It was a sick joke. It had to be. What else could explain why some intersections in Paris had five or six streets coming out of them all diagonally, or why the street signs were nailed up on buildings way up high, in size twelve font that you couldn’t even read unless you’d brought along your glasses which I’d sadly forgotten?

At the risk of walking up to every single street sign and looking like an obvious tourist, I consulted my trusty map. It wasn’t an actual map, of course, since carrying a map would bring me right back down to that obvious tourist thing. Instead, I’d looked up all the directions beforehand and typed them into my phone, so now as I consulted them it looked like I was casually reading a text message. Genius.

If only it wasn’t the most confusing text message anyone had ever written.

I scratched my head. Then squinted my eyes. Exactly like a tourist would do. Next I bumped into an elderly man, who despite seeming extremely annoyed, said “Pardon” in the gruffest French. It was something I’d noticed several times, and something I was now finally learning about the French. It didn’t matter how much they didn’t have time for you, or how much they wished you’d just disappear into thin air, they always said “pardon” which translated to “excuse me,” and they always said “bonjour” and “au revoir.” It was the most “polite when annoyed” culture I’d ever encountered. And I admired it.

At the bottom of my directions, past the names of French avenues and boulevards I could barely pronounce, I saw a final note to myself: “Two blocks past the Starbucks.”

I scanned the six streets before me and there it was; the beacon of green and white. There was something so wrong about using Starbucks as a homing device, when real café terraces were such an important part of Parisian life. In that moment I vowed to never visit a Starbucks for as long as I lived in Paris.

But not even the pumpkin-spice lattes?   

Now on the right path, I casually strolled past the Starbucks (with a half-second look of longing), en route to my very first wine tasting in Paris. I was slightly confused by the concept of a wine tasting that wasn’t in some sprawling vineyard or deep in a darkened cellar, but when I’d learned about it on a meet-up site I signed up right away. I also signed up in the hopes of meeting a man, for the promise of optional romance in the famous city of love. Or any man really, as long as he wasn’t a twenty-three-year-old American in Paris.

Before I could make it inside, I realized my skinny jeans were sliding down my ass. First I pulled them up in frustration, then I cursed skinny jeans for never staying above the curvature of my ass, then I cursed my ass for not having enough curvature, then I made a mental note to Google Jennifer Lopez butt exercises when I made it home.

With that marathon of over-analysis complete, I finally entered the wine bar, excited and curious for what lay ahead...

***

I pressed my nametag onto my boob over and over, but my thin blouse wasn’t letting it stick. I slapped it on the base of my neck instead. Not weird at all. In my hand was what looked like a debit card, and with it I tentatively approached the wine machines. The leather armchairs and exposed brick walls were reminiscent of a cozy cellar, which made the computerized machines equipped for “tastings on demand” seem out of place.

The clusters of people were already well into pleasant conversations, some in English and some in lightning-fast French. With no room to interject or smile broadly, I slid my card into the slot of the closest machine, and waited for the digital screen prompts.

“You don’t want to start with a Pinot Noir,” said a voice in a British accent. Startled, I turned to find a tall, distinguished-looking man in his fifties looking down at me, all grey blazer and sleek black trousers. He was physically fit and must’ve been a handsome devil back in the day. This wasn’t a surprise because like most men, he was able to retain his looks and parade them around in his silver years, whereas women were mercilessly screwed by not only the stress of childbearing, but also the inevitable pull of gravity. For this, I immediately hated him. “I’m Simon, by the way.” He offered his aged but manly hand and I shook it.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I lied. “I’m Romi. And what were you saying about Pinot Noir?” Maybe I can use you for some info.

“It’s a strong red wine, and if you start with a strong wine, it will muddle your senses for anything you sample afterwards. Although for most people it isn’t really a bother, they’re only here to get drunk.” I started to laugh but his look was condescending so I choked down the rest of my giggles. “As for you, if you’re planning to try them all, you’ll need to be progressive to get anything out of it.” I nodded. “And of course, you should be sampling the white wines first, and then move on to the reds.”

Yes, of course, I should know that, shouldn’t I. Please accept my apologies and give my regards to the queen. Dick.

Despite my aversion to snobs like Simon, I looked around me and he was right. No one on this level was actually using the machines, they were simply chatting and gorging themselves on bread and cheese and prosciutto. They tried to look classy while gorging though, that much was obvious. I knew this from the way they would never make eye contact with the food, just casually grabbing more handfuls while they talked, and acting like the whole “grab ‘n gorge” wasn’t even happening. But they couldn’t hide from a fellow gorger like me. Stop denying who you are.

I turned away from the in-the-closet pigs and focused my attention back on Simon. “I don’t know anything about wine,” I admitted. “Actually I just moved here and I’d never even been to Europe before. Just trying to meet new people...” But not you, you wannabe descendant of the monarchy.

“Ah, well then you ran into the right person, because I happen to run this event.” He pulled my wine card out of the slot and linked my arm into his. “Shall we meet some people then?” I smiled and followed him down into the low-lit cavern below, where all the white wines and rosés were waiting for a taste. I still mostly hated this man, but if he had all the needed connections I would acquiesce.

We descended the creaking stairs, and he led me to the center of the darkened cellar. Dusty old wine barrels added to the charm, despite being obvious props amongst the computerized machines. On brown leather couches, people in their thirties and forties made conversation in low voices, whereas others sampled wine from the high-tech devices.

“Everyone, this is Romi,” he said. “And she’s from...where are you from, love?”

I loved being called “love,” so now my hate for Simon was down from a hundred percent to seventy-five.

“Canada,” I said.

The women nodded half-heartedly as if they’d vaguely heard of the place, while the men seemed more interested in my skinny jeans than in my country of origin. One of these men had a wide smile and cropped blondish hair. The hair plus his excellent body made me think he was in the army. He rose from his spot on the couch and approached us. “I’m Felix, enchanté.”

And he’s French; that’s more like it!

I didn’t find myself overly attracted to him, but it was only day five in Paris, so I was happy to make a friend.

Getting this contact out of snobby British Simon meant I didn’t really need him anymore, so I tossed him a dismissive nod and turned my attention to Felix.

“Are you from Paris?” I said.

He made a face like he’d just smelled rotten cheese.

“Mais non, I hate Paris.”

“That’s so weird! I moved here because I’m in love with it.”

“Had you ever been here before your move?”

“Well...no.”

“Then how could you know you are in love with it?”

“I don’t know...centuries of positive feedback, I guess?” I was suddenly feeling sweaty in this thin little top, as I wondered what could possibly be wrong with Paris.

“Well I do not love it.” He shook his head. “But that’s because...I see the worst parts of it every day.”

I frowned. “That’s doesn’t sound very nice; what do you do?”

“I’m a policeman.”

The hate made a little more sense now, and it also made me sure it wasn’t something I’d have to experience. So Paris stays perfect for me, hurrah!

 “Well it’s nice that you’re trying to keep the city safe. A city that you hate...”

“I am trying to work on this hate, which is why my friend told me to come to a rendezvous such as this. To see a more pleasant side of Paris.”

“Aww that’s so sweet; well I genuinely hope it helps.” We smiled at each other for a moment, before I continued in a lower voice: “Now tell me, what do you know about wine? And are you capable of explaining it without sounding like a total snob?” I looked back and sneered at Simon.

Felix nodded slowly and led me to the nearest machine. “I will show you the way.”

In the next hour I learned about the difference between a Riesling and Muscat, sampled a few solid Pinot Grigios, moved on upstairs to what I casually described as “mellow” reds (since I had no idea how to sense a “woodsy” flavour in wine), progressed to some sharper reds, and finished off with the realization that I really don’t like dessert wine. Unless it tastes like mango. All the while, I took detailed notes in my Paris-themed notebook. I tried to hide the cover as I wrote, and really started to wonder why my friends had gotten me notebooks with big Eiffel Towers on the front, since Paris-themed notebooks would obviously make me seem like the biggest loser in Paris. It was like walking around New York City wearing an “I Love NY” T-shirt. Total dork.

Back upstairs with the taste of unpleasant dessert wine lingering in my mouth, I rinsed out my glass and realized I was very buzzed. Maybe that was why I collided with a woman when I turned around. Or maybe she’d been standing there on purpose, blocking my way in a not-so-friendly fashion. When I took a step back and she took a step forward, I knew it was the latter. She was shorter than me but that didn’t make her any less intimidating. Her dark hair was cut into a fierce bob, and her tiny figure was nicely on display in a pencil-skirt and crisp blouse. As for her eyes they were dark and striking, her only makeup a flash of red lipstick.

She had to be French.

I tried to move but she blocked my way again.

This had to be Felix’s girlfriend.

I took a deep breath and prepared myself for the difficult rite of passage that lay ahead.

My very first time getting yelled at or slapped by a Frenchwoman...