I WENT TO PARIS BECAUSE I'M A WRITER, NOW
September 25th, 2025 | kobi ansong
My phone buzzes. A text from the homie: ay bruh, you in Paris reading books? lmao
It’s New Year's Eve, but the energy isn’t raucous or belligerent. From balconies, résidents count down in unison. A medley of cheers, claps, bonne année’s and Happy New Year’s resound as I march nowhere. Then, I stumble across a dead body.
Monsieur, traversez la rue s'il te plait, a pale cop says with less urgency than a coffee order. I can’t speak French, so I just shrug and stand there. He points, and I scurry across the street. The body is covered by a white sheet. Two women wearing orange knit hats sit on a bench, one crying, one just sitting. Suicide, apparently.
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I’ve thought about suicide, not in a suicidal way, more so philosophical, what if? I couldn’t do it. Not because of any admirable trait, I just care what people think too much. Niggas can’t see me go out like that. Maybe that’s what they call toxic masculinity.
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The next afternoon, I’m in a corner booth at La Closerie des Lilas, a two-hundred year old cafe that was Hemingway’s favorite. The piano plays something beautiful and tragic and an antique chandelier swings gently over my head. I’m writing a story about two friends and their failed attempt to rob their Atlanta plug. It sucks. Hemingway said all you need is one true sentence, but this is more elusive than the bad chick in high school who only dates seniors. I order another glass of Chablis, which they say is some sort of Chardonnay spinoff. It tastes good, but mainly the pronunciation makes me feel rich: Sha-blee.
In the evening, I’m at Buddha Bar across the street from President Macron’s crib. It’s three stories high and there’s an enormous golden buddha in the center. I’m with my home girl Star, who has a tendency to cut you off, not because she’s rude, life just excites her that much. She’s telling me about her upcoming nuptials to a corporate attorney. She asks me if I’m seeing anyone. I went jogging with a friendly stripper last weekend. But no, I say.
The fiancé and his colleague show up, a Colombian-American woman in her forties with an excruciating amount of fragrance. They talk about Tuscany towns and St. Tropez resorts, but I’m distracted by the table adjacent. Two ancient Chinese men with c-shaped spines accompanied by two African women, who are decades younger. They just sit there, stoic, barely alive. Occasionally, one of the men grunts.
So, what do you do? The heavily-fragranced attorney asks. Well, I’m a writer, I say. She smiles. It’s polite, but I can hear her thoughts whispering: broke.
Now Star and I are trying to convince a Moroccan bouncer to let us skip the line. I slide him 20 EUR, but the bastard refuses. Star is a genius who learned perfect French in three months, but right now, she’s faking hopeless tourist. Our friends are upstairs, our phones are dead, we don’t know how to find our hotel. It works.
It’s a laundromat speakeasy bar. We’re smashing buttons on various washers and dryers until the middle machine slides open like a scene from Indiana Jones. I buy shots for a group of rich UCLA kids. One of the dudes looks like Ryan Gosling’s younger brother. Ay what’s your name bro? I ask. He slams a tequila. Asad, he says. What’s that? I ask again. Asad. My mom’s a super hippie. Like legit, he explains.
The next morning, I’m all packed up, staring at my notebook, trying to think of one true sentence to justify this expensive trip. Shit. Uber’s outside. I write:
At 5AM, you can order liquor from Postmates here. In fact, they have combo packs. For 45 euros, you get a 70cl bottle of Jägermeister, four Red Bulls, and a bag of Lay’s chips.