Fine Wines

I’m preparing for another long stay in Paris, September through December. I have managed to spend an extended time in France every year or two. I rent the same apartment in the Marais district, go to the same cafes, use the same ATM, buy my bread at the same patisserie, step over the same bums on rue Saint-Antoine, shop at the same bookstores and grocery stores, and totally enjoy the coffee, the food, the art, the culture, the history and architecture.

“And the wine. Right?”

“No, I don’t drink.”

“How can you go to Paris and not drink wine?”

I was asked that question the other day. By a baboon. Who is also a lawyer and knows that I don’t drink.

It’s no big secret that, in the past, I’ve had some difficulty managing my intoxicants. I’ve used a broad spectrum of inebriates, narcotics, hallucinogenics and “performance enhancing” substances. I’ve also engaged in behaviors that could be termed risky and borderline. My friend A., who is about to receive a Doctorate in Behavioral Sciences, noted that I have a tendency towards “novelty-seeking behavior”. That sounded sort of middle class and weak and minimizing for some of the stuff I’ve done, but she’s a professional. It was a clinical observation and I don’t think it was meant as an insult.

Alcohol never did much good for me. Or anyone around me. My actions were selfish, stupid and dangerous. I was a limbic system with legs, a pleasure-seeking missile, decadent, a hedonist and a philanderer. I’m fortunate that I’m not spending my golden years in a Turkish prison or a long-term medical facility.

 I’ve crafted a method of travel that fits my interests, my budget, health and social requirements. Some snarky know-it-all usually has a competitive opinion or criticism about my choices and my system for living abroad. I’ve learned to expect it.

“You have to go to the top of Notre Dame. It’s worth the wait.”

“Don’t bother with the Louvre, it’s too crowded.”

“Why learn French? They all speak English.”

“Parisians hate Americans. Why go where you aren’t wanted?”

“It’s very expensive but the Frogs Legs are to die for.”

Please. No. Stop. Leave me alone. I don’t want to pay eight euro to climb the towers of Notre Dame. Am I a hunchback? The Louvre, jammed with people from all over the world, is always an amazing experience. I like speaking a little French, it helps considerably. I eat at inexpensive restaurants and get terrific meals. I don’t want Frogs Legs. Nothing is to die for. The Parisians have always treated me well. I like them a lot.

Years ago, the first time S. and I went to Paris for a long stay, I was telling some people about a good airfare deal I found, in economy class, and a man I know, and used to like, leaned across the table and said with a nasty smirk, “I always fly first class.” I almost smacked him.

Since then he’s had a heart attack, been investigated by the IRS, watched his business crumble and has moved into a much smaller house in a midrange neighborhood. I’m slightly sorry about his troubles, but when I think about that shitty “first class” crack, I’m glad that I have the restraint not to call him up in the middle of the night and ask how many free cocktails he downed on his most recent first class trip and then laugh insanely and hang up. I don’t drink and that also keeps me from making phone threats.

I try not to consume or acquire. Or drink. I save enough money to travel by living prudently and controlling myself. When I drank I didn’t travel. That is the simple aphorism that currently informs my life.

And we keep returning to Paris. I’m kind of surprised about how comfortable I am there. I’ve been to other places, beautiful places, but the first time I set foot in Paris I felt myself shift into a brand new sensory space. I was immediately comfortable. I spent six weeks alone the city in 2010 before S. joined me. I don’t speak very good French, I didn’t know anyone, and I felt isolated. Each day, after drinking lots of coffee and walking around the city, watching the river, checking out museums, I ended the day solo, solitary, by myself. I knew that if I died in my apartment, four floors up a narrow stairway in a 16^th century building, I wouldn’t be found for weeks, if at all, and I’d be pretty repulsive. I worried about death and even considered drinking a little wine, a glass or two, to relax, to quiet the nattering voice of doom. I was tempted, but I know for sure that alcohol, for me, has never worked the way it’s supposed to.

There is more art, literature, politics, philosophy, architecture, music, food and history crammed into Paris than in any other place on earth. I was never, not for five minutes, bored. In 2010, after the first week and a few anxious nights of browsing wine lists, taking my pulse and looking up emergency numbers for English-speaking doctors and dentists, I overcame my sense of isolation, embraced my anonymity and seclusion, and had the greatest time of my life.

And how can I do this without drinking?

Jesus Christ. It’s not that there isn’t ample opportunity. I am surrounded by great, reasonably priced bars and cafes that serve fine wines in the most civilized and attractive environments. I stroll by a guy sitting alone under an awning at an outdoor table, smoking, reading a paper or magazine, writing in a journal, watching the passing crowd, sipping from his glass, and I know how simple it would be to order up a bottle of burgundy. I’d feel the warmth in my stomach and my facial muscles would relax. I’d have wonderful ideas and every word I jotted in my notebook would be exhilarating. Literature. Genius. I see that the bottle is almost empty and it’s only 8 P.M. Early. Too early to go home to my small Paris apartment. Une autre bouteille.

A short while later my mouth is hanging opened, my eyes are swollen, I’m smoking a harsh cigarette, coughing, I have heartburn, acid reflux, a chipped a tooth, and I’ve spilled a glass of wine across the table and it slowly drips onto my shoes; I look up, squinting at the other customers. They nervously avert their glances, whispering, and when I focus my blurred vision on the stained pages of my notebook I see that I’ve been writing strings of illiterate obscenities in English and French, bilingual filth, repeatedly, punctuated with several childish sketches of over-inflated female torsos. I have even included exaggerated anatomical details from memory.

Ten P.M. Still pretty early. I’ve forgotten where I am. Paris? Am I alone? What happened to the waiter? Does he sell drugs? Probably. There are not as many people in the café and there is a buffer zone of empty tables between the nearest customers and me. No one looks in my direction. Ha. Bon. Bon temps. Bon soir. Bon vin. Plus de vin.

I don’t drink.

I can tell the baboon who wonders “How can you go to Paris without drinking” that I am allergic to liquor, I have an impaired pancreas, it’s a way to save money and to stay clear headed. I don’t go into great detail about why I avoid alcohol. The poor ape wouldn’t understand. The fact that he asked the question is an indication of his inability to comprehend that a person can travel, enjoy and enrich their lives without the addition of wine.

I just don’t want to explain, again, how glad I am to be alive living indoors. In Paris.