a wine-fueled journey through Paris to catch the magic of the evening lights
The exchange rate hit harder than expected and I´ve been pinching Euros with enough force to make the Vitruvian Man gasp for air and cry mercy. I might have broken one of his silver ribs. But tonight, my insides yearn for outside, and not even holed pockets can hold me back.
Two weeks since my arrival in Paris, and I’ve made a few friends, but most days are spent alone wandering through museums, drinking Americanos in cafes with wan orange light, reading, writing, drawing, and occasionally visiting a gallery. I’m not sad or lonely, but I can’t stay in again. Not tonight.
I descend the white-marble spiral staircase of the apartment lent to me by a friend, out onto Rue Dauphine in the pricey and sophisticated 6th Arrondissement, home of the Latin Quarter and the sumptuous Luxembourg Gardens. I walk past groups of gorgeous, well-healed people finger-picking mussels from large pots between sips of red wine from Burgundy glasses, past Shakespeare & Co., where I went one night to hear a poet read, past the gelato shop with the line stretching onto the sidewalk, and finally hook a left at Paul’s Baguettes on the corner. The grocery store is still open and tonight, I need two airplane-sized bottles of Shiraz, and hey — why not a bag of Doritos?
No plan, other than to walk and drink wine. You can do that in Paris. This culture-soaked metropolis where street vendors sell old, brown-stained copies of Nietzsche and Apollinaire wrapped in plastic and the State permits citizens the liberty to stroll the rue with a drink in hand.
Self-doubt gives way to confidence as the cap twists off the bottle. To saunter through the Latin Quarter, taking in its bustling alleys, its myriad bars and restaurants where owners and waiters shout in every tongue to every sort of tourist beckoning them inside for a meal. Burgundy reflections of wine hover in mist against the orange glow of street lamps and endless faces to watch — lips, eyes, cheeks, chins — mingling with the city’s cloudy softness.
Ah, Paris! What a wonderful place to be rich! You could indulge each night at an overpriced restaurant, leave big tips until the waiters know you by name and smile when they see you coming — meet someone in a gallery and buy them fancy wines and crème brûlée and all sorts of things I can’t pronounce or spell. Take boat trips down La Seine and wave at people on the bank like children wave when the red-assed monkeys come down from the trees at Six Flags’ Zoo.
But I’m not rich, not even upwardly mobile… As the daydream fades to self-pity, an old, gray-haired homeless man reaches into the garbage, pulls out a McDonald’s cup and takes a long, thirsty sip from the straw. The last remnants of fructose corn syrup gurgles in his gullet… I’d like to give him water, juice, or something to drink, but all I have is wine.
Then an idea strikes. It’s 9:26 p.m. and the Eiffel Tower will sparkle at precisely 10 p.m. Last night, I saw it for the first time from my art teacher´s balcony on the 27th floor in an apartment on the outskirts of the city center. It was magical.
Tonight, I want to be directly under it when it begins.
I don’t know if I can make it the four or five kilometers from the Latin Quarter to the Eiffel Tower in 30 minutes, but I think the trip will, at the very least, give the night some kind of narrative arc.
I set out at a casual pace, taking small swigs of wine and watching couples stroll hand-in-hand. Along the Left Bank overlooking La Seine, the faint notes of a jazz band mixes with the swish of a soft breeze. Groups of friends with wine and cheese and all sorts of French delicacies converse in the musky air of the last night of August.
I have purpose now. And with purpose added to the mix, the sounds sooth, the wine scintillates, and it’s nice to be wandering alone along the river so far from home with nothing but thoughts and a dream of the Tower.
But it is 9:42 — and I’m not even halfway there. It would be sad to go all that way to miss the lights.
I begin to jog. I was an athlete in high school. I ran cross- country one year. But this is the first time I’ve mixed wine drinking and running, so it’ll be a challenge, no doubt.
Along the river scholarly types sip tiny cups of coffee and women wrap their fingers around big-bellied glasses of merlot in well-lit cafés and bars. They eye me as I go past. There are other joggers out this late, and plenty of drinkers, but I am the only one doing both. Admire the versatility.
It’s now 9:50 and I stop to press my hand against my side, leaning against an ancient wall. The versatility is limited. Just a few blocks from the Musée d’Orsay, it’s another 20-minute walk or so to the Eiffel Tower.
A swig of wine I wish was water.
I wonder, could Jesus turn wine back into water?
It’s 9:52 and a burst of energy surges. I sprint — leap across avenues and wide streets even when the little glowing green man says, “NO.”
The hell with the little green man! He only flashes when there’s no threat of danger. He’s a coward.
With five minutes to 10, I wonder why I’m the only one on the street running.
Don’t they know?
Don’t they know it’s going to sparkle?!
I can see it now, an enormous golden point protruding into the dark. Hopefully my watch is a few minutes fast. But as I round the bend of a museum I look up and there it is, sparkling, dancing in the night. For a moment I resign myself to watching it there.
Then, I remember my friend told me that it lights up for five minutes — so I begin to sprint, really sprint, Usain Bolt-type sprint. Weaving through groups of sidewalk lurkers like a skinny tailback — hopping flower patches, a bush, and the tiny fence that leads into the park. People must think I’m running from the police —
Then suddenly, I’m there. Under the Eiffel Tower.
The lights are dancing like the sun on waves, like the silver eyes of celestial fish swimming through a golden waterfall that falls upwards and narrows to a point — a sparkling arrow aimed into the night sky.
Chills vibrate my skin like electric currents, even though I’m so sore from the mad dash that my neck hurts when I look up.
And then it stops. I smile. And I know that I made it. And I know there’s a little bottle of wine in my bag, pen and paper, and even a small blanket packed just in case.
All that and a bag of chips.
I lie in the grass and marvel at the Eiffel Tower for the next hour until it — as it does every hour on the hour — flashes its diamond-dotted dress.
And for the first time, I realize I’m in Paris on a summer night and I have everything I need.
Thank you for reading. This is an excerpt from my first book “The Renaissance Man Project: A Search for Meaning Through Martial Arts, Poetry, Music, Dance, Philosophy & Art.” It launches on January 15, 2025. If you’d like to support my writing, you can purchase a copy here.