He was reading business at Le Grande Ecole HEC, the premier business school in Paris, the pump out station for France's captains of industry. About an hour out of the city, the campus is based in the same suburb as Versailles. Cest tres bein , the double whammy.
His room was horrible, terrible, it was a horror show, living filth like six month old Brie. The desk was a bar, the floor an ash tray. Every piece of dirt from every after party I have been too was there. I love grime, and as I spread out my sleeping bag on the bin of the floor I wallowed in the filth.
The room was so bad, something had to be said.
"Nice of you to clean up for me Ken".
Yeah, You know, my rooms a bit of a tip right now".
The "now" was a white lie, this was deep dirt, established over an extended period of time, like that ring of brown you get at the bottom of mugs. A dust would have only moved detritus around, a deep clean was essential.
"Can I use your toilet"
"Ah yeah sure, but your gonna wanna leave the door open, the light went yesterday"
Another white lie, the signs were all to obvious, the bulb must have gone weeks ago, but why change it when you can wash in the dark.
That night, with belly growling we went out for a slap up meal. My first in France, I was keen to try the local French cuisine and Ken was keen to introduce me too, perhaps some oysters, maybe even a Lobster thermidore, I was in the mood for spending like I was Marie Antoniettee in 1789
The restaurant was booked up.
No fear,We went to a Chinese. I had a plate of chicken chow-mein, I guess that should be Chow-homme, quaffed down with a couple of bottles of German wine. Classically French.
It was superb. I was dining with some of Ken's friends from HEC. These students are the continents brightest and best. It was as if I had stumbled into a meeting of the future fortune 500, everyone seemed moments away from signing some sort of deal. Conversation flicked from booze to business and back, the velocity was high and my confidence stocks were falling. We got drunk, though and I entered a Bull Market phase.
I was with Ken for four nights, it was the top up all friendships need to check you still like each other, but I was sheltered in Versailles and I was preventing Ken from cleaning his room, so I booked myself in to a Hostel in Monmarte.
I took the metro there; when you go abroad the small differences amuse. In Paris the train doors open with handles that look like down handles but are up. Like bad Christmas crackers the doors surprise a little. I watched scores of commuters open the doors, and they all had the reaction stretching a rubber band till it snaps.
My first night in monmarte, I met two other couch surfers and we went to the Paris couch surfing party. I was battered. So so battered. We had pre-gamed 1.26 Europes bottles and they tasted like they should have cost 1.26 pounds. Horrible, but with booze, quantity always makes up for quality.
I met a lovely American, who I wished I had met a few days ago, and bizzarley another American who lived with a friends friend in Manchester. After a couple of hours, though I don't know who I met because like the previous nights before, I was battered.
In the morning, I gave a feeble attempt to look round the city. I got out of bed but it just wasn't going to happen. I absolutely bottled Paris for the day. I just could'nt do anything I was so dreadfully hung over. Pathetic. I wandered round Sacre coure, met up with the American from last night and brought some more cheap wine. It was superb, living proof of the special relationship.
I was beyond tired. Je suis fatigue. I went back and slept. I was down and out in Paris.
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