The Ryndex

Sunday morning, I woke up with ashes in my mouth. I had slept in four hours longer than normal, which meant I had at least five hours of sleep. The sun was pouring in my window, so I gulped down the water that I left at the bedside the night before, wrapped my head in the sheets and pushed myself back into sleep.

About an hour later, I had to get up for more water. Again, my mouth was dry — but my headache was well within normal operating parameters. I wouldn’t say I was stable, especially if I took my intestines into account. I got lots more water, and then some coffee.

A few days before, we had reserved dinner at Au Limonaire, a wine and song bar. We reserved for two hours before the music was supposed to start, and we got there two hours early last night. Eloise and Sing-Sing (although we had yet to be introduced) were tuning, and checking the sound. The bistrot was empty, and they led us to the little table directly in front of the stage. There was a slip of paper with my name on it.

This part is pretty clear. I remember there were olives and toothpicks, and the menu board was still full.

We both ordered the same thing — to start, a terrine de foie de volaille, which is a poultry liver pâté. Theirs was served in a cute terracotta pot, and had blueberries in it. It was tasty. Then the rôti de veau (veal roast) with tagliatella. It was also tasty, and luckily there was a lot of it. I asked him to bring us a bottle of red wine that would go well with the meal.

About this time, everything started getting just a little fuzzier, and warmer. They started erasing plates and desserts off of the menu board. Le Meg came over and introduced herself. She and Lady K had been chatting online. She’s been doing exciting and wonderful things in Paris, and we’ve been stealing her ideas. I hope I made a good impression at this point, because it was really one of the last solid moments of the night…

Yeah, after the first bottle of wine, we ordered another 50cL (two thirds of a bottle). I remember that the second bottle was a Côtes du Rhone, because I thought I could pronounce that one. There was dessert — I had fromage blanc with roasted nuts, and Kelaine had a Alsatian prune tart.

And then the lights went out. My head was seriously spinning, and Sing-Sing took the stage.That’s his stage name of course. I know his real name, but I’m mad discreet. And how!

Wow — it was him and his guitar. It was great. Really great — it made my head spin, which was perfect because everything else was still spinning in the other direction. I clapped very loudly. His guitar was a brilliant blue that some of my readers (if you’re out there!) would have appreciated highly…

After Sing-Sing was finished his set, he introduced us to Benjamin. He was quieter, and he played us narrative ballads that seemed so incredibly impressively clever on so many levels; I can certainly vouch for the music, and I really had the impression that I was catching 100% of the French, but that might have been the overconfidence of the wine. He made an excellent connection with the audience.

Then it was Eloise. She came up and sang — a beautiful voice, straightforward and honest. She was accompanied by Sing-Sing (who composed their music). She charmed us all, especially when she stepped away from the micro and sang Russian to us. Her set flew by rapidly, although I can’t imagine that it was any shorter than the others…

OK, at this point, the lights come back on, and people start milling about and ordering more drinks. I obviously shouldn’t be drinking more at this point — at this point in my life, I know when I’ve had enough. And besides, we really should be thinking about catching the next métro home.

Or we could go over to Le Meg’s table, and meet her husband, and Tom, and Jorg and Cynthia. They’re expatriates, and tourists, and tourist-expatriates, and teachers and students, and bloggers and poets. I can’t say enough nice things about them, and it’s not just my soon-to-be famous discretion, nor my absent-minded inebriation. Sometimes when you’re talking to someone, it just hits you: they care. The world can be an apathetic place — and France can have a particularly properly sophisticatedly formal front.

It might have just been the wine (oh yeah, they had announced that they were closing the bar, so we ordered a few more bottles). But I don’t think it was.

Eloise, Benjamin and Sing-Sing came to our table, obviously the happening group. I wasn’t speaking much to them at this point, being engrossed in the conversation. Man, I hope I was charming — I remember what they said, I really do. I really have no idea if I was making sense from the other side. I hope I was.

So what do you do when the bar closes down and you get shushed away? You follow the musicians to the next bar. So we did. There was some food, but I didn’t actually eat any — that harshes the buzz, you know — but there was also more wine. I think. Yeah, I’m pretty sure…

Hey, wasn’t there some sort of weird deal, where I was actually sitting at a different table than everybody else? Yeah, that’s right — not really at a different table, but kind of behind one of the rows of people and twisted around. A surprisingly good seat. I could see everyone, and then I was chatting with Eloise at my table for a while… Man, I really hope I was charming, or at least tolerable — it was a good talk, meandering over life and motivation, and work and art and audience. Good. Great!

Well, maybe I don’t hope that I’m charming-er when I’m less sober. Do I? How’s that supposed to work?

The night ended and we walked along the streets looking for a major route to send people home by taxi. Lady K and I walked a bit farther than the others, and realized that if we waited twenty minutes, we could just take the first métro home. And that’s what we did.

(Eloise is singing, Sing-sing is playing, Le Meg is filming. Thanks Le Meg!)