MIDNIGHT IN PARIS
Asked for a party, Google took them to one — just not the one they had in mind
WE believed in Google Maps like we had never been lost before. So strong was our drunken faith in Godfather Google that we had barely examined the route to the Opera district as we drank cheap wine and sang along to the music vibrating from our apartment block on the dodgy side of the Louvre.
It was New Year’s Eve in Paris and not a thing could be better. Not our Airbnb apartment with a damp stack of Le Monde newspapers and a sheet for curtains. Not our feeble rand-to-euro exchange rate. And not our mood after a day with more freshly baked croissants than waking hours. This was the Paris I always knew I would love.
In true millennial style, my boyfriend and I had found the New Year’s Eve party on Facebook. We wanted a decidedly non-touristy celebration (read “cheap”) and the obscure poster with the promise of “5 EURO WHISKEY!!!” seemed like a sign. When we finally left our apartment, the British man who lives inside Google Maps led us up the street beyond the Turkish bakery and the 24-hour KFC.
The knife-sharp breeze sobered us as we walked, and the click-clack of my heels provided the soundtrack to our misguided adventure. As we passed the bakery, the smell of yeast and cinnamon cloaked us and a young man with an old man’s expression muttered “Bonne année” as if it were a warning.
Before that night, we had not ventured beyond the KFC for reasons that became abundantly clear as our journey continued. While our ETA was supposedly 25 minutes, within five minutes it was pretty obvious we were likely to be kidnapped, killed, or both. Well, that’s what we half-heartedly joked as we nervously ran-while-pretending-to-walk past several “bars” filled with only men, peering out like sullen prisoners.
When the 25 minutes had elapsed, we found ourselves outside of a busy, itsy-bitsy Italian restaurant with a neon-red sign that read “PIZZ”.
Like a scene out of a B-grade reimagining of Oliver Twist, my boyfriend and I gazed longingly into the candlelit restaurant, prompting two of the patrons to rush outside, the live music spilling out onto the street as they opened the door.
“Salut!” they sang in unison before embracing us tightly in a bear hug. The young woman had intricate braids and a “Free Lauryn Hill” T-shirt; the man was a Benicio del Toro knock-off with a thumb-sized heart tattooed on his clavicle.
As if on cue, more people arrived and greeted us warmly before disappearing into the party. Seemingly keen to make up for lost time, the couple launched into a speedy conversation that was all exclamation points and laughter until our shocked expressions halted them. The man, practically sweating with excitement, ushered us inside and laughed as though we had pulled off the best practical joke ever.
After a swift conversation conducted purely through eye contact and wildly animated facial expressions, my boyfriend and I had decided on our escape strategy. After all, the British man who lives inside Google Maps would be worried if we abandoned our journey.
I swear, we were just about to leave the strange merriment of the party when the countdown to the New Year began and our new friends, ready with drinks in hand, shouted “Happy New Year” and we decided it was and shouted “Happy New Year” back before embracing them all.
While our ETA was 25 minutes, we were likely to be kidnapped or killed within five