So here’s what happened.


The night before I left Lorient, The Boy and I went in search of the pub that has 600 beers. It was the weirdest journey ever. We just kept driving and driving through fields and between towns and I kept one hand on the door handle the whole time in case he was taking me to a dumpster or something. But anyway, we finally found it in the middle of nowhere. The building was all lit up with a big sign announcing 600 BIERES, which even I could read in French.


Officially the coolest pub ever. Even the steps were made of beer caps, and the walls were plastered in faded coasters from different pubs around the world (I recognized Amsterdam’s Bull Dog because I have a copy). The place was completely empty aside from the bartender/owner, an ancient man who wore his glasses on a chain. Massive beer mugs adorned the bar. We ordered a platter of beer: seven samples from the tap all lined up on a little wooden tray. One dream at a time please, one dream at a time.


So nothing ever happened between us. We parted without so much as a kiss, because I am a giant pansy-ass and he is a big fat pussy. I think the most depressing part of the entire trip was being on the plane destined for Newfoundland, and realizing that I no longer have any romantic prospects whatsoever, and the most I could look forward to is being groped by 20 year olds at the Sundance.


Anyway, I was corresponding with a lady named Lily all week about potentially arranging a private tour of Paris. I assumed it would be costly, but she took me entirely under her wing and arranged the whole evening around things that I wanted to do. I spent about $400 on this tour and also bought her supper, but in my opinion it was worth every penny. We hit it off immediately; it was like seeing Paris with a good buddy who knew the ropes.


We walked around the city for five hours, checking out the architecture, wandering into Notre Dame, eating homemade gelato, gaping open-mouthed at flying buttresses and columns and gothic stained-glass windows. We wandered through the Italian district, read poetry painted on buildings, crossed the Seine River, and visited a Canadian bookstore. We couldn’t go into the Louvre or anywhere else really, but I was content just to take in the whole city.


We stopped for supper at a cute creperie, and ordered some apple cider and delicious crepes. I love how in French restaurants the waiters will pack you in shoulder-to-shoulder until you have no personal space and somehow the strangers at the table two inches away seem like old friends.


Then it was off to see the Eiffel Tower. We meant to catch a boat on the Seine, but missed it and had to walk instead (perfectly fine with me since I had devoured a Nutella crepe in addition to the gelato). When it was nearing 10 p.m., my guide took me to a spot with a clear view of the tower, and told me to wait. I had absolutely no idea that the entire tower twinkles for five minutes: when I asked the see the city “lit up”, I meant by night. It was incredible, and breathtaking, and my God I would have made out with Lily if there weren’t so many people around. It was just beautiful.


I love Paris, I really do. I’m not a city person and never will be, but Paris is right up there with Edinburgh. The atmosphere, the shopping, the architecture. Ooh la la. Five hours of walking left me exhausted, so I hailed a cab to my hotel near the airport, and passed out within minutes. I couldn’t figure out how to turn the lights on my room, and didn’t know whether it was because of my own stupidity or because of some other error. I decided not to risk feeling like a fool, so I did everything in the dark. The next morning, after showering with lights out, I tried to use the hairdryer but it wouldn’t work. So, regardless, I am an idiot.


I’ll post some pictures later. No time, no time, no time!