Anyway, when Uncle Joe was eighteen and overflowing with the kind of stupidity, bravado, and bodily fluids that are appropriate for that age, he spent a lot of time in Paris on the U.S. Army's dime. I'm pretty sure this was back when dinosaurs freely roamed the Champs-Élysées and the French still kinda' respected us for clearing up their whole Nazi thing. One of his goals on this trip (aside from spending quality time drinking Manhattans with his favorite nephew-in-law) was to revisit his old stomping grounds and maybe have a drink at the bar of the hotel where he spent a suspicious amount of time for someone on an enlisted private's salary. You know, for old time's sake.
So in spite of the miserable head cold he picked up in Italy, the quest was on. After three Metro transfers, a couple thousand stairs, a half dozen blocks on foot, and the life of most of my iPhone battery, we found ourselves standing at 81 Rue de Boetie in front of the Hotel de Boetie. I don't know about everyone else, but I was kinda' excited. I was about to witness the prodigal son returning to his whore-y roots, and if that's not the kind of event someone like me can get behind, I don't know what is.
One problem, though. The Hotel de Boetie was boarded up and closed for renovation (Sorry folks, the moose out front should have told you). All six of us stood around the only locked door on the entire street and just stared at the sign in disbelief. Perhaps we should have called first. Joe looked like a little kid who just watched two scoops of ice cream tumble from his cone and fall on the sidewalk. Even I felt bad (and I'm a dick).
We found the next bar, and I tried to buy him a shot of Crown Royal as a consolation. As luck would have it, the bar was out of Crown Royal, too. Damn, the dude could just not catch a break!
They say you can never go back. Technically you can. You'll just have to settle for Wild Turkey.
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