We enter into an amber glow, a world of blinding light, of music and laughter and joy, and people. People of every race and age and nationality, people who could be friends with my parents, people who have seen the world a few times over; ex-patriates in all their glory. They're carrying on the traditions that have lasted for over a century in this now-secret haunt, which seems scarcely changed from the days of Hemingway and his friends. A chill goes down my spine at the thought. Hemingway.
We are swept up in the crowd and carried along with the flow of traffic toward the center of the room. The floor creaks under the weight of what must be over a hundred people. They continue on for an eternity in the full length mirrors which line the walls, reflecting, as well, the light from enormous white chandeliers overhead. The chandeliers are what create the fantastic glow which extends beyond the bar and give it a surreal and celestial ambiance.
Instead of being claustrophobic, the atmosphere is calm and intimate. I am passed a glass of yellow liquid and am told to give it to the girl behind me. I turn and smile as I hand it to her. “Absinthe?”
“Yeah, we have it back in London but it’s nothing like this stuff. Homemade!” She raises her glass and says with a knowing wink, “See you on the other side!”
We push forward to the bar, where people are taking their absinthe very seriously. The bartenders move calmly back and forth, carefully presenting each person with a kit of materials; drink, miniature fork, water, and sugar cubes. They ceremoniously punch a hole in the water bottle and then entrust the rest of the preparation to you.
We learn through observation that this entails laying a fork on top of the glass and balancing a sugar cube on top of it. One then squirts the water through the sugar so that it dilutes the bright yellow liquid.
Looking around, it’s easy to see who are the novices and who is a Bar Marsella regular; a guy with a black shirt and curly hair is impressing his friends as he lights the whole row of sugar cubes on fire and then squirts water into the drinks with a flourish. The crowd around him watches in awe before turning back to their forks and sugar with a look of determination.
The girl next to me isn't doing so well. She squirts water onto the sugar cube for about five minutes, but nothing more than a grain falls into her drink. Finally, she gives up and begins mashing the sugar with her fork. The bartenders avert their eyes in shame.
We are served two absinthe to start off with, wanting to see the green fairy but not be "hugging the toilet all night." Us girls work together to complete the mixing perfectly, trying to block out the steady stream of commentary coming from over our shoulders.
"Don't do it," says Preston. Rose balances the fork on the glass while I unwrap the sugar cubes.
"It's a drug," Preston says, as I hand the sugar to Chastity, who rests it on the fork.
"It's a NARCOTIC," he persists, as Rose pokes a hole in the water bottle with a toothpick.
"Seriously, you guys. I learned about this in school. Absinthe is derived from the plant absenta, and it was used by the ancient Absinthian tribes to.."
"Shut up, Preston. You sound like my dad," I say, positioning the water bottle over the glass. Rose and Chastity giggle, Preston goes silent and pouts.
We are ready. We squirt. The water breaks tiny crystals of sugar into the bright yellow liquid, more and more accumulating on the bottom. When all the sugar is gone we stir, turning the absinthe into a milky, cloudy concoction.
"Bottoms up!" I cheer. Rose is the first to try it, taking a sniff and a sip and wrinkling her nose.
"Hmm." She contemplates.
Chastity is next. She takes a large gulp and sets the glass down quickly, coughing out a, "Oh God that's strong!"
I raise the glass to my lips tentatively and have a taste. At first, it's sweet, like liquid licorice. It has quite a kick, however, going down.
"Ooh," I hand the glass to Rose, and smile, " I like it!"
Preston pokes his head over my shoulder, his curiosity having gotten the better of him. "What does it taste like?"
"Your mom, Preston." That gets rid of him for a while.
We continue to drink, slowly, cautiously, expecting the buzz to hit hard. This is, after all, the legendary drink that caused Van Gogh to attack Gaugin and cut off his own ear, the stuff that inspired the Lost Generation yet ended in madness and suicide. Coincidentally, my parents had recently sent me an article on absinthe when they heard about my project on Van Gogh, in which the author, a worldly doctor, cites the impossibility of finding real absinthe in our modern world.
Cheers, doc. I lift my glass smugly, feeling like a true ex-pat. After our glasses are finished, we decide to circulate under the pretense of stopping by the bathroom, trying to figure out whether or not it's kicked in.
The first thing I notice is a warm glow radiating from the chandeliers, like sunlight reflecting off of every happy soul in the room. In the queue heading toward the bathroom, no one is actually pushing, instead we all move together as a current, rubbing up against one another and smiling delightedly. There is a man collapsed in the corner of the room, empty glass clutched to his chest. He looks so peaceful in his slumber that no one dares disturb him, rather they step carefully over his outstretched legs and continue on their merry way.
I have never been in such a pleasant atmosphere, one in which you can be certain that everyone in the room is a friend. This is certainly not a world of barfights and pickpockets, but of ecstasy, sunlight, and bliss. I look ahead for Rose and Courtney, and see them looking around with the same awed expressions. Oh yeah. It's definitely kicked in.
The world seems to be spinning in slow motion, and we have plenty of time to meander and meet new people. We talk to everyone, small talk, happy talk, we circulate until we can no longer take the intense light and head outside.
We huddle by the windows as I propose a game plan.
"We could go back in and get another absinthe. Or if you guys are ready, we could go to that place that they gave us flyers for."
"I'm up for another absinthe," proclaims Chastity, before keeling over, smacking the window and staggering back upright again in one swift motion.
She snorts, shakes her head a few times, then assures us, "I'm fine guys, I'm fine."
Rose and I leave a disgruntled Preston to chaperone Chastity as we make a bee-line back to the bar. We obviously have quite a ways to go.
Another absinthe in, and we find ourselves chatting up two boys from Nice. One of them is, I decide, quite cute, and I like the way he's leaning over my shoulder. Midway through the conversation, I lean in to consult Rose.
"Is the absinthe supposed to make you feel... you know..."
She chuckles. "Aroused?"
"Hmmm," I say. "Maybe we'd better check on Preston and Chastity."
Thankfully, it seems that Courtney has been behaving herself. She's leaning against the window rambling incoherencies into Preston's shoulder.
"Ready to go?" Preston threatens rather than asks.
"Absolutely, Preston. You sure you don't want an absinthe? It's your only chance!" He growls. We depart for the club.
We descend into a cave of blue and gray smoke, pink lights pulsing out a rhythm through the mist. The club is packed wall to wall with people, mostly black guys in sports jerseys and sideways hats, pressing up against us as we go by. I finally lean back into one of them and begin to grind, the absinthe taking over my head and feet and telling them where to go. My body becomes in perfect synch with the music, which flows from hip-hop to pop to salsa. Several times I look over to check on Chastity, who is making out with a different guy each time. Rose is getting down with her bad self while simultaneously dodging the relentless attempts of would-be dance partners. Preston is jerking around robotically to a beat of his own, but also, I note, keeping an eye out for us all. I feel a twinge of compassion that, intensified by the absinthe, spreads over my body like a warm, fuzzy blanket. Life is glorious.
The faint glow of early dawn is spreading over the city as we clamber up the stairs and into our apartment. Exhausted, drunk, high, and hungry, we make straight for pajamas, the fridge, and the couch, in that order. Snuggled up under a blanket, eating stale cornflakes and watching Friends, as my own friends, one by one, conk out and begin to snore, I feel as if all is right with the world. Then, as Ross is insisting to Rachel that they were, in fact, on a break, I drift off into a world of happy absinthe dreams.
No comments:
Post a Comment