Strange Rumblings in Paris

The air is thick and heavy. Dust from the Louvre billows through the streets. Bread and kebab, onion and spice, swirl up into the ether. Algae and sediment spread out from the river. My lungs are raw from taking long pulls through my nose. That is what I love most about Paris, the smell of it all. That amazing fullness. I follow my nose around the city like a bloodhound. Sniffing up the scene.

During the first week out in those dusty streets, I decided to revisit one of my old interests. Red Bull. I could explain it you, how my pallet has become more refined. How I usually drink cold brew and yerba mates. Which were inexplicably vacant in the whole damn city! How I would have gotten a nice goodie two-shoes latte. But the truth is, I wanted that dented-up can in the back of the convenience store. The gritty knock your socks off, put some veins in your neck hit of that first sip. Even if more controlled substances were available.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I rumble up the stairs after Sylvie, up to see my longtime friends, Mason and Schuyler. The intrepid traveling extraordinaires. Schuyler lets us into their second-story apartment. Right off the street with all the steam and hot nasty wonderful air rolling in the window. Mason is switching out a record. Pearl Jam for Pitbull.

“Ask for money, get advice. Ask for advice get money twice...” Mason sings along as the record player blares. We are getting riled up for a night out. Schuyler and Mason take slugs from great bottles of rosé. I skid to a stop, landing on the couch. Sylvie joins me, bopping along to the tunes.

It was time. I crack the silver and blue fuselage, feeling the taurine hit my lips. My brain starts to pick up speed. Bouncing. Humming. Buzzing. I drink half the can in the blink of an eye. Then join Mason by the window.

We start hollering incoherent sounds down into the street, “BRRRR...BUAAHH.” Then as the Red Bull kicks in, I begin stampeding around the apartment to Schuyler and Sylvie’s outstanding encouragement.

Soon thereafter, I’m in an Irish pub listening to the sweet rumblings of reggaeton. I am buzzing off the Red Bull and Sylvie looks scrumptious. Things get funky fast. Sylvie calls out dance moves in a voice identical to the likes of the meerkat from Lion King. Making me cackle uncontrollably. We creep up and down the dance floor with talons for hands. Sprinklers spray. Waves wriggle. Robots pop and lock. Both of us are wearing boots with rubberized soles so grip is not a problem. We get down. I feel the rhythmic thump of the subwoofers vibrate on the tip of my nose. As I work up a thick layer of sweat with Sylvie, she bounces and hops around the club.

I follow Sylvie back out into the bustling late-night air. Where we sit on a set of cobblestone steps. Clubs thump on every corner. Sylvie yanks off her boots. Tossing them with a thud.

“Gotta cool the puppies down for the walk home,” Sylvie explains excitedly. I agree wholeheartedly, leaning back on the cool stone steps. Stretching my legs. Sprawling out. Feeling the flux and jive of dopamine and thick dirty air hit my system.