Paris Nights are go!

But let me continue for a while, indulging myself in the travel journal biz, a wee git exercising literal muscle turned into fat. Chewing the fat. So back to Paris: cooool city. This time around, I had an excellent guide with similar tastes and a great command of that ole gallic lingo. So what did we do? First we chatted and had some wine at Malcolm's apartment. Some wine and some bread and some ham and some chevré and some olives and some capers and some cornichons and some hard basque country goat cheese. [I feel my mind reeling now, memories fading. This was two weeks ago. Lethenian water clogs my memory. Thus many of the things I write about this trip is already tainted by memory static, residues compromised by reason and fantasy.]

We went out. We walked around. We took cabs. Paris by fucking night. We went to SWEEEET Café Industrie, having sailor's grade Ti Punch gingembre. I reckon it was just a deciliter or so of sweet cuban rhum spiced up with ginger, clear liquid, sweet and hot. Dutch courage of a fine fine well. We walked some more. Bastille, Marais or whatever. The jewish quarters, pretty much closed. Hot, calm, moist night. After a while, resting our feet at a very obviously gay bar, we had a glass of red wine. Digging the street. Feeling the new city. Some acquaintance of Malcolm's are sighted across the street: Steve, nice English chap, working in Paree for Dow Jones, accompanied by some friends:
1. Anna (I think), American, Dow Jones journalist in Paris.
2. Rob (I think), English, Dow Jones in Stockholm.
3. Wendy, Welsh, trained psycho analyst in the service of some mammoth pharmaceutical company in Paris.
4. French girl who's name and occupation unfortunately has slipped my mind.

So: SPLITSVILLE. Paid up for the poor ass wine and left the gays to their devices. Now, I was tired. But it felt very good and vibrating, so we continued. If my memory serves me, we went to a place called something like The China Club, apparently a pretty hip dive. Not at all seedy, but rather posh, single malts served in a colonial style setting accompanied by classic music at 150 francs a pop. Verrrry suave. So what? I had a Gin Tonic, digging that whole colonial vibe like a motherfucker, chatting to the company. Struck up a conversation with that Anna/Emma/whatever girl. Ad libbing, thinking she's fucking cool: hotshot hi-brow girl with a whack hat. Talking about film, travels, everything. Chicagoan. Malcolm had spent time at the places she had family in. Steve's cool. Everyone except me & Rob speaks near-perfect french. It feels nice to be in another city. I am a wanker with the license to flirt. My background: unknown.

We leave. We go to another bar. Tight tight tight & hot. We loose Anna/Emma to a couple younger, seriously flirting lords of suaveness. Steve picks up the tab. I have a couple Pelforth Brunes. First beers in France. Should have stuck with the drinks. The drinks in Paris now: Caipirinha, Mojito, Ti Punch, Planter's Punch. Tropicalismo all the way. We split after a few drinks. Good-byes in that edible night.