21 Means Nothing Over Here

In the United States, turning 21 is a big deal. It's the last real milestone birthday that anyone cares about. Sure, at 35 you're old enough to run for president: PARTY!!! I'm so glad to be in France at this time in my life, although it is slightly unfortunate that my 21st birthday came around in a country wherein I've been old enough to drink in bars for three years. I did, however, make the most of it.

My host famlily was kind enough to allow me Sunday through Tuesday off, my birthday being that Monday right in the middle. Of course, I spent all my allowed time in Paris with Erika. Sunday evening we went to Notre Dame in the 5th arrondissement and took in the sights. It's a great spot; we found falafel for 1€ and some pretty great baklava! The next day, I turned 21... Throughtout my entire life, birthdays have been special to me - especially mine - but this time I couldn't help but notice how normal a day it was. I didn't have my mom waking me up to the tune of the "Happy Birthday Song", I didn't have a party with my friends, I didn't have any of the things birthdays in America usually provide. This didn't bother me, though, as I was afriad that it might, because Erika and I made sure to have a lovely time. We went to Montmartre, an absolutely charming neighborhood featuring the Sacré Coeur church and the Place de Terre, where you'll find countless artists with their paintings and drawings on display while they try to lure you in with offers to recreate your likeness on paper or canvas for a price tailored "just for you". We wandered around and enjoyed a panini and some ice cream to which Erika so kindly treated us, and finally we gave in to one bartering artist who wouldn't take no for an answer. Erika paid the man a relatively modest price (15€) for the sketch he did of me. His original quote was 25€, but it took only a few minutes and my speaking the two words of Russian, his native tongue, that I knew for him to lower it to an amount Erika was willing to pay. There was another artist standing near and when I sat to be sketched, he instructed her to sit as well. She told him several times that she wanted neither to be drawn nor to pay him any money. He insisted she simply sit, and we made it very clear to him that he could draw as he pleased, but we would not be buying anything from him. He drew. When my picture was finished, so was hers. She paid the Russian man who drew me the 15€ we agreed upon, and the other artist handed his creation to us and said "15€". I knew it was coming. I ended up getting in a rather heated argument with him about his scheistiness, and he told me I had no right to decide for her - as though she hadn't told him a dozen times already what she had decided.

That night, Erika and I found a little American owned bar called "The Bottle Shop". We had read it was one of the only places in Paris where you could buy a pitcher of beer. It sounded nice to get a small taste of home. The place was PACKED! There were 20+ people drinking outside as the inside was Standing Room Only. The lady bartender was from Connecticut, the fellow was French. I asked the woman why it was so busy on a Sunday night as I watched her mixing the 100th mint mojito I'd seen ordered, and she told me that it was someone's birthday. I told her that it was, as it happened, my birthday as well, and moreover my 21st. It was cool to have a bartender that knew what that meant back home. Just as I contemplated ordering a mojito, as since everyone was ordering them I figured they must be tasty, I heard her say "I'm going to kill the next person who orders a fucking mojito". I changed my mind. Before I could decide what my next drink would be, the French bartender set down 4 shotglasses and poured whiskey from a bottle with the American flag on the label. A shot for Erika, myself and each of the two bartenders. As we raised our glasses, the Frenchman shouted "God Bless America"!

The lady bartender was awesome. She let me pay for the White Russian I ordered, but not for any of the other drinks. She made two Bloody Marys (one for Erika) which were perfectly spicey as I ordered them "hotter'n hell". When I asked what their top shelf whiskey was, out of hopeful curiosity, she slid me a double Chivas Regal on the rocks. Four free drinks and a pitcher of beer called "Cheap Blonde" (at 13€ a peice, I beg to differ) and with no real tab to speak of, I think I did it right. To make the night all the more memorable, I had the pleasure of vomiting on the metro. Yes, that's right... On the metro. I felt it coming about when the train started moving. There was almost no one on the car, but the one man who was sat right across the isle from Erika and I. While I sat there getting sick on the public transportation, Erika rubbed my back and through helpless laughter kept repeating to me that it was ok, it's the last trip the train would make that night, and that someone would clean it up. She's amazing. She made me feel like it was the right thing to do, to puke on the subway. The man staring at the two of us probably felt differently.

Thanks for reading, and for not judging me.