodnight, Monsieur Golf.