The Story of JJ, AKA Revenge of the Nerds

As I mentioned, something wild happened the other weekend: a man flew across the Atlantic to see me. (To be honest, this is actually the second time this odd event occurred - I believe Air France owes me miles.)

I met this particular fellow (James? John? any boring name will suffice) at a beach party at Art Basel, a few days after my fateful 27^th birthday. He was a tall, awkward looking redhead who accidentally piqued my interest with his Yale grad school degree and penchant for World War I. (I admit to having an Ivy League fetish – somebody needs to balance out  all these street smarts.) JJ lived in Dumbo, knew James Franco from his Yale days, and ran his own TV advertising firm – a classic Revenge of the Nerds situation. After a fantastic beach dance-off, he mentioned that he was planning to come to Rome in January, and would try to visit me in Paris on the way.

Over the course of the next month, JJ and I exchanged a total of four awkward emails, one of which contained a picture of his newborn nephew. (Weird. But kinda sweet.) A week after New Years, he announced that he had booked a ticket to Paris. I was rather impressed: no texts, no phone calls, no Snapchats, just a few emails and the man was making a call to action! This could be a Manicorn situation right here!

JJ was exactly the way I remembered him – a nondescript ginger far out of my usual douchebag artist type, yet smart and interesting enough to potentially overshadow it. We had a lovely time catching up over dinner at Anahi, downing bottles of Argentinian wine and talking about everything and nothing, until the owners finally kicked us out at 2 am.

The trouble started afterwards, when we headed to Silencio for a Men’s Fashion Week after party. The doorman, a familiar face at this point, took one quick look at JJ and moved on to the next contender. While I didn't care much about my date's affirmed lack of cool factor, it certainly made the rest of the night challenging. Due to lack of taxis, we ended up in my own personal version of hell in the form of a cheesy football in the middle of Etienne Marcel, where JJ bonded with our co-patriots while I sullenly sipped on my bad wine.  

On our way back to Le Marais, JJ professed his budding love, telling me that he hoped "it would work out between us, if not this month, then this year". He also begged me to sleep over, promising that he just wanted to "hold me", an offer I politely declined. Disappointed, he headed to his hotel, agreeing to meet me for breakfast around noon the next day.

The next day came, noon came, but JJ still hadn’t responded to any of my texts or calls. Around 4 pm, I began getting worried – had the cab driver kidnapped him on the way home?

No such luck. At some point, I called his hotel and had the front desk connect me to his room, a pretty standard concept that seemed to shock JJ. Fifteen minutes later, he emerged into the lobby, looking as if he had been run over by a truck. His hair was a mess, his eyes were bloodshot, and he could hardly walk straight, bumping into an innocent bystander, a situation that became dangerous as we entered Île Saint-Louis, a choice destination for elderly tourists.

I got my menace to society off the streets and in the comfort of a restaurant, where JJ disclosed the truth behind his bizarre behavior. It turned out that he had “randomly” met a group of people next to his hotel, and they had “spontaneously” invited him out to a bar. (Translation: he had gotten out of the cab and gone to a bar.) And then, oh coincidence of coincidences, he had even met a Polish girl who worked for the TV company that he did business with!

At this point, all the pieces of the puzzle started coming together. I decided that I didn't care that much, and ordered myself a nice big steak tartar to compensate for the emotional damage. While I worked on the tartar, JJ stabbed at his duck, annoyed all the waiters, and singlehandedly downed 5 glasses of wine. My friend joined us for desert, which JJ chose as the perfect moment to once again whip out the baby picture, this time accompanied by corresponding videos of the baby cooing. 

After the restaurant, we walked down the Seine, with me trying to show JJ as much of Paris as I could in the few evening hours we had left. The guy had slept through the entire day in the most beautiful city in the word - no matter how much he knew about Louis XIV, this I could not respect.

Sensing JJ’s desire to boost his alcohol levels, I took him to L’Hôtel, a beautiful hotel that also happens to be Oscar Wilde’s former residence. It would have been a pleasant evening, if it wasn't for fact that JJ was chugging down his 17 euro cocktails in a way that is usually reserved for H2O. Simultaneously, he was helping himself to a bowl of marinated olives, using his fingers to shove them directly in his mouth, chopped-up garlic and all. After each dip-n-lick, he would render into passionate details of his story du moment and grab my leg, spreading olive residue on my Acne jeans. Did I mention he had dandruff ALL OVER him, and a huge hole in his natty old cashmere sweater? To add a cherry to the cake, the guy made it clear that it was time for me to pay the bill by taking the check out of the waiter’s hand and handing it over to me. Classy.  

As we left the hotel at 1am, JJ suddenly got a hiccup attack. I tried to teach him how to hold in his breath in order to stop, but he ignored me. His loud hiccups echoed through the sleepy Saint-Germain neighborhood, making me yearn for the earth to swallow me alive. Mortified and freezing, I dragged him to the nearest brasserie and ordered water. The waiter took one look at my hiccuping companion and came back with a pitcher that looked like it belonged to a children’s tea set. (I’m pretty certain they must have them reserved in the back specifically to piss off Americans.) 

Five pitchers later, I hustled JJ into a cab, knowing all too well that I wouldn't be able to get rid of him this time around. After struggling to get all 200 pounds of him up to my 5^th floor walkup, I was rewarded with an immediate dis of my humble Parisian apartment. Covered in dandruff and chopped-up garlic, my redheaded companion informed me that, after the struggles of Paris, I would really appreciate his Dumbo loft. In turn, I shoved down two codeine-induced muscle relaxers (God bless France and its over-the-counter magic) and headed into the shower, knowing fully well that JJ would be passed out by the time I got out.

The night was spent in spooning positions that I will have nightmares about for years. I woke up in the morning feeling as if I had been kidnapped by as bear cub. However, the bear cub quickly became a grizzly bear as soon as he realized that that he would not be getting his prey. To avoid further discomfort, I declared that I was starving and made JJ get out of the house to have breakfast. At 10am. On a Sunday. In a neighborhood where the first restaurant open at 11.

During our scenic tour of the empty neighborhood, JJ said precisely one thing to me: “I feel as if Paris is just a maze of circles”. Instead of elaborating on the bullet-shaped circle I wished upon him, I bit my tongue and thought in T- Time, counting down the minutes until JJ was due back at his hotel for checkout. During breakfast, my poor ginger's hangover increased, and he headed to the bathroom for twenty minutes, leaving me at the communal table with a bitchy French couple that seemed to derive pleasure from my discomfort. 

At 1pm, I walked JJ back to his hotel and gave him an awkward good-bye hug, exchanging false promises to see each other in NYC in the Spring. With that, the most awkward weekend of my life was officially over. 

I have no hard feelings for JJ - the guy was clearly confused and a bit too smart for his own good. Frankly, I hope that he soon find himself a baby mama who can wipe the crumbs off his clothes and fix his hiccups. Unfortunately, this girl will not be me.

That's it peoples! Story over. No go off and enjoy the arctic cold.

Bisous!