cheap vodka night.

Before going out one Friday night, Chastity and I stop at the Marche to pick up some provisions. We're short on cash, which is why we're picking up our own liquor in the first place, and why we choose the cheapest brand of vodka in the store. I'm reaching for Smirnoff's when Chastity intervenes, informing me in her most convincing tone that Ermenstaffgensomething or other really isn't that bad, she tried it, she knows. Right. The more adamant Chastity is about something, the less sure she is about it -- but this was in the beginning of the year when I didn't know her by heart. I was naive and concurred, leading to an evening that would go down in history as "Cheap Vodka Night".

We met our new friend Rose for dinner at our new favorite trattoria, a little hole in the wall overlooking St. Anne. The trattorias were our favorite place to go; hot and smoky with robust red wine and steaming breadbaskets, thin crust pizza heaped with strips of jambon and fromage de chevre. We started off every meal with Kirs- white wine flavored with various liquers ranging from cassis to framboise to the loaded kir royale. We broke bread and gossiped about the SYA goings-on, speaking quietly by American standards but nonetheless attracting stares and incredulous murmurs from the couples surrounding us.

By the end of the meal we were always full, flushed, and slightly tipsy. Tonight was no exception. We tripped out into the cold and, instead of hanging out in St. Anne, headed downtown. Near Place de la Republique we poured half a bottle of Sunny D into the fountain, replaced it with vodka, and trundled on to Place de la Parliament to huddle merrily on the steps, warmed by laughter and our good friend the screwdriver.

I choose the moment that Chastity takes a mouthful of vodka to make a witty comment which in retrospect, probably wasn't that funny, but within seconds she is choking and spluttering all over the place.

"Oh GOD," She wheezes, holding out the bottle for either Rose or I to take, which is difficult seeing as we are doubled over with laughter.

"You guys," She coughs and clutches at her stomach, "You guys, it's not funny!"

She staggers down the steps and lowers herself onto a bench, pausing dramatically before letting out a tortured moan, "I just inhaled vodka!"

Rose's unsympathetic cackle echoes across Place de la Parliamente.

Chastity continues to panic, stammering incomprehensible phrases concerning "damage" and "lungs", until somehow we get the idea of convincing her that, no really, the vodka is actually cleansing her lungs. She perks up.

"You think so?"

"Oh definitely," Rose and I concur.

"In fact," I add, "Any tobacco buildup?" I wave my hand dramatically. "Washing it right out! Seriously, vodka inhaling could be the new cure for lung cancer!"

Chastity motions for the bottle. Rose and I exchange grins. Soon we're good and drunk and off to the next bar.

We come barreling out of the metro station at Rue St. Anne, and run directly into Donovan, Rasheed, and Asher. We're absolutely ecstatic to see them, but they groan when they see our condition.

With the world already whirling in front of me, I prance ahead of the group and lead them to a bar where I just recently lost a cell phone (in the first of many awkward moments with my host mother, she drove me to the bar the next day so that I could retrieve it). The bar is a bad choice; despite my efforts at reconciliation, it and I just do not have good karma. Within ten minutes I've fallen down the stairs, and thrown up in what I believe is a discreet way under the table.

Later, we head back to Place de la Parliament, this time with a horde of French people who Donovan has befriended. Donovan has a knack for these sort of things. The French people seem to be under the impression that I am wasted, so, determined to prove them wrong, I embark on a series of tasks at their command; touching my knee to my nose, spinning around. I fail miserably at both, ripping my too-tight jeans in half before toppling over onto the ground. The French people are in hysterics.

Hoping to be further entertained, they offer to escort me to the Quick. For those of us who catch our 12:30am buses in an alley behind Republique, the Quick (a cheaper version of McDonalds, or MacDo, as the French would say) is a relatively safe waiting place.

I don't actually remember getting on the bus, nor most of the ride home, except for one episode which is so unforgettable that it has, much to my chagrin, become one of the classic, infamous stories of our year abroad.

The bus had just turned onto a long stretch of highway, what Rasheed and I often referred to as "the tunnel of darkness." Thank God Rasheed is not with me tonight, I think, as, with no stop in sight, I begin to feel slightly, then overwhelmingly nauseous.

“Oh god, oh god,” I whisper, looking in vain for an emergency cord, an open window, or even a secluded corner. It is no use; the bus is packed. I’m doomed. Then, like a lightbulb going on in my head, it occurs to me. So simple, yet so brilliant.

My purse.

Slowly, surreptitiously, I part the sides of my black Nine West bag, and not a moment too soon. As I recover, I look around and convince myself that no one else has noticed a thing. “Bra-vo,” I mentally pat myself on the back, relaxing slightly for the rest of the journey. “Well done.”

But the feeling is short lived.

I wake up the next morning and immediately wish I hadn't. There is a large brick in my forehead, and it starts violently throbbing as I sit up. My stomach feels as if it is gargling acid.

I can't remember exactly what happened last night, and I have a feeling that I don't want to know. With a slight feeling of doom, I switch on the light and survey the damage. A moment passes as the stinging light hits my eyes and brings the throbbing to a climax, then…

I gasp. What has happened to my room? My armoire drawers are practically dislodged, with their contents strewn about the room, and my jeans from last night are lying in two pieces on the floor. The vest and shirt I was wearing are shoved in a pile in the corner and reek of vomit.

Holding them gingerly, I tip-toe to the bathroom and begin to scrub. I finally give up and sneak them into the laundry room, making sure to shove them under layers of other clothes.

I shut myself into the closet size bathroom to pee, and there, lowering myself onto the toilet seat, I am met with a searing pain in my rear end.

"What the...." I shuffle hurriedly back into the bathroom to consult the full-size mirror, and don't know whether to laugh or cry hysterically when I see the monstrosity of a bruise that is overtaking my left cheek. I've never seen anything like it; it is such a deep purple that parts of it appear black. I'm pretty sure that could be a dangerous thing; something about blood vessels having exploded, but I'm not about to consult a doctor. I stare at myself in the mirror, not wanting to believe the ludicrosy of this day so far and praying that I won't suddenly discover anything else.

Then I remember. My purse.