Caroline in Paris

Last year I celebrated my birthday a couple of days early–which, since it usually falls on or just after Columbus Day, I tend to do. There was a day with the family, then an ill-conceived Sunday night party in the city (someone could have told me that no one actually gets Columbus Day off), and then I woke up bright and early on Monday morning to an utter catastrophe. Now, if you ask Nick, he’ll claim that he was “just going to Minnesota for a few days.” But upon digging a little deeper, you may be able to compel him to admit that his flight out of Minnesota was not so much a “return flight” as it was a “one-way trip to Paris.”

That’s right: last year on my birthday, my boyfriend moved to Paris without me.

You may be surprised to learn that this birthday was a substantial improvement.

There were packages and phone calls and a surprise shopping trip to the Grande Epicerie and Hermès of all places (evidently Nick reads this blog), which was a whole new layer of awkward since:

1) We ended up being helped by the most painfully uncomfortable salesman in the place, who didn’t rate keys to important drawers and looked like he was about to cry over every misunderstanding–especially the one where his coworkers bullied him into giving us tax rebate forms, and then made fun of him for not finding out that we live here (and are therefore ineligible) before doing so, and
2) Nick didn’t give me any kind of heads-up about where we were going, and so I was a little…under dressed. “You couldn’t have said ‘You might want some lipgloss’ or something?” I hissed. “I didn’t want you to guess,” he whispered back. Because…right. When someone suggests sprucing up a bit before going on a mystery errand, anyone would say, “Hey! We must be going to Hermès! Stupid ruined surprise!”

For dinner I had suggested Chaumette, but Nick had other plans, and by around 7:00 we were cheerfully ensconced in one of the Ritz’s lovely bars for aperitifs. The signs were everywhere that this was no ordinary bar: apparently Ernest Hemingway was drinking there when Paris was…captured…by the Germans? Is that at all plausible? I was always horrifically bad at history. And one of the businessmen at the bar was chatting with the bartender about his book (which I now really want), and the woman at the next table apparently used to date Stephen Spielberg (I hear he’s “really, really shy”). The cocktails were incredible, and womens’ drinks all came garnished with orchids. Even the little salty snacks were especially delicious.

And in spite of all of these clues, we were still completely unprepared for the incredible shock that was the bill. During the stroll to dinner (at Gérard Depardieu’s restaurant, and also phenomenal), we reflected, and decided that it was a good thing that we had decided to stay for a second drink. Fifty euros for two drinks, after all, just feels like a rip-off. Over a hundred for four, on the other hand, feels like A Story.

So, all in all, it was a close call, but…yes. Much, much better.