I'm totally wiped out after a week of drinking around Paris. After a lasst gin-tonic with Claude Aurenson, the manager of the famed nightclub, I walked from Le Privilege to the Hotel Louisiana on Rue de Seine well past midnight oblivious to the few other staggering pietons or pedestrians. No tourists out that late. Only my fellow boure or dead drunk wastrels. I love the French language. Charger la mule or overload the mule. So poetic. I took the key to room 301 overlooking the dormant market. I didn't look out the window, but later heard the grocers setting up their stalls for the not too distant morning. Sleep drove me past the dawn.
I woke to discover that I had lost a leather glove. Not both. Just one. Also my silver Cross pen, a gift from my father. My new Agnes B shirt bore grease stain revealing that I had eaten a crepe from the crepe stand at the corner of Rue Montmatre and the Grand Boulevard. Not the first time. The woman at the dry cleaner or nettoyer à sec will shake her head. Same as always. I go back to sleep. It's Monday night. The Balajo will open at 9. Later on I'll leave early to take the vapours at Saint-Paul Hammam on Rue Des Rosiers in the Jewish Quarter. Nothing like a steam to exorcise Demon Rhum from your blood.
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