Summer nights would find us on Paris’s patio. Although it was little more than a fenced enclosure in a parking lot (bordering the highway, no less), it somehow never felt that way. Two small worn-out metal tables supported coffee cans full of sand and cigarette butts (smoking was no longer permitted inside). A Russian Olive tree full of Christmas lights hunched over almost vertically, adding to the glow of the highway and the street lights. Entire nights would disappear arguing with a Ukrainian regular. The Ukrainian, a middle-aged owner of an eyeglass store in Cherry Creek, we would talk late into the night, pausing to mutter natstrovia under our breath as vodka after vodka disappeared.
Paris was always there for the good nights and the bad nights. I’ll never forget the night I met someone who would turn out to be, despite my best efforts, one of my closest friends. I had just received news that one of my former roommates had taken his own life and had spent several hours at a pub with old friends, turning money into whiskey. The streetlights of Platte glowed as we stumbled in the direction of my apartment. Not willing to be left with our thoughts, we stumbled into Paris. The bar was empty as it was fairly late for Monday night, save for a woman sitting alone in the corner.
Wandering in, I took a seat next to her. She had striking grey-blue eyes and a smile that seemed somehow amused by your existence. When she smiled, it was as if she was complimenting you and mocking you simultaneously. I ordered a shot of Maker’s Mark Bourbon, stating with the kind of boldness that only severe alcohol consumption can muster that I would take two if she’d have one with me. She laughed, saying that she wasn’t so much wanting bourbon but that she would do a Fernet with me. Fernet is an extremely bitter, extremely abrasive Italian amaro that ninety percent of palates loathe, but that my years in Italian dining had left me hopelessly in love with. A bottle and a pair of shot glasses appeared at the same time that my roommate, taking my cue, disappeared with our friends. Although I struck out royally, to the best of my recollection, that bottle never again saw the light of day.
Weekend projects
Such was the nature of Paris that it seemed to always be there, a cog that my life rotated around. Morning after morning, I would stop by for a cup of coffee and breakfast. Exchanging pleasantries, small talk, and hangover remorse with the baristas until familiarity overcame us. They knew all of my work woes, weekend projects, and my dating disasters just as I greeted their boyfriends warmly by name and knew the status of that latest paper (you know, the one that’s a total pain in the ass). As I swung in and out on those early mornings, Faye (the owner) was always there to laugh, shake her head at me, and tell me to put on a jacket.
Running congruently
We never know when something unexpected will come into our lives and stick. Running congruently into the fabric of our lives, these things connect our memories even if we don’t necessarily realize it right away. As time passes, they become a part of our experience and begin to serve a purpose. It may be a purpose we realize, or it may be a purpose we don’t. Paris will always be a part of my memories and my stories. Just as that take-n-bake pizza brought my family together on Friday nights in my youth, so Paris was to my transition from adolescence to adulthood. Always there, providing a safe backdrop to my journey, I will forever remember the warmth of its walls, the cheer of its bar, and the familiarity of its coffee counter. And I will certainly always remember to wear my jacket.
