So, a little comic relief pour toi and a little nostalgia for me.
During our trip, Erika’s cousin Thierry was nice enough to drive us from Paris down to his parents’ house in Oleron, or Île d’Oléron. It is an island off of the middle-Western coast of France, more specifically, La Rochelle. I slept the entire ride down there, but when we arrived it was a beautiful change in scenery, people and fresh Atlantic air.
I will have to get into all the wonders of this magical island in another post. But I will say now, never in my life have I ever eaten such fresh (and amazing) food, drank such good wine and smelled every single cooking herb in fields as I rode my bike along the road.
Moving on to the point at hand…..
One night in Oleron, Thierry, myself, Erika and Thierry’s friend Manu decided to drive to another part of an island where there was an actual dance club. This being a very quiet island with a small population, we were happy for the change in scene (since our usual days consisted of sleeping on the beach all day, eating amazingness all night). I can’t remember what the club was called, but I will call up Erika and figure it out this week.
We get to this club, walk in, and realize that there are maybe 20 people total inside. Most are clustered on the patio outside. Two courageous guys were busting dance moves, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen, alone, on the dance floor. Also, the ratio of male:female was about 5:1. For Erika and I, it was like we had just walked in to a room of wolves, and we were bleeding, raw, red meat (sorry for the visuals, I’m very over-imaginative). Immediately, I sipped my beer, back to the wall, using Thierry and Manu as shields. But guys would try to break our circle. Then one young man came over whispering ‘Hello’ in every language he could think of…trying to pinpoint our countries of origin. I ignored him and whispered to Erika, “Don’t turn around”, which she of course took as, “….turn around”. Uh oh, he knew she spoke English and the conversation started. I gave her the death eyes, as to not include me in conversation or pawn me off to one of his many friends, who started wandering over. So, her best solution? Tell them I ONLY spoke Spanish. No French. No English. Just Espagnol. Since I only know about five words of Spanish, I would just stare blankly, say ‘Hola’, and turn back to Thierry and Manu. Great stuff. Oh it gets better….
So Erika’s bi-lingual friend turns out to be from Holland. He and his friends were passing through on a yachting trip (and of course, offered Erika a place on the yacht for the duration of their trip). With a very heavy Dutch accent, he went on to ask her for her name. She replied ‘Erika’, and asked him for his. Unable to understand what he was saying, she asked again. And again, all she heard was a mumble-jumble deep-voiced, Dutch-sounding word….something like….My name is HAAGEN DAZS! With a completely blank stare, she finally told him, ‘I’m sorry, I cannot say that.” So his response? “Yes it is hard to pronounce, so you can call me Lawrence.” Lawrence! From Haagen Dazs to Lawrence. Nice.
“Lawrence” turned out to be one of the most horrific, and yet entertaining dancers I have ever seen in my life. Mind you, Erika and Thierry had some pretty sweet moves, they are Tailloles at heart, after all. But “Lawrence”? He was really tearing it up, trying to replicate some 80s Michael Jackson-esque dancing.
And the final part to our adventure at the club? The bathroom. The most bootleg bathroom I have seen in my life. You go into this little room with small, saloon-style, swinging doors. There is one little stall (with a door, thank god), a sink and what looks like a shower stall with a urinal attached….WITH NO DOOR. And these three things are all squeezed in to a very small space. Erika asked me to come in with her. I stood outside the stall until Manu came in to use the bathroom and I realized he was about to drop his pants and pee right there. I abandoned Erika and waited outside the door. Then Manu left, and this guy who worked the coat check, that strongly resembled a cross between Dennis Rodman and Ru Paul, enter the bathroom.
Scary, I know. And to think, Erika had to see his trouser-less butt at the urinal when she stepped out of the bathroom stall. Talk about post traumatic stress.
(Photo: Erika and Thierry outside the club after a thoroughly entertaining and extremely awkward night.)
In conclusion? I hope you’re laughing, because I am, just from writing this. Oh memories.