Time to yourself
I feel like the last few weeks I have been Pat Mullins - rolling across landscapes from party to party, exam to exam, food date to food date. And no time to myself to work on my dolphin collection.
Okay, so sans dolphin collection. And sans one limb longer than the other. And sans terminal illness.
The last two nights in particularly were truly crazy. In fact, the last 72 hours. I started and finished all my exams - symbolising the end of a semester at Dauphine and the end of a degree; I went celebratory coffee-ing with a gorgeous friend of mine, Monica, and did a cheeky Christmas shopping session with her before the day turned to night and we called timeout to get ready for the hectic evening of Erasmus student bar hopping ahead.
I chucked on my cheapest pair of disco pants (PRIMARK YOU DO WONDERS) and grabbed a bottle of vino before traversing unchartered territory to another university residence where I would get really drunk, say a lot of hilarious things and french kiss ??? (the bises, not the type you're thinking) a bottle of rouge. We all finally made our way to The Blok at Chatelet where the music was loud, the bar full, and the company ? Niggas in Paris.
And you know what is fun? Dancing to Niggas in Paris with niggas in Paris. I can say on a number of occasions this has happened - and have no regrets.
Cheeky bises and a bus ride home with some Irish strangers and next minute I was up in the morning on Skype to my granny in Australia with a huge, relentless hangover. Dedicated granddaughter right here. And I hit the replay button and started up with the drinking all over again that night with everyone, confusing immortality of lobsters with immorality of lobsters (cue Fintan's mafia boss cigarette act) and having a hopping competition with Johann to The Long Hop before being told we were not allowed in and having to back, back, back it up to Cap Rouge along Rue Mouffetard. There was a smoke machine and a lot of guys grabbing what my mother gave me who I didn't see all the faces of - but the hangover did not return the next day and I felt like I had conquered the world upon waking up.
Still, who would say no to a hangover breakfast at 3pm in my favourite café in the city? Monica and I met up again at Holybelly near Canal St Martin for eggs, bacon, toast, coffee and brownies. We realised that everything about the place is perfect. The simple, yellow crockery, the timeless architecture and design pieces, the music - a classic sluggish Sunday cure, the service, the FOOD (duh) and the fact that they have a pinball machine at the ready.
Wandering around Canal St Martin then trying to avoid a rowdy protest near Republique, we decided to dash over to the 5th arrondissement and have a cheeky coffee and then headed out for dinner with friends - a lot of which we would never see again. Steak and fries was the prize in my eyes. Dinner in St Michel was a perfect way for all 25 of us to squeeze into a restaurant and be our regular rowdy selves for one last time before we parted ways in search of our Christmas plans being realised.
And now? Now I am having all the time in the world to myself. To wander, to eat, to ponder and to sleep. All in time for a gorgeous upcoming Christmas dinner with the girls left in Paris and then a sure to be interesting bonne année !
Merry Christmas you crazy kooks.
