As my overseas trips go, this was one of the shortest ones. I arrived at midday on Monday, and left around the same time on Saturday. Had I not been in Europe three weeks earlier already, I would have been the first to find this uncivilized.
These 120 hours included four fairly long and intense days of work, but I managed to cram quite a social agenda within that time, and I even got a decent amount of sleep, in an unpretentious but nice hotel room very close to the Eiffel Tower, at the bargain rate for Paris of 105 euros a night.
Monday was my recuperation day after the overnight flight, and I just went to a brasserie to eat by myself. On Tuesday, I had plans to meet Jean-Noël. When he called me around 7 p.m. from a town north of Paris where he had been for the day, we settled on 9:15 p.m. at a Tibetan restaurant in Montmartre, Gang Seng, to which he had previously introduced me. He ended up arriving at almost 10, but we still managed to spend a great two hours catching up on each other’s life and work.
On Wednesday, I had plans to meet my ex-colleague Emmanuel, whom I hadn’t seen in probably five years. He selected Yamamoto, a Japanese restaurant tucked away in a side street near the Opéra (note to tourists: for a real Parisian, there is only one Opéra in Paris), in an area where I found out that there are now dozens of them (Japanese restaurants, not operas). The amazing thing about meeting him after all this time is that he is still exactly the same: a permanent smile on his face, the nicest guy in the world, GQ-handsome, totally hyperactive, and not looking a day older than five years ago. And we fell back into the same friendly and easy banter we were used to when we went out to dinner in Islington then, as if we had seen each other a week earlier. It just warmed my heart that there are people like that, not just in the world in general, but in my world.
Thursday was an unplanned, but equally successful evening. I was actually not sure whether I was going to want to see anyone, because my project for the week still required work. I was getting nervous that there might still be too many holes in the resulting "white paper" by Friday afternoon, when it was due. But by 7 p.m.-ish, I was also getting tired of the day. I had told another ex-colleague that I was in Paris and had hoped for a last-minute call from him, but nothing had come. I was reasonably content with the idea of eating late by myself at Josselin in Montparnasse, but on a hunch I called Mohamed (see my prior "You Write Too Much" post). It turned out that he was expecting his friend Isabel, a medical student from Colombia whom I had seen a couple of times at parties in Boston last year (she was part of a group gravitating around our contingent of summer interns from France). She was due to return that evening from seeing one of those ex-interns, Ben, in Poitiers, and therefore was coming back on the TGV... at Montparnasse station! So we immediately made plans to meet at Josselin at 9:45, and had a wonderful time. This being Isabel’s first time in Paris, it was a great opportunity to give her one of the experiences that are not particularly mentioned in tourist guidebooks. Mo was crazy as usual (he doesn’t speak Spanish, but he did recognize "loco" when I was making fun of him talking to Isabel). Giorgio recognized me and couldn't let us go without buying us after-dinner drinks, so Isabel got to taste her first Calvados. They took me back to my hotel just before midnight, so I told them to turn the corner by the Ecole Militaire after dropping me off, so they would have a chance to see the tower’s sparkling light show at the top of the hour.
So there remained Friday. I had exchanged e-mails with my friend Jorge (the accidental model for Givenchy’s "Irresistible" eau de toilette for men, but this is another story) earlier in the week, and knew that he was coming back from Dubai in the morning, and was leaving for London in the evening to see his girlfriend, who lives there. So it wasn’t entirely clear that between his mad schedule and the demands of my own project, we could find the time to meet for lunch — but Jorge called mid-morning and offered to come to our office so it would take me less time. We only had an hour and a half, but made the most of it. This was another one of these easy, relaxed conversations that can only take place when you're good friends and you're not trying to put up appearances, you don't have anything to prove, you can just be yourself and the talking and the listening just alternate spontaneously.
That may be what was missing from my dinner meeting that same night, in an eastern area of Paris I am a total stranger to, with members of the gay alumni group from Ecole Polytechnique. Only three people came in addition to me, which was disappointing. They were all very nice, although different from my usual crowd in a way I could not really define. I certainly felt like we were strangers observing each other. The conversation revolved a lot around the food and the wine, and was helped by the ebullient personality and familiar behavior of the assistant manager, Camille, quite a character whom the others knew well. When we discussed American politics for a while, especially the Democratic primaries, one of my companions soon remarked, "what a serious topic we’re discussing tonight!" I think he was relieved when the more superficial banter resumed. It was certainly a pleasant evening in good company in an excellent restaurant, but nothing close to the four previous get-togethers of the week. I may certainly have more dinners with that group in the future, and meet more of them, and may get more comfortable with that crowd over time. But for now, it served a really useful purpose: it allowed me to benchmark my relationships and friendships, and appreciate the difference.
Merci Jean-Noël, Emmanuel, Mohamed, and Jorge (in order of appearance). Gracias a tí también, Isabel, although I certainly know you less. I am happy that I just got to see all of you, I love you... and I can't wait to do this again.
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