La première soirée

Paris is perhaps the most difficult city to do Yom Kippur in, especially on a Friday/Saturday. But before even having to deal with that, I had a mini crisis of faith. You see, after making my ham and cheese omelette as my last meal before the fast, I had to ask myself, "what's the point?" Not only did my meal mix milk and meat, but it wasn't even kosher meat - it wasn't even a kosher animal. It was the one animal we're specifically NOT allowed to eat. And yet, I still decided to fast. I don't know why - I'm not religious, I never go to services (I should be there right now, and if I can't even make it to temple on the holiest of days...), but for some reason, fasting on Yom Kippur makes me feel like Jew, the same way eating latkes or matzah does. Sidenote: I think it's funny that the only way I feel part of the Jewish community is through food or lack thereof. Anyways, I decided to brave the cafes, the bars, the creperies, etc., and go out with friends.

We headed to the Marais. Let it be said right now that if I could choose any one quartier to live in, it would be the Marais. Or maybe Saint Germain. Or maybe where I live now. Ok, so I don't know. I just really like the Marais. It's so overflowing with marginalized populations, it warms my heart every time I walk the rue des Rosiers. We met at the metro, walked around, and finally decided on a restaurant that had to be good because it was packed on a Friday night at 8:30. The waitress started speaking in English to us, which never fails to piss me off. Just because we hesitate when you ask us a question does not mean we do not speak French! But I digress... Everyone's food looked so good, and I was dying there, not even able to pay attention to all the stories people were telling because I was so entranced by the food. And I don't necessarily understand why, because I'd eaten a couple of hours before. I think it's just the idea, the fact that I wasn't allowed to eat that made me want that chevre salad so bad. Oh, so bad. We sat around talking until well after 11, then found a cafe. And here, my friends, is where I turned over my nonsensical decision to fast on Yom Kippur after having a ham and cheese omelette.

Now, I didn't go crazy. Actually, all I had was water. And I feel bad about it. Very, very bad. It may not seem a big deal, but if I can't even go five hours without water, what hope is there? I'm still fasting (even though it really doesn't matter now because I broke the fast), and it shouldn't be too big of a problem since I'm going to Versailles all day. But I'm allowing myself water because it's going to be hot, and I already had some anyways. I know, I'm a horrible Jew.

Oh, but my story's not over. We called it a night around 12:30, and I decided to cab it home because I was too tired to deal with the metro. I had to walk all the way to Chatelet through crowds of drunken Frenchmen and Irishmen left over from the big screen they put up at the hotel de ville, and when I got to the taxi line, it was about an hour long, so I opted for the metro, which definitely should have worked. I got there well before the last train. But apparently, there was no train. I don't know what happened to it, but after twenty minutes of waiting, I emerged once again, at 1:30, to wait for a taxi. I talked to some people in line, and ultimately shared a cab with a forty-something year old man and what I really do believe was a prostitute, finally getting home around 2:45.

I realized that story was probably not worth telling. Thanks for reading.