Can’t Spell “Lesson” without a Big L

14 Mar

I’ve been on a losing streak ever since my excursion to Chapel Hill a couple of weeks ago, when I broke out from head to toe in hives 45 minutes before tip-off of the UNC-Duke game. Unless you’re balling on a “I can leave for the Super Bowl on short notice” status, you agree to take an L the minute you book a ticket to Europe.

One of the few good things to come out of the U.K.’s exit from the E.U. was the weakening of the Euro, which is only 20 cents stronger than the U.S. dollar (as of last Saturday). If one were ever to take an L to visit Europe then this is the time to do it.

I lost a whole weekend getting to Paris, dropping 85 dollars in baggage fees between Austin and Lisbon. I finally got to Paris late Saturday night with enough time to grab some Halal food from a spot about 20 minutes from the hostel I’m crashing in. But only after spendng 50 Euro on a cab because the train wasn’t running.

About the hostel: I was too lazy to really research neighborhoods so I picked the one that had the best ratings for cleanliness. Its nice enough, but there is no kitchen to make your own food and other than a Metro stop (Max Dormoy), there is little to do other than buy unhealthy food. It reminds me a little of the HI-Hostel in Harlem, on Amsterdam Avenue.

I’ve never been to Paris and knew nothing about it before coming here, but I definitely recognize a gentrifying neighborhood when I see one. The process has begun here and the hostel is just one of the more immediate signs. New condos, hipster bars and expensive restaurants stick out like sore thumbs among the older buildings,store fronts, and Africans. #samegamedifferentlanguage 

I must say that I’m a little shocked that no one working at the hostel speaks English. NO ONE!!!!

I fucking hate Paris. Its true I could have studied my French a little more, and done more research on the city before my arrival, but this place reminds me of all the reasons I hated San Francisco. The night life is dull and is totally dependent on tourists and outside acts. The food is absurdly expensive for the amount of portions that you get. I’m serious. This city makes NEw York seem like an affordable place to be. Much like San Francisco, Paris is living off its reputation from the turbulent 60’s. and swinging 70’s. Maybe they were interesting places then, but now. Both are just well designed cities with beautiful buildings and tourist traps. I can’t completely hate on this city though. The subway system is incredibly easy to navigate for such a large city, easily the coolest looking airport I ever been in, and the museums here are dope. So its not a wasted trip.

The best meal I had was a tempura shrimp burger (on bread so that’s an L) that was delicious, but I started feeling a little funny after I finished it. I called the waiter over, “Hey man. Just out of curiosity, what did you fry this in?”

“Sunflower oil.” Fuck. Sunflower seeds happens to be one of the things I’m allergic to (and I suspect that Sunflower oil was a culprit in my  hive reaction back in Chapel Hill) so I made my way back to my dorm to take Benadryl and lie down.

Which brings me to my last misadventure: the fucboi dormmate. I got in late Saturday night and had yet to meet either of the other 3 guys in the room before lights out. I came in and instead of making a whole bunch of noise (I desperately needed a shower), I went to bed.

I was awakened not once, not twice, but three times by the person in the bed next time. Every time I felt close to getting into REM sleep, this jackoff kept hitting the wall and waking me up. I figured either this motherfucker was having night terrors, or he was reacting to my snoring. I let it slide because if this fuckface was ballsy enough to do some shit like this, then he must either have some hands or he was swoll as fuck. It was too dark to correctly gauge at this hour of the night and I had to be up early to catch the train to Honfleur for a day trip. I did get my revenge at 6:00 in the morning. I made a lot of noise getting ready and when he started saying shit to me in French, I just looked at his dumb ass.

The entire day was a bust. I spent all day in the rain and cold because there isn’t a train that goes all the way to Honfluer. I got stuck in the neighboring town, Pont Lameck (a town reminiscent of the werewolf town in American Werewolf in London, or the setting for Hot Fuzz) missing two consecutive buses that would take me to my destination. In the states we call places like these sundown towns as in “get your black ass out of town before the sun goes down.” Because I missed the first two buses to Honfluer, it was going to be tough to hit up the Maison de Satie and still make my train back to Paris.

This all happened hours before my Ebi burger cooked in sunflower oil, and I hadn’t taken my herbal medicine supplements since I’d left home, so I was really feeling some type of way. At 23:00 hours I laid down and had just drifted off to sleep (the guys were already sleep this time as well) when I hear something hit the wall.

“Say man. I’m for that fuck shit tonight. Just tap me on the foot if I start snoring. If its that big of a deal you should have gotten a private room. Just cuz you can’t sleep doesn’t mean no one else shouldn’t be able to.”

Things are Gucci at this point, or so I thought. Because at 1:00 this motherfucker bangs the wall again. In a measured but low tone I said, “Look goddamnit. Cut the shit. We about to have some problems. I’m for’real. You pushing it.” Silence. Somewhere in my head I wondered if he was the kind of dude to throw something at somebody while they were sleep. I knew that if this happened I would have to certainly fight him. I went downstairs and filled my canteen up with water so I could use it as a weapon if I needed to.

Not even 15 minutes later I’m awakened by a loud banging against the wall, and I fucking lose it. For those of you who know me imagine the maddest you’ve ever seen me and multiply that by 10. Before I could raise completely up from bed, words were flying from my mouth at the top of my lungs.


A beat skips, then another before I say. “Yeah I said that shit.” I laid on the bed for a minute before I got up and put my clothes on.  “Fuck it. I better go down and talk to the front desk before I end up in French prison.”

I complained to the front desk as best as I could. He didn’t speak English and I didn’t know the French word for snoring. He said he couldn’t do anything until 7:00 when his relief. “May not be anything to deal with by then.” I mentally prepared for dude to ambush me when I opened the door. Of course when I got to the room his bitch ass was asleep. I suddenly remembered all the pussy ass French dudes I’d met back at university. Of course he was a bitch. I was still too heated to chill so I went back downstairs. “Rest up bitch cuz I’m a be back at 7:00. What you gotta say about that?”

There were no further incidents that night, but I woke up at 9:00 to see this skinny white boy hurriedly packing his shit from the bed in question. It was hard to believe this frail pussy looking dude had the gall to get buck like that to a stranger he couldn’t even see. I was prepared to fight this skinny fuck with the might of 1500 pound gorilla. It would have been overkill. Best believe  he’d have gotten that work because if I ever go to jail for beating someone’s ass, I’m going to get my money’s worth. Its not going to be some Draymond Green getting suspended for slapping balls shit. If I’m going to jail for fighting I want people to look at the other guy’s face and say “Damn. Bmick definitely needs to go to jail for that shit. Look at that poor dude’s face. He must’ve really did something to piss Bobby off.”

But this story pretty much encapsulates my trip. Parisians are rude, they have no sense of spatial awareness. No one says “excuse me” when they bump into you. Needless to say I’m looking forward to my flight to Barcelona in a few hours.  Lastly, if  France was a legit cool country, then they’d legalize weed in this country. I’m glad Paris St.-Germain got beat.

Fuck Paris.




profile pic b mick  Bobby Mickey is the alter ego of writer and poet Edward Austin Robertson. When he isn’t involved in some basketball related activity, actively looking for parties to deejay or venues to perform comedy, he can be found recording podcasts with Craig Stein at Fullsass Studios. Follow him on twitter @clickpicka79. For booking inquiries, send contact info to 






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