Just one of those adventures

Many years ago, Nattie asked me, “Why are you traipsing around Baden-Württemberg with a large metal bowl full of Maultaschen?”

« I'm not traipsing », I replied.

I was lying.

We couldn't get on the midnight train going an-y-where, so the seven of us made our way to Paris. Jeremy managed to get us thrown out of the FNAC in Montparnasse, but we bought tickets to a Henry Rollins concert over at Châtelet-Les Halles. That's where we bought the tickets—not where the concert was. I don't even know why we rode the RER that day.

Ed (the store, not the guy) provided us with some food. We bought some reasonably good coulommier and wine, and a ton of bottled water. Some of the others bought sweets, and I bought some syrup and limonade for mixing diabolos. We snagged some fresh baguettes from a nearby bakery, and carried our comestibles to the Parc de Saint Cloud and commenced our repast.

When we were good and full, Ed (the guy, not the store) suggested that we go to a choral concert at the Cathédrale-Basilique de St. Denis. Nila wanted to go to some museum instead. We fought about it for quite some time.

I wanted to go eat at Le chat grippé, but we ended up at a restaurant in the 5ème where they shunted us to the basement with the Germans. Can you believe it? I was mortified. The meal was passable, but the conversation kept turning to boring stuff like art. I watched the Germans try to order dinner without using any French words. You'd think someone would have helped them. No one did. It took about 15 minutes of gesturing between the waiter and patrons before the concept of „chicken” was agreed upon. Fascinating stuff.

Dessert was pretty good, actually. I might go back just for that, if I were in the neighborhood.

“What now?” Nattie inquired.

« I dunno », I replied.

I was lying.