Boat Shoes, B-52s, and Crashing "Le Bal"

Clarifying Note: It has been brought to my attention that I might have left you all hanging out there... Admittedly, I promised a story about Eddie and Rufio in Paris, a promise upon which I have yet to deliver. I wish I could bring myself to apologize for the lack of expediency in the aforementioned piece's delivery, but the only thing I can say for myself is that I found myself stranded on a small island off the eastern coast of Spain. I tried to leave, but didn't try very hard...

Sorry, I'm not sorry.

If you stroll down the quai and gaze down at the Seine at dusk, it's difficult not to appreciate the natural beauty of Paris. With the Louvre off in the distance and the familiar bells of Notre Dame signaling the transition from day to evening, it's easy to feel like anything is possible; the night is a blank canvas...

I had been vagabonding my way through Europe after culminating my stint in banking just a few short weeks prior, and had been fortunate to experience some truly amazing sights in Scandinavia. Partying with Swedish twins on the Fourth, wandering a lawless district in Copenhagen, and reveling in the simplicity and contentedness of the Dutch had brought immense happiness back to me after too long a period devoid of it. And yet, with all this excitement, I had especially been looking forward to this particular leg of my journey because I knew what lay ahead of me... At least I thought knew.

After getting settled in Paris and ticking off some obligatory sights, I pinged Eddie to arrange a meet. We swapped some small talk about what was new, how the past few weeks of my trip had been, and discussed a few of the ridiculous PMs we had both received in the past few weeks, and mutually agreed it was time for a night of debauchery.

I had been drinking at an awesome pub in Saint Germain, around the corner from my apartment, called The Great Canadian for the better part of the afternoon, much to Eddie's approval as he mentioned later that I had stumbled ass backwards upon one of the best ex-pat bars in all of Paris. The Canadian, as he called it, was a little slice of heaven, serving frothy cold pints and mouth watering burgers that somehow managed to hide in plain sight along the quai. Tucked in cozily amongst a smattering of Parisian bistros and cafes serving charcuterie and baguettes, it was a gem, and he was more than familiar. Not wanting to bring me back to a bar I had just left, Eddie suggested we hit up Galway, a little irish pub on the quai, a short walk away from The Canadian, and I was happy to oblige.

I arrived a few minutes early, ordered a Magners and waited for him to arrive. And when Eddie showed up in bright green chinos, Sperry's, and a look that said "I'm gonna show you the side of Paris that makes me glad I never had to raise a daughter," I knew it was on. After a glass of Jameson and a few pints of Guinness, Eddie suggested we head to the Mouffetard, so we walked to the RER station at Saint Michel.

I was mid way down the station's steps when he changed his pace to a jog as apparently the train was arriving just then and he yelled over his shoulder to inform me that I would "have to jump this one." This would become the first of many turnstiles I would hop during my time in Paris. You always remember your first... Now that I think of it, I never actually paid for a metro ride during my time there and never had any issue. God bless the French, for all their flaws, they've given us Marion Cotillard, Aurelie Claudel, Phoenix, and a laissez-faire approach to freeloaders.

Eddie had put the Mouffetard at the top of his list of recommendations when I inquired where I needed to go and it was easy to see why. The Mouffetard is an easy neighborhood to love. It's like the West Village without the dbags, the Lower East without the hipsters and try-hards, and none of the line up and cover bullshit. It's a solid area for a night of boozing given €4 pints of Guinness can be had until 10, beautiful young women laughing and dancing abound, and you can even grab a legit burrito from a tex-mex cantina right off the street. The Mouffetard may very well be one of the best kept secrets of the city. So don't ruin it for everyone if you ever decide to check it out.

After a few shots and pints, Eddie was craving a taco so we stopped in at Bocamexa for a bite and some Negra Modelos from guys in Lucha Libre t shirts. Up to this point the night had been fairly tame and uneventful. I was enjoying catching up with Eddie, talking about his new book (which is fucking awesome by the way and if you haven't picked up a copy you should), and trading stories about my trip with his stories from his year on the run. It had been a while since I had been able to just cut loose and get turned up properly with no worry about being on call or having to tweak a model, craft an email, or eat some other form of shit sandwich. I was simply enjoying this masculine bender for what it was.

To wit, nothing remarkable had happened, except for the fact that I had begun to notice from our conversation that Eddie and I were becoming increasingly drunk. It was at this point that Eddie decided it was time for me to meet Byron, so we headed on to one of his favorite bars in the whole of Paris, The Hideout. I really can't say enough good things about this place and have to give all the credit to Byron.

If you've ever walked into a place and just instantly felt like home... Like you knew that things were about to go from awesome to "WTF happened last night?" And you were no longer in control but had a strange sense of comfort about that fact, then you know what I'm talking about. The closest approximation I have found in the city is The Iron Horse. For all I know they might be related. Essentially The Hideout is The Iron Horse without the mounted sex swing on the bar... Or maybe The Iron Horse is The Hideout plus "The Wheel of Misfortune." I'm not really sure anymore... What I do know, is that The Hideout is everything I love about a bar. It is a self described, untraditional irish pub, whose primary objective is to derail any semblance of a plan you thought you had for your night, waterboard it with irish whiskey, strong-arm it into an ill advised dizzy bat, and then once you have arisen wobbly legged, anticipating a crushed beer can to take yard, it drop kicks you in the chest and stands over your motionless body and shouts "Charles is in charge, bitch!"

The chief mischief maker behind the bar at The Hideout, is none other than Eddie's good friend and Mad Max mixologist, Byron. Now Byron, is probably 6'4, 260 pounds and looks like he used to play defensive end in college. He has giant gap toothed grin and a laugh that isn't to be trusted. Imagine an only slightly smaller version of Michael Strahan, force feeding you liquor and refusing to take no for an answer. He asked us to pick our poison and we ordered a couple pints of Guinness and he and Eddie began chatting about "The Fireman's Balls" that were taking place throughout Paris that night. I told them, that with all due respect, I had no intention of being anywhere near a fireman's balls and that I was sure they could understand the aversion.

It was then that Byron explained to me the tradition of Le Bal des Pompiers and its role as a kick-off to the festivities for La Fete Nationale or what the non-French refer to as Bastille Day. I was told there would be thousands of drunk French girls, dancing, and tons of booze, and thus my skepticism yielded to my burgeoning intrigue. Eddie asked Byron to make us "some of those red shots" he always makes and the three of us knocked them down, followed by second round courtesy of Byron. He then left us to make BJ shots for a group of French girls at the other end of the bar, and proceeded to berate them for taking them in such poor form. "You aren't allowed to use your hands!" I'm not sure if anything should be read into this, but Eddie and I both thought it was hysterical. We grabbed a bucket of Budweisers and a table and chatted more about his book and the rest of my plans for my trip. It was at this point that Eddie learned of my intentions, and I could see the wheels in his head spinning.

"No fucking way!"
Yeah, man... it's happening.
"For a week? Dude... No... You'll never come back alive... Although I can't think of a better way to go!"
I'll send you a postcard.
"That town is going to Eat. You. Alive."
Probably...

We were a mess of masculine stupidity and liquor-fueled ineptitude when we approached the bar to close our tabs and head, presumably, to the street to hail a cab home. But Byron, staying true to the mission of The Hideout, saw fit to send us off in style.

If you've never had a Flaming B-52, I recommend trying one because in addition to being deceptively potent, they look bad ass and will definitely take your night to the next level. The problem, however, with a Flaming B-52, is that it is served aflame. So when Byron reached for bottles of Kahlua, Baileys, Cointreau, a lighter, and three straws. I knew that no good could come from it. Byron looked at us and said, "Gentlemen... There's no turning back now!" Eddie can attest to the fact that I did not survive the shot unscathed but sputtered and coughed my way out the door. Eddie looked me in the eye, and I tried to explain how I had inadvertently swallowed the fire but he was already shaking his head in disapproval on his way to our next stop.

He had been telling me earlier over our fifth or sixth round of shots about his Colombian friend, a bartender at L'Antidote who had taken him once upon a time, to the real Paris Underground one night after a few led to a few too many. Apparently, if you know where to look in the neighborhood, a trap door can lead you below the city's streets and into the labyrinthine world of the catacombs. If you happen to know the people who know where to look in the neighborhoods for these secret passageways, you may just experience something few people in life ever will. But there is a time and a place for such stories...

The atmosphere at L'Antidote rivaled that of The Hideout and played host to an absurd list of characters, the most noteworthy including: Eddie's Colombian bartender friend who shall remain nameless (protect the innocent), a Cross Dresser in a red wig, a Wolf Man in a Tour de France jersey, and arguably the most beautiful girl I had yet seen during my time in Europe. I could fill pages extolling this girl's virtures, but suffice it to say she made a lasting impression, starting with the fact that she initiated the conversation with us, deepening when we learned that she was from Spain and was studying in the city, and culminating when we departed from L'Antidote after cordial goodbyes for what was to be our final destination, and she chased us down on the street to insist that Eddie take her number. There's something about Paris that simply intensifies the magnetism of serendipitous encounters.

Eddie looked over at me after she had left us to go back to the bar to rejoin her friends and the uniqueness of what had just happened had been allowed a few seconds to crystalize and said, "That's the type of girl you wouldn't mind spending your whole life disappointing." I couldn't have agreed with him more.

At last we arrived at the evening's main event, Le Bal des Pompiers at Arènes de Lutèce, a gladiator arena constructed in the first century AD. We made our way past the drunken clusters of those departing, and joined a contingent of around 15,000 revelers, partying on the ground where centuries ago men had fought to the death for sport. We grabbed some Heinekens from the firemen standing under tents outlined by Christmas lights and inexplicably became reunited with the Wolf Man and the Cross Dresser.

The Bal was incredible and I can honestly say I have never in my life experienced anything quite like it and probably never will. It was one of those rare, fleeting movie moments in life that we are all so frequently searching for but find ourselves at a loss to describe them when we are fortunate enough to catch them. Chills... Goosebumps... Capable of living completely in the moment with the understanding that all the sacrifices you have made over the past few years... they were totally worth it. Needless to say my expectations for the night were incomprehensibly blown and I was in a state of awe.

From that moment, the next 10 days I felt like there was so much joy and excitement in my heart that it might explode like a supernova. I went from standing in the midst of 15,000 French partiers singing along to Calvin Harris, to watching fireworks at the Eiffel tower, to the next day drinking with a New York Times Bestseller, partying with a contributing author for The Atlantic and attempting to process the shared collective experience of the two of them as well as additional entertaining anecdotes from Eddie. I truly felt as though life could not be any fuller or sweeter than it was then.

... And then Ibiza happened...

 
  1. I'm jealous.
  2. I have spent entirely too much time at The Iron Horse - generally a super grimy crowd. Great spot to be hammered late night.
  3. Why did Eddie get her number?

Looking forward to more

"For I am a sinner in the hands of an angry God. Bloody Mary full of vodka, blessed are you among cocktails. Pray for me now and at the hour of my death, which I hope is soon. Amen."
 
  1. I'm thinking Iceland.
  2. Was asking why Eddie go it and not you. He's old and I'm pretty sure he sports a goatee?
"For I am a sinner in the hands of an angry God. Bloody Mary full of vodka, blessed are you among cocktails. Pray for me now and at the hour of my death, which I hope is soon. Amen."
 

I'd probably be the same way, but somehow I think being in Eddie's presence would magnify my tolerance levels through some form of osmosis.

I'm adding this to "list of things to do before I die."

Metal. Music. Life. www.headofmetal.com
 
globalmacro:

The party sounds awesome, but what struck me is how well you wrote about it. You should definitely consider writing on the side or as a career. You have a great writing style and know how to pull it off. Hopefully the new york times bestseller and Atlantic guys as well as Eddie helped you to seriously consider it...

Totally agree.
 
Best Response

What a night. I forgot all about the bucket of Buds at the Hideout. We put away a fuck-ton of booze that night.

This was just a fantastic write-up, man. You definitely need to stick with it, and now that you know what a bunch of derelicts actually make a living at it you should be even more encouraged. Hell, Jeff's living in Paris all expenses paid to hang out with chicks who parade around topless as a political statement. The truth is stranger than fiction.

Thanks for a great retelling of a night I'm still pretty fuzzy about!

 
duffmt6:

1. I'm thinking Iceland.
3. Was asking why Eddie go it and not you. He's old and I'm pretty sure he sports a goatee?

Neither of those are disqualifiers.

Also 1. Rich af 2. World traveled and shit 3. That nice blend of smart, but funny and clever. Probably doesn't rub his intelligence in faces. 4. Probably mad game

Yeah, I wonder why random French bitches jump at him.

"Mr. Perkins poses an extreme risk to the market when drunk."
 
rufiolove:

Eddie has some serious game...

Haha, I would expect nothing less.

Just to echo the other comments, awesome write up.

"For I am a sinner in the hands of an angry God. Bloody Mary full of vodka, blessed are you among cocktails. Pray for me now and at the hour of my death, which I hope is soon. Amen."
 

pretty awesome story man. definitely keep writing. thinking about putting something together later in my career just to recount all the shit I've done with my friends/adventures I've been on. very Tucker Max-esque but at the same time more than just girls at the bar/slumming it with fat chicks.

 
alargefox:

pretty awesome story man. definitely keep writing. thinking about putting something together later in my career just to recount all the shit I've done with my friends/adventures I've been on. very Tucker Max-esque but at the same time more than just girls at the bar/slumming it with fat chicks.

hey man Tucker Max does not dip below 6s

"Mr. Perkins poses an extreme risk to the market when drunk."
 

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