Never Book Plane Tickets When You're Drunk

"Paris is always a good idea." Sabrina

There were really three main reasons why I went back to Paris . The first was a promise I made that when and if NYU finally came through and gave me the money owed to me that the first thing I would do is buy tickets to Paris. A promise made to a sad love. A promise made to a man who treats me now like the shadow of a ghost. An uncomfortable echo of some terrifying phenomena best ignored. "You were happy in Paris," he said when he made me promise. "You would have been too," I almost said.

But I didn't.

The history of our relationship could be summed up in one word: almost.

He always had such strange ideas about my happiness. When I was happy, when I wasn't. He has known me longer than anyone in NYC, but he has less of clue about when I am genuinely happy than the homeless guy who sleeps in the sun by the movie theater on 1st Avenue. Still he was right about that. I was happy in Paris.

So I got the check, but I was still not sure about Paris. I thought maybe Florence. Or Edinburgh. Or Martha's Vineyard. Or Maui.

But then, not but two days after I got my check, Air France had a sale starting pretty much when my final exams ended.

Still I hesitated.

The sale was ticking down. I had three days to decide, two, one, 12 hours, six hours, four hours.

And I probably still wouldn't have bought the tickets if it wasn't for that extra glass of wine I had after dinner. So I sat at my computer dizzily playing with departure times and dates. I discovered the cheapest flight would be for me to stay in Paris for ten days.

Ten days.

My first trip to Paris was ten days, and sure I didn't get everything done that I wanted to get done, but I knew that I hadn't gotten fairly lonely near the end of that trip calling Rabid just to be able to converse easily, to talk without stumbling, without five minutes of pondering verb tenses and vocabulary, to talk with precision. I thought, "10 days is too long," but of course my jewness got the best of me and I decided "Fuck it, 10 days it is. There is enough for me to do in 10 days easily." And then I went to sleep.

It wasn't until the next day when the haze of wine had worn off that I realized I would now have to book extra days in a hotel room and whatever money I saved on the flight, I had already doubled on room and food. I suddenly felt uneasy about my trip, I mean, why was I going? Because of a promise made to some jackass who wouldn't even speak to me? Who ruined my birthday day and made the entire holiday season miserable? A person who sent me information on ....Scientology? He certainly didn't care if I went or not. And I didn't really want to go. I mean, there are so many other places I want to go and haven't been. Shouldn't I be spending my money on going to those places rather than heed the promise made to the very person who I was leaving the US in order to forget?

Which brings us to factor number three....

"Who knew all of our ex-boyfriends could fit on one little island." Sex and the City Finale

I had to go to Paris because I've dated everyone in NYC. Two days before I left for Paris, I went out to dinner with a friend. In the five block walk to the restaurant I walked by two people I dated and one other was sitting in the restaurant.

It was time to spread the heartbreak around. Leave a few broken men on a foreign shore.

You know, where I'm less likely to run into them when I have no make up on the way to the deli.

Labels: paris