Bar Hemisphere

Also known soberly as Bar Hemingway.

A Paris tradition with fame, glory, a snuggled spot in the Ritz and a recco from my dearest, Steven. Unfortunately, the Bar Hemi was my chosen location for the Wake, after France died to England in Rugby on Saturday night. I'm pretty sure things went down like this...

I remember going IN, uttering something charming I'm sure, to the Bartender, Colin. (Yes S.O. I found him!) Ordered a Fernet with a Gingey back and it's here that my tale takes an ususual twist. Lets go back a few hours...

I'm in Saint Germain enjoying research and the comraderie that surrounds Les Bleus. I was gently tossing back red wine, voddy tons, and well yes Beer in a large plastic cup. All the bars in Saint Germain were so incredibly packed [Picture: Rbar on Saturday night at 1am and the bartenders DO NOT KOW YOU] that we had no choice but to order drinks by the four-some.The voddy-ton double fist action lasted about 8 rounds-ish.I think. I digress.

France loses. Silence and tears fall over Paris. All of a sudden I hate Rugby.

So it's off toBar Hemingway I go to drown my sorrows. I take a seat at the bar and order my fernet and gingey. One thing to note:The French Do NOT drink Fernet as a shot. It's an actual drink that they serve up, relatively warm and equates to about 2-3 shots per glass/drink.

This my friends, is where your champion lays to rest at what has become her own wake. This rule of "drink" vs. "shot" had long been forgotten and I hastily throw back my old friend, Fern.
I put the glass down and immediately feel my saliva glands go into double time and that look one gets knowing they made a poor drinking decision slowly crept up to my face. Sadly, this was not the only creeping of the night. (No, the man in shiny peugeot did not appear.) Rather the nights intoxicants suddenly had something to say to me and needed to say it now!

I throw 20E on the bar, do not make niceties with Colin on the way out, and I get the hell out of Bar Hemi ASAP! (My first Real French Exit!)
Well low and behold, magic and geographic karma were on my side, b/c it turns out the Bar Hemi is literally less than 50 yards from my apartment. (This is a front door/back door discovery I'd just made). So I stumble in, pass my stupid doorman, my hand is over my mouth (just like Britney lip-synching at the 2007 VMA's), and I run upstairs (ok, speed walk) to my apartment. Open the door and just making it to my upscale marble, my second french exit of the night. God, I hate Rugby.

Finally I rest in Peace. France and I together.

I knew it was meant to be.