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When my mother and I arrived in Paris after my high school graduation, we spent the first evening in her favorite haunt from her summer abroad in college--an old jazz bar that had been operating since the 1600s. When we entered, it appeared to be a fairly standard setup. There were clusters of little tables and booths situated around a bar tended by a man that seemed nearly as old as the building itself. However, our descent into the basement revealed a beautiful, cavernous room with walls of roughly cut stone. Despite its high ceilings and crumbling stone arches, the dim candlelight glow and soft jazz melodies from the band made the venue felt intimate. We found a little table situated near the small dance floor, and my mother ordered us a bottle of fancy wine as we watched couples swing dance to the music.
"Cheers to you," she said, raising a glass. "I know you can't drink in the States, but things are different here. Let's celebrate."
I took my first sip of wine and felt giddy from the thrill of it. As she began regaling me with tales from her college days, I felt the dizzying effect of the wine take hold. It was pleasant, making me feel warm and light. After the bottle was finished, I decided to push my luck.
"Can we go order cocktails from the bar upstairs? I've never had one, and it is a celebration after all, so..." I trailed off, eyeing her hopefully.
With amusement, she replied, "Sure, but just one. You've had quite a bit for your first time drinking, and I don't want to overdo it. Then we'll head back to our hotel. It's just a short walk from here."
We went back upstairs to the main bar. As we ascended, she whispered to me: "Don't forget to greet the bartender in French. It's impolite to assume they speak English, even though they probably do. Remember, we're guests here, and a little effort will go a long way."
I was nervous about practicing my French--I had taken two years in high school, but I had never really used it outside of the classroom. I approached the bartender with a little trepidation.
"Pardon monsieur," I said uncertainly. "Uh, vous parlez anglais?"
"Oui," he replied. "What would you like?"
"Oh, um..." I faltered. I realized I hadn't thought that far ahead. What do people order in bars?
"I'll have, um... I mean je prenne un... Shirley Temple?" I remembered ordering a virgin version once at a restaurant--sprite and cherry syrup. Yum.
The bartender chuckled and said replied, "We don't have Shirley Temple, but I will make something you like."
As the bartender busied himself making my drink, my mom grinned at me. "You did alright. Some other time, I'll teach you what kind of drinks to order so you don't look silly."
She was teasing me, but I knew it was all in good fun. Once I had my drink, she ordered a gin and tonic, then began chatting in French with a couple to her right at the bar. I tried to follow along in their conversation, but they talked quickly, and all of the words seemed to blend together. Suddenly, a man sitting to my right tapped my shoulder.
"You are from the States?" he asked in a thick French accent. He looked to be about college-aged, with dark brown hair and a hint of stubble.
"Yes," I replied. "I mean, oui. I just graduated, uh, de l'école."
"You know a little French!" he said with a smile. "I can help you practice."
"Oui, s'il vous plait!" I replied. "I've had a little to drink though, so I might not be so good."
"Non, c'est parfait," he assured me. "You will be relaxed. That is the best time to practice."
I noticed that he was slurring his words a bit. He's really drunk, I thought. But he's friendly, and he wants to help me with my French, so what's the harm?
We began to converse a little bit, some in French and some in English. He told me his name was Mathéo, and that he was studying engineering at Sorbonne. As we talked, I suddenly became aware of his hand resting on my knee.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I have a boyfriend," I said nervously. Mark and I been dating for two years now, but truthfully, I was considering breaking up with him. After all, we were going to different universities in the fall. I realized Mathéo's touch was kind of exciting, but I didn't intend to cheat on my boyfriend.
"Oh, high school boyfriend? Are you going to university together? You know those relationships don't last, right?" As he spoke, his hand crept up my thigh, and the tips of his fingers went under my skirt. My face quickly became flushed.
Suddenly, my mother whipped around and began to scold Mathéo in rapid-fire French. I couldn't understand a word, but it caused Mathéo to lift his hands apologetically.
"Désolé, désolé," he said sheepishly. He said a few parting words, and then he rose from the table and stumbled toward the basement stairs. After he was gone, my mother turned to me.
"You can't give college boys an inch, they will take a mile!" she said sharply. "You have to be careful with them, especially when they're drunk."
Feeling foolish, I felt my eyes begin to well with tears. I was overwhelmed and completely out of my element.
"I'm gonna go use the restroom," I said, hoping for a chance to pull myself together a bit. Without waiting for a reply, I got up and rushed to the basement restroom. I pushed open the door to the women's restroom, and as it fell closed behind me, I realized that Mathéo was standing at the sink. He looked disoriented.
"Oh, Mathéo, you're in the wrong restroom," I said with confusion. In his drunkenness, he must have gotten the men's and women's rooms mixed up.
His eyes raised to meet mine, slowly raking them over my body in the process. There was a hungry look in his expression that sent a chill down my spine. He took a step towards me, so I darted towards a nearby bathroom stall and locked myself inside. As soon as the latch clicked into place, he began to shake the door aggressively.
