It is Sunday. In France nothing is open. Nothing. My second day in this country was a Sunday. I was in Paris and it scared the shit out of me. I was walking through Point Neuf and it was dead. I thought it was a holiday, truly, I did.
A friend of mine explained to me the concept of Sundays in France. These are his exact words, as close as I can remember:
"Sunday is the day after Saturday night. After all of the partying. Basically on Sunday all the boys go and get pastries, and bring them
to their girlfriends in bed. That is just what Sundays are all about..."
And no one goes to church? Hmm.
After he bestowed that bit of wisdom on me, he proceeded to call some sort of liquor delivery service. We attempted to have whiskey and peanuts delivered to my friend Anna's dorm room at 3 in the morning. Too bad we were 15 minutes late and the place was closed. We settled for drinking alcohol mixer straight out of the bottle. It was like concentrated tropical juice with monarch vodka mixed in. Are you getting the right mental picture? You're supposed to mix it with water and juice. That shit was like 25% alcohol and thick as syrup.
The next day was Sunday.