Karaoke, a Tour of Paris, and L'Amour

Arrival in Paris and Questionable Accommodations

“Paris, the city of love,” sighs Claire as we step out of the crowded airport.

    I shove her lightly. “Seriously, Claire?” I joke.

    “Mais oui!” she exclaims. “See, I’m perfectly fine with French.”

    “Of course, Claire. You can say ‘but of course’ and I’ll be your translator for, you know, everything else. Anyways, you have a boyfriend waiting in London, isn’t it a bit concerning that you’re looking for love?”

    “For you, Amanda,” she explains, as though this should have been obvious. Which it really should have been. Claire has been trying to set me up with someone for the past year, ever since I stopped dating my high school sweetheart from California.

    “Claire, promise me you won’t play matchmaker,” I beg.

    “Fine,” Claire responds. “You can be single for the rest of your life and live alone with your thirty cats. See if I care.”

    I roll my eyes, then scan the road to call a cab.

    Fifteen minutes later, we stand waiting in the lobby of a dingy motel waiting to check in.

    “Next!” the front-desk attendant calls. We step up to the ugly blue laminated counter. “Your names?” She is wearing a white button-down blouse with a blazer to match the counter. Apparently this place takes their color themes seriously. A pin on her blazer tells us that her name is Linda.

    “Amanda Grace Freeman and Claire Leighanne Bertrand,” I answer. She types our names into her computer.

    “May I see your identification, mademoiselles?” she requests. We reach into our purses and hand our passports over. She looks at them briefly, then hands them back. “Seems to be in order. Have a nice day,” she says cheerily, handing us a set of room keys and a map of the motel.

    “Merci,” Claire and I reply. Handing one key to Claire, I open up the map.

    “We’re on the west side.” Claire opens the door and we walk through the courtyard - if it could be called a courtyard - to our room. I stick my key in the lock and open up the door, which groans loudly. We find ourselves admiring our truly lovely shared room. Being recent college graduates, we can’t afford much, as evidenced by the frankly appalling state of our accommodations.

    This trip is to celebrate our graduation from Berkeley College; Claire finishing as a top dance major, and me, an art history/French combined major and the -

    “Valedictorian of our class,” Claire begins. “And you still couldn’t find a nicer motel.”

    “I don’t know about you, but I’m still drowning in student loans,” I reply.

    Claire sighs and sits down on one of the creaky twin beds. “Same,” she concurs. “Maybe if we met someone really nice and really rich…”

    Claire is what I’d kindly call ‘a dreamer.’ A hopeless romantic with wild fantasies. I’m the realist of our friendship. More often, though, I’m called a cynicist.

    “So what are we doing tonight?” Claire continues.

    “Sleeping?” I suggest hopefully. The jetlag has gotten to me and I am already exhausted, despite the fact that it’s only 5:30 pm Paris time.

    “No!” Claire blurts out. “We are not going to waste our time here! Let’s go to a karaoke bar. I’ve heard that they are amazing.”

    “A karaoke bar?” I respond skeptically. “You want to listen to drunk old men singing 80s ballads all night?”

    “Who knows?” asks Claire, oblivious to my criticism. “Maybe they have professional singers. It’s Paris, it has to be great! Come on, this will be so much fun.”

    “Alright,” I agree reluctantly. “Alright, but I’m wearing my festival look. I don’t care if it’s not ‘proper French style.’”

    “Oh la la!” Claire exclaims.

    “Wow, Claire,” I tease. “You’re really getting the hang of this French language thing.”