Cutback

xi

Paris, May 2015

The first thing Errol and I saw after arriving in Paris was a man urinating into a bed of flowers. Bleary eyed and surging with adrenaline off the 9 a.m. train from Luxembourg, we spotted him behind a cafe across from the train station, the Gare de l'Est, in the 10th.

Given that arranging all the lodging was entirely up to me, and knowing nothing about Paris, having only been there once in middle school, I picked the closest hostel to the station. There was a metro right there, and I figured it would be the smartest thing to do since we could deposit our heavy backpacks with ease and wouldn't have to travel far with them when it was time to leave. Our packs were stuffed with clothes and Errol took his laptop, while I took our toiletries. Everything else was stashed with a friend of Errol's in Brussels. (Turns out there is some value to making friends after all.)

We were looking for a decent place to eat when I saw Errol's head swivel behind him, his back arched as he realized what was happening. The urinating man glanced over, and Errol jerked his head away and slapped a hand on my shoulder, shoving me in the other direction as we stifled our laughs. Amazingly, two police officers strolled right across the narrow Rue d'Alsace, clearly pretending not to notice.

"This whole city smells like piss," Errol said with a dismissive hand wave, and I told him I'd lost my appetite. Except I actually hadn't; I had started to worry about money and didn't want to fritter it away on a pricey breakfast we didn't need. The hostel was over budget and back in Luxembourg, even a sandwich had cost €9. And three days ago we had an extravagant and unexpected going away party at our favorite pub—an endless parade of beers and shots—with all our friends. (Well, all of Errol's friends, and Sam.)

On the metro to the Eiffel Tower, which we figured we might as well get out of the way first, it started weighing on my mind again, so I broke down and told Errol that we had to stay on budget if we wanted the trip to last the whole two months. As I did, his head started to nod, as it slowly began to dawn on him. He's one of the smartest people I've ever met, but it took a good four minutes for him to make the connection that there was something he wanted to do but couldn't because there wasn't enough money.

"Why couldn't we have breakfast, though?" he asked for about the third time as we pulled into a dazzling white tile station beaming fluorescent light.

"Because it would have cost €30 and we shouldn't spend more than €50 a day on food if we can help it," I replied.

"Wait, each?"

"No," I said, running a finger across the bridge of my nose. We'd been through this. "Total. Together."

An embarrassingly long pause.

"But then we'd only have €20 left for the day after breakfast."

I'm not exaggerating when I say that something like this had literally never happened to either of us before. Of course we didn't grow up in mansions or with private jets, but Errol's house had five bedrooms and mine had four (he has an extra sibling over me). We came from solid two-income families where there was always enough money for summer camp and college and, when we were younger, weekly allowances for doing little more than not living like total slobs. And even that didn't require much effort. We'd both had housekeepers.

When Errol told me he didn't want to go up and see the view from the top of the Eiffel Tower, I started to lose my resolve, even though he didn't outright say it was because of the cost. After all, my dream had come true. I was traveling across Europe with Errol and was in the habit of pinching my hand every few minutes to remind myself that this was really happening. I wanted that same feeling for him.

It was only €24 for the two tickets, if you can believe it, so I told him it was fine and his whole face relaxed. So did mine. It was gorgeous and worth every cent. (I mean, have you been to the top of the Eiffel Tower with Errol Gordot?)

In return we had to settle for window shopping along the Rue Cler, and in the Galeries Lafayette our hands melted into a buttery Lanvin cashmere sweater that I couldn't even let Errol try on for fear he'd love it too much. Believe me, it hurt me just as much not to be able to see it on him.

"We need to be rich," he told me with a sharp exhale as we walked out of the store empty handed, with a plan to start exploring gardens and churches, which I figured we could do for free.

"We're in Paris, we're rich in culture," I said, throwing my arms up at the sprawling blocks of Second Empire buildings crowned with their distinctive blue-gray roofs jutting into the sky in every direction.

"I want to be rich in cashmere too, though," he said, rubbing his thumb and index finger against his flimsy cotton t-shirt.

Later that evening, at a small restaurant that boasted a €13 prix fixe menu on a narrow Medieval street in the Quartier Latin—next door to a better restaurant that I'd have rather been eating at—I realized just how unprepared our sheltered lives had left us for the realities of sticking to even the most modest budget.

While trash talking Jess for a good hour over beef bourguignon and flaky cod doused in dill sauce, we drained a bottle of delicious, cheap red wine we bought at a store and were allowed to bring in for a small fee. But then we ordered another at full price since our feet were killing us and we didn't feel drunk enough.

On the way back, Errol found a charming red-awning bar and we sunk another €30 on drinks while we befriended a group of young Italians with frosted highlights wearing too-tight polo shirts, who tried to teach us their national anthem, which made the French start to sing theirs until the room swelled into a cacophony of patriotic emotion and Errol and I just smiled at each other in wide-eyed amazement.

By the end of the night, predictably, everyone was arguing about soccer in the most delightful blend of the most Romantic tongues on Earth in an ethereal experience that will likely flash before my eyes right before I die when my mind searches for one single image of human beauty to take with me before I go.

We also got really, really drunk.

Errol had been hitting on an Italian girl, who slipped him her number and frenched his earlobe, which in his stupor made him lose his balance and trip over a barstool with a clang. Everyone at the bar turned their heads at once, and I pulled him into the damp May air with all the alacrity of a WASP-y American who fears he has overstayed his welcome.

Stumbling to the Boulevard St. Germain in search of a taxi, Errol suddenly remembered that in our haste to leave he'd forgotten to pee, of all things.

"Dude, just wait until we get back, bro," I said, in my Tommy Boy character, which I'd been doing all night, sometimes in an Italian accent, to not a lot of laughs. Errol made a dismissive, guttural sound from his throat. He ducked onto a deserted side street below a stone wall on a steep gradient, turned his back to me and relieved himself loudly on a poor spindly twig of a tree.

I was just as drunk and had to pee too, naturally. But before I could even position myself, Errol mumbled something about being a lookout, and tried to shove me in the other direction. He missed, though, and forgetting I was above him on a down slope, I shoved him back and he lost his balance again, mid stream. Errol grabbed the hand I shoved him with and pulled me with him, crashing a pair of hard limbs into my body as we tumbled onto the pavement, his trickle of a river cutting rivulets of urine into the pavement behind us.

We'd only taken two pairs of pants each, and now one of his was completely ruined, a trio of large wet ovals soaked from waist to cuff, which he'd have to wash in the sink. I thought it was the funniest thing I'd ever seen in my life, a moment made even more triumphant for me because even in my incoherence I'd managed to squeeze my eyes shut while helping Errol to his feet so I wouldn't see anything I desperately wanted to, but wasn't supposed to given the circumstances.

I was still giggling in piercing little shrieks as we got out of the cab, when Errol made me swear I'd never tell anyone what had just happened. "Dude, I will kill you," he slurred, but it only made me laugh harder.

"Y'know, Err," I said, when I finally regained my composure just before we cruised through the hostel door, "You were wrong about the whole city smelling like piss. I think it's just you."