Drunk in Paris Without a Map

Counting sheep wasn’t working so I switched to bottles of beer, but that just made me sick. Little lambs and bottles of booze spun in my head. I repositioned myself for the hundredth time, found that perfect way to squish my sweatshirt into a makeshift pillow, and stretched my legs out to get my feet up. It still didn’t do anything to help the miserable journey I was on; the overnight train from Amsterdam to Paris with three of my best friends.

Unfortunately, we were no longer drunk; we were tired, irritable, and at each other’s throats, or we were until everyone but me fell asleep. We couldn’t seem to stop drinking. Why? I knew the answer as soon as I asked myself the question. We were 18, American, and in Europe where we didn’t need to lie, cheat and steal to get as drunk as we desired.

Our last week was spent in a dirty, cramped hostel in Amsterdam’s Red Light District giggling about the prostitutes in the alley behind us, chain smoking cigarettes in our bunk beds while passing a bottle of vodka around. Funny to think we came all the way here to do exactly what we did at home. Minus the prostitutes, of course.

Read the full story here on matadornetwork.com