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 Contrary to popular belief, an evening of Flatliner shots do not provide the previous night’s reveler with a sense of bright-eyed-and-bushy-tailed-ness upon the greeting of the new day’s sun.  Rather, one’s just reward for facing the Flatliner challenge head on is a headache which mutates from a slight throbbing to a “Sweet Jesus I think my cerebellum is attempting to secede from the rest of my brain and escape out my ear…”  If you happen to be an American engaging in intercontinental travel that morning, the Flatliner throws in a lack of Parisian taxis and a missed flight as a bonus.  One begets the other, of course, so perhaps the Flatliner had merely intended for me to suffer from the taxi drought, with the missed flight an unintended consequence.  Regardless, forgetting to set an alarm and waking up late surely does not help the matter. 

Fortunately I was flying to Chicago so there was nary a problem taking a slightly later flight.  NYC, Chicago, and Houston are the cities to miss flights to – it always seems like there is another one just an hour later.  But, as a final insult, I was soundly berated by the ticketing agent at Charles de Gaulle airport for my continued incompetence with the French language.

A sigh of relief, in all my disheveled glory, on the flight to Chicago. 

July 3 is a special night in Chicago.  The Taste of Chicago is in full swing, and the 3rd is when the fireworks are shot off over Lake Michigan.  I have great memories of the third of July.  One such memory is dropping several friends off with a cooler full of Red Dog at the entrance to Grant Park, parking the car, and meeting up with them thirty minutes later only to discover that they had been issued a citation by the valiant Chicago Police Department for bringing beer into the park.  It was for memories like this that I had planned my return trip to the USA for July 3, although my good friend’s wedding the night of July 5 certainly lent an initiating hand.

Now…since July 3 brings fireworks, the Taste is absolutely packed on this particular day.  A teeming mass of people, and when I say teeming I mean it.  If you have ever seen a giant school of fish swimming around on the Discovery Channel or National Geographic, this is what the Taste of Chicago is on July 3, except the fish in my story are carrying paper plates of Uno’s pizza, flaming Greek cheese, turkey legs dripping with BBQ sauce, burgers from the Billy Goat Tavern, and so on.  It is a mass of people and the risk of getting sauce dripped onto your clothing as you navigate the crowds is extremely high.  So into this vortex of humanity I plunged, fresh off a plane from France and carrying my enormous green backpack that is a common sight among college kids backpacking through Europe for a month.  As difficult as it is to walk around the Taste normally, try doing it with the equivalent of an eight year old strapped to your back.  Jostling was taken to a whole new level.  I was also on the receiving end of many bemused looks and heard many creative comments along the lines of “Daaaaaaaamn, look at that guy’s backpack!”

This is what is great about the Taste of Chicago though.  The sights, the sounds, the extremely non-French food…getting frustrated about the crowds at the Taste of Chicago on July 3 is like going swimming and then getting mad that you are wet.  It’s absurd!  Get yourself a Goose Island, an Italian beef / sausage combo sandwich from Buona Beef, a spot on the grass with a view of the Chicago skyline, and soak it in.

Sinister Guest X did not return during the night.  A smart move on its part, considering my living room had three people sleeping in it who gladly would have punted whatever it was off my balcony and onto the street for twenty euros.  To celebrate, a night on the town was in order, with no area better than the sordidness of the fourth arrondissement near the Centre Pompidou.  Trashy little bars and cafes abound in the blocks surrounding the museum, as do unpleasant pigeons who wish nothing more than to drop a present on your head if you walk under the line of trees on the west side of the square.

I arrived back in Paris this evening to several visitors in my apartment.  Nick, a friend of mine from Kansas City, had been studying law in Ireland for the past month.  He was passing through Paris during a multi-week, multi-city post Irish law class European tour and was joined by two other students.  They had previously navigated their way through the Cinque Terre of Italy and Interlacken, Switzerland, the photos of which were enough to convince me that at some point in my life I needed to visit both.

While Nick and company had arrived the night before, another, more unwelcome visitor, had already come and gone.  Here is how the greeting went as I dropped my luggage off in the hallway of my apartment:

Christian: “Bonjour, and bienvenue a Paris!”

Nick: “Hey Christian, what’s up? Do you have a cat?”

Christian: “No, no Parisian cats for me.”

Nick: “Oh. Well, something shit on your floor.”

The rogue defecator of June 25 had struck again!  I cursed appropriately, then cursed some more upon discovering that the mysterious guest – henceforth dubbed Sinister Guest X – had urinated wildly on a stack of CD’s sitting upon the floor.  With just one, presumably long bathroom break, Sinister Guest X destroyed all those little pamphlets which accompany a compact disc case.  As if not being able to read through the song lyrics or find out who the artist wanted to thank wasn’t bad enough, several of the cases themselves were, to put it politely, beyond repair.  I would have felt bad for my dishwasher to even try cleaning them.

A psychology class I once took in college mentioned that human beings operate according to a series of scripts, which dictate how one is to act in a given situation.  For example, there is a restaurant script we all abide by.  We walk in, we are seated with menus, a waiter or waitress comes by to take our drink order, and so on.  But I tell you this: no previous life experience has provided me with a nice script on how to proceed with Sinister Guest X.  Perhaps if I owned an insubordinate house pet I would be better prepared.  With a lack of options – and closing my balcony doors during a Paris summer with no air conditioning is definitely *not* an option - a bounty was placed upon the head of Sinister Guest X.  The first of my guests to capture Sinister Guest X and club it without mercy would receive a crisp 20 euro bill.

Time is brief!  And as is such, goals will be kept to a minimum.  Today, two primary goals.  The first – make a triumphant return to the Horse and Groom, this time gaining entrance and securing a pint.  Yesterday I had noticed a sign on the front door of the bar which, in addition to notifying the public that salted beef is now served on the premises, indicated that the Horse and Groom is open up for busines on Sundays at noon.  The second goal was to not miss my flight to Valencia later that afternoon.

While sipping my victory pint I concluded that this bar could not be the same bar that was immortalized in Danny Wallace’s Yes Man.  Simply too small, the vibe – yes, I know it was a Sunday – was such that I spent several minutes flipping through an electronics catalogue on the bar.  I simply cannot accept that this was the bar of lore which I had been on the hunt for.  Either there are multiple Horse and Grooms scattered about London, or I am mistaken on the name.  I never figured it out.

Later in the evening, after a 175 euro taxi ride from Valencia to Denia (pricey, but well worth it – the scenery is quite pleasant on this particular stretch of road, and sitting in the backseat of a cab means one can enjoy it) I found myself strolling around Denia.  Denia is a resort town, which means that lots of retired English people descend upon the town throughout the summer.  Listening to English people complain is comical to say the least – the vocabulary, combined with the accent, means that walking behind an old English couple complaining about rice and the hot weather is a treat.  But the point is that Denia is typically a quiet town on the edge of the Mediterranean.  Except tonight, June 29th 2009!  A disharmony of honking horns filled the evening air, and Spanish flags waved wildly from cars cruising past.  And you would honk madly and wave a flag if your country just won the European Championship, too.