The guys in Paris were nothing to brag about. Don’t get me wrong, some of them were gorgeous, but Paris wasn’t what I was expecting. I think my favorite memory of Paris was sitting in a café in Monmartre with one of the girls, she was sketching and I was writing. It felt like we were recreating history, this is where famous artists and poets came for inspiration. We were rudely interrupted by a group of guys asking if we’d like to learn how to French kiss. Shut the front door! They actually asked that! We politely said we already knew how, and ignored them. After taking a picture, of course.
The last night in Paris we were supposed to have dinner and then go to the Eiffel Tower to see the City of Lights from the top. We were sharing a large room, and the four of us bought a few bottles of wine. We sat in a circle, reminiscing about high school and how we were all from different groups and cliques, but here we were in Europe together. After four girls consumed five bottles of some shitty red wine, one girl leaned over and just started throwing up. We were obviously amateurs. Once again, a chain reaction. Our room was full of vomit and red vomit stained towels, and we were going to be late for dinner if we didn’t leave now. We grabbed a bunch of plastic bags, dumped out the souvenirs, and headed for the subway. Being drunk and figuring out the Paris metro is not a good idea. We got lost (a common theme on that trip), ended up in what I can only imagine is a horrible neighborhood, full of strip clubs, porn stores, and middle aged, overweight hookers in fishnets winking at us. I think I threw up everything I ate the whole trip in that street, but at least it got that group of dirty looking guys to leave us alone.
We made it to dinner, all four of us still sick. We said we ate some bad cheese at lunch and no one believed us.
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