"Red red wine, go to my head. Make me forget that I still need her so…" – Neil Diamond in the song “Red Red Wine” (Note: Okay, the UB40 cover is so much more popular, but the original should always deserve the recognition.)
***
For the record, it was never the way I intended to be as I stood in the middle of Avenue des Champs- Élysées, gazing in front of the majestic Arc de Triomphe. I read an article sometime ago that Napoleon had commissioned the Arc to be built in the 1800’s as a tribute to all the patriotic soldiers who died fighting for France’s wars. On a normal day, I would’ve marveled at the history, architecture and the intricate sculpture that adorn the Arc’s façade. But nope, it was not an ordinary day. It was night time, close to midnight in fact, while rain peppered my face through the opening of my windbreaker’s hood. Clutching an empty bottle of red wine on my side, I made a dignified salute to all the brave and departed Frenchmen with my right palm pressed on my temple. As soon as I eased my hand down, however, I proceeded to chuckle in giddy laughter. With teeth chattering from the cold and an obvious slur, I announced “Viva le France!” to the weeping night sky.
***
Hours before that ruckus that I inadvertently caused in Champs- Élysées, my Russian colleague Nikita and I boarded a train for the center of Paris. Since both of us were first time visitors, we made plans to check out the usual tourist attractions in the city. We were actually sent by our company to attend a two-week software training course in Massy, a suburb some 20 minutes from the main city. Because of this, we decided to schedule our intended sight seeing on a Friday after our classes. That way, we can stay out as late as we wanted to since we had the weekend off.
For our first stop, Nikita suggested that we should go to Montmartre, which at 130m is the highest point of Paris. The place is quite popular since it’s basically a hill where the Basilica of the Sacré Cœur stands. Sitting on the Basilica’s front steps makes a good venue for people watching, and yeah, it also gives some of the most spectacular views of the city. However, getting to the Basilica is no easy feat. One has to scale several flights of stairs to get there. Halfway through our climb, my exercise-deprived lungs and legs began to protest, and my throat felt grainy from thirst.
Not wanting to sound wimpy and whiny, I remarked to my travel companion that the area was full of interesting pubs and delis, and it would probably be great to get into one and have a drink. Nikita, however, scoffed the idea off. He remarked that getting inside a restaurant would defeat the purpose of hanging out in the open space with the Parisian view in front of us. And besides, it probably costs a fortune to get a drink in those posh establishments. Of course I never proposed for that “drink” to be alcoholic in nature, but like most Europeans, Nikita assumed that it’s what I wanted. Then an idea suddenly flickered on his face.
“Look, there’s a shop over there,” he pointed upwards. “Maybe we can just buy two bottles of red wine, one for each of us, and we can drink from our own bottle while we walk.”
“But is that even allowed here?” I hesitated. I wanted water, agua, dihydrogen monoxide – not some red liquid in a bottle to further dehydrate me. “And I don’t think I can finish a whole bottle of wine by myself.”
“This is Paris; we’re thousands of miles away from home and nobody knows us here. We can be drunk on the street and nobody will care.” He was already walking towards the store. Grudgingly, I followed.
Seated on the steps of the Basilica of the Sacré Cœur, I scanned at the magnificent city that is Paris as I took another swig at my wine bottle. It was already past nine in the evening, the sun was barely setting, the clouds congregated overhead, and the cool wind warned of an impending summertime shower. In the horizon, numerous dots of lights glimmered in mellow hues. I’m not sure if it’s just the effect of gulping copious amounts of red wine on an empty stomach, but for some strange reason, I was enthralled by the beauty around me. No wonder they call it the City of Lights, the City of Love. I have always imagined my first visit to Paris was going to be with someone special. Instead, I had to hang out with a dude. Contrary to popular belief, Nikita turns out to be a man’s name in Russia. Darn that movie, Le Femme Nikita!
A slight drizzle started to dart its way on Montmartre, but Nikita and I were too tipsy to even care. For someone who was protesting about buying the bottles of red wine to begin with, I made a 180 degree turn and was starting to like the whole experience.
***
The fact is wine has never been my choice of drink. There’s always something cumbersome and snooty about the beverage. First up, I really don’t appreciate having to use a cork screw before I get to the nice stuff. About 90% of my attempts to open a bottle of wine have ended in disaster – the unfortunate corks all somehow get mangled with my careless twist and turning, resulting to not opening the bottle at all. When this happens, the eyeballs of my ungrateful friends roll to the top of their sockets, breathing out their dismay and frustrations. “My God naman ang jologs, hindi marunong mag-open ng bottle of wine,” they’re probably complaining in their minds.
Second, I never like the conversation that sprouts up whenever wine-gobbling bourgeois congregate. For some strange reason, they find it necessary to discuss the grapes, the oak barrels, the climate, and all other complicated processes that come with fermentation. Wine somehow gives them the aura of sophistication that most deem compulsory in this image-conscious world. And another thing, I’ve always been a beer person. Yes, it sounds very proletarian, but with beer, you never have to worry about popping out corks, or if the plump grapes were trampled upon by barefoot female virgins.
Looking back, I made these not-so-groundbreaking observations after spending some time in Europe: (1) everything there is just so expensive (see previous blog entry); and (2) people drink too much alcohol (it could be beer, wine, or whatever spirit that was aged in a barrel). Strangely enough, a bottle of water – you can choose between Evian, Perrier, or San Pellegrino – can be as expensive as a mug of beer or a glass wine. A friend once told me that when he was in Europe, he never bothered to drink water anymore. “Just drink beer and wine,” he advised. “You’ll be happier; and sometimes, it’s cheaper that way.”
***
The rain was gradually gaining strength but Nikita and I decided to embark on a walking tour of the city. The map we brought proved worthless with numerous water droplets piercing around us like projectiles. And besides, with our current state, we wouldn’t be able to read the map, anyway. And so we strolled aimlessly in the many avenues and boulevards of Paris. With our wine bottles almost empty, we laughed, groaned, and sang like typical drunkards.
“To heck with going to the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre,” I proclaimed. “We’re drunk and we don’t care!” Then suddenly, Nikita tapped my shoulder. He pointed at the digital street sign overhead. Avenue des Champs- Élysées. And amid the blur caused by the falling rain, the Arc de Triomphe appeared from a distance. With fervent steps that rival those of Charlie Chaplin’s, we marched forward.
***
The world swirled around me while Nikita tried to hail a cab that will take us back to our hotel. We attempted catch the midnight train back to Massy, but due to our inebriated state, we succeeded at walking around in loopholes and going inside one wrong station after another. At last, a Peugeot halted in front of us, and the moment I settled myself at the backseat, I fell almost instantly to sleep.
Bizarrely enough, I dreamed of a very curious scene. I found myself in “Alcohol Heaven,” and was in the middle of a word war between the Beer Deities (BD) and Wine Idols (WI). It appears that the BD’s were upset at the WI’s for taking advantage of Europe’s sophisticated atmosphere to sway me to choose red wine over beer. Suddenly, the official BD representative stepped forward and faced me. The image before me had the face of an angel and wore a tunic embroidered in gold. I was strangely captivated. Swiftly, he took out his sword from his side, and from his back, sprouted the whitest and most perfect pair of wings that I’ve ever seen.
The angel, in a stern tone, said: “Your treachery is unacceptable! You can only choose one; which will it be, beer or wine?!”
“Beer, beer!” I stammered. I was afraid of getting decapitated if I said otherwise. But then again, I’ve always been a beer person. In the background, I could hear the WI’s grumble curses in French, or maybe it was Italian.
“Very well,” warrior angel smiled. “You obviously made a very wise choice. But don’t expect your bad deeds to go unpunished…”
I couldn’t say another word after that. The sight of his bladed weapon was enough to make me zip my mouth shut. Before he turned to leave, I caught a glimpse of a small name plate attached on his chest, the same kind that waiters wear in a bar. And from that plate, I swear I read the words “San Miguel” printed on it.
***
Nikita woke me up to tell me that we were already outside of the hotel lobby. He mentioned that he already paid our fare, and that I could just pay him my share when I’m sober. I shook my head to let him know that I agreed, but then, I suddenly felt something jolt in my stomach, accelerating upwards to my throat. Then my mouth felt sour and tangy, and I knew I was going to blow.
I got out of the cab just in time before the first stream of red-colored vomit spurted out of my mouth. I was on all fours on the ground, violating the small patch of flowers that unfortunately, was at the wrong place and was at the wrong time. I heaved and heaved until it felt like all the fluids and energy drained out of my body.
“That’s gross!” Nikita laughed out loud. “You’re wasted big time, man.”
“Shut up!” I reproached him.
When nothing more would go out, I stood up and proceeded to wipe my mouth and chin with the sleeves of my wind breaker. I looked down and realized that my jeans and sneakers were also soiled by my own crimson spew. Dragging my feet to the hotel entrance, I made one last look at place where a pool of my fluids drained to the ground.
Just before I entered the hotel’s sliding doors, I thought I heard someone laughing in the garden. From the dark, I thought I vaguely saw an image of a person with wings. He clutched an imposing sword on his left hand, and raised an ordinary looking item with his other hand. Since my eyes were still teary from throwing up awhile ago, I squinted to get a better view. Then as the translucent doors closed shut, I realized that the item the winged dude held looked strangely familiar: a short stubby bottle colored brown.
Closing time!!!
