One of those times was today.
The BDE (student's association) organised a party last night in the Ice Bäar, a small nightclub above a Häagen Dazs ice-cream shop. Because why not. Like most bars, there was a post-work wind-down with snacks and free champage on offer after a 15€ entry fee.
First mistake of the evening was too liberally employing free market principles and increasing consumption because the commodity price was zero. Friedman would say it was completely natural, but I'm not sure I want his approval.
In any case, several - several is a word which here means somewhere between two and ten - glasses later the free bar closed and Parisian prices came in. Prices in Paris are mad. It was ten euros for a drink but, with some pretty lovely champagne tingling my belly, I threw caution to the winds and my wallet to the barman. I can't remember to whom I threw my dignity, but if anyone has it I'd appreciate it back.
The night progressed as you would expect a night in which I sunk 40 millilitres of vodka every twenty minutes for two hours to progress. It progressed incredibly well. I danced, I jumped, I got closer to my students through the shared experience of being quite drunk and at one point had my tie stolen by an interesting girl with smokey eyes. I got it back. I can't say how. I even jammed out Bohemian Rhapsody, backed by a Spaniard and two French people. Amazing.
The problem came when on the bus home. Movement is one of the hardest things to deal with in a highly intoxicated state, and I distinctly remember the bus being stopped a couple of times so that I could get off and take deep breaths. At one point I think I declared that I would walk and the bus need not wait, despite my only landmark being the arch of La Défense and the only thing I knew was that I lived about 6km away from it.
Thankfully I was escorted by wonderfully kind people and an understanding bus driver. The last twenty minutes are shrouded from my memory, but I woke up in my own bed and with all of my clothes strewn around me. I was awoken by my phone, which several minutes of searching and standing stock still while turning my head like an owl located itself in my fridge.
My fridge is almost always empty, so my phone was a nice reminder that being drunk makes me both hungry and stupid. I made it into work after lunch and wasn't needed until around four, which made me feel worse - dragging my miserably hungover, emptied self in to wallow in self-pity was pointless, since I could have wallowed at home and I could have done it in a fleecy dressing gown rather than jeans.
Still, having got rid of it by 4.30 and taught a student, I feel today has concluded on a higher point than that with which it opened. I'm going to drink some soup, eat a little bread, and sleep the remainder off.
P.S There's a photo of me from that night that demonstrates quite what a hideous mess I was. You may not see it. Ever.