All the Way Up the Downward Spiral

Frenzy. Mayhem. Catastrophe.
Three words that might be well used to describe the events of the past few days.
OK, so that may be a bit of an exaggeration, but still, quiet is not a word that I think applies either.
Our story begins this Wednesday past. Myself and my Chinese roommate decided that after work, we would go out to celebrate before his departure for China the next day. However, we would need to do it on the cheap, so what does that mean for two interns low on cash and looking for a good time?
The airport, of course.
As foreigners living and working in France, we are able to raid the duty free section of the airport at any given time for whatever they have that we might like. Duty free usually means perfume, chocolate, cigarettes, booze and fancy pens. We had no need of any but one of these.
Will bought a tall bottle of fine (we presume) Scotch whiskey and a litre of Coca (what the locals call Coke).
After his purchase, we went out for our last supper as roommates. We chose a really nice place that I have only been twice before, and it is known throughout France for its quality cuisine: Pizza Hut.
A Heinekin and the four cheese personal pan later, we were outside of terminal 2C, waiting for the shuttle to go home.
It was then that we noticed a woman running to catch her flight. This woman, had….. There is no delicate way to put this: she had absolutely enormous breasts. Gigantic, mutant freak boobs that threatened to pull small objects in close proximity into their orbit.
Will’s eyes lit up; he pointed his finger right at her and yelled, “KING SIZE!”
I laughed so hard, I think I lost control of all bodily functions. I needed that. The stress level over here is really high, and I hadn’t laughed so hard in, literally, months. It was such a happy release, followed by an immediate sadness at the imminent loss of a friend.
Back at our room at the hotel, the scotch and cocas were a-flyin’. Drinking brings out, among other things, my emotional side. Will and I talked and talked, and I realized how much we connect on so many things. Despite his indiscretions in his previous relationship, I think he is a really good person, and he has changed so much since we have lived together. I guess I had forgotten how tumultuous your early twenties are.
We toasted and made plans to see each other again next October in China. I would love to make that happen.
He thanked me for helping him so much with his English, which is almost perfect now, save for his heavy accent. I thanked him for not smoking in the room, and for teaching me how to count to three in Mandarin (which I have already forgotten).
We passed out early, planning on having lunch the next day in the cafeteria, before he left.
We did, but it was very quiet. We just had nothing left to say. It was a really happy quiet though. He was a great roommate, and he is a good friend.
Later that day, while I was watching the Cartoon Network, he came in to the room, put on his coat, and announced that he was going. I hugged him goodbye, he left the room, and just like that, my Wang was gone. I was left standing there, kind of in shock.
I remember when I got a roommate, and I didn’t even want one. I hated that he smoked; I didn’t like his girlfriend, and I wanted my privacy.
Now that he was gone, the room felt empty. That night before bed, I kicked off my shoes and went to brush my teeth, but not before instinctually going back to put my shoes next to my bed, so Will wouldn’t trip over them when he got home. Its moments like that when you realize that you miss someone who inst coming home. When did he become such an important part of my life? When did this room become home?
I was really lonely, so I brushed my teeth and went to bed. I looked over at the digital clock, in the dark, to see what time it was and how many hours of sleep I would get, when I noticed a box blocking the face of the clock. I got up and opened it.
It was a nice bottle of red wine from the Loire valley in France. Written on the box was, “Merry Christmas, Mark. Thank you- Will.”

The next evening was the hotel staff Christmas Party, entitled, “B-White.” I had no interest in going, but the events of the day necessitated my attendance.
Earlier in the morning, while prepping more salmon for the Koreans to gorge on, sous chef Yan came to my little kitchen and announced that TG wanted to see me. TG is how the hotel staff refers to Monsieur Thierry Guillot, the General Manager of the whole hotel. I had run into TG earlier in the week to ask if he might be willing to give me ten minutes of his time, when he had a chance. It seemed that now was my chance.
I was taken up to the executive suite, a series of offices that only special key cards can get you into. I do not have one of these key cards. The door to the suite is at the end of a long and dark hallway, and it is kind of hard to find. Its very Hogwarts-esque.
Sous chef Yan let me in and took me to TG’s office, a very large room, whose southern wall is completely windows. Its decoration was spartan, and the sun was a bit too bright. I immediately felt nervous and overwhelmed; I think that is the point of how the room is set up. Regardless, TG sat me down and asked me what I needed.
I told him that I had really enjoyed my time at the hotel and that I had learned a great deal, more than had anticipated I could. I also found that Hyatt is a company that I have a good deal of respect for, and I said that I would like to work for them in the future. I ended my ass kissing session with a humble request for a letter of recommendation from him.
Let me take a step back here: I had gotten two pieces of bad news this week that made this letter more important and less likely to happen. First, Air France seems insistent that its employees take time to enjoy some “very important holiday” that falls on the 25th of this month. That said, many of their higher ups are taking vacation the week before this accursed holiday too, and so, their special lunch with us in the chef’s bistro was cancelled. That meant that I did not get to assist the chef. He apologized, but I was going to use the occasion as a chance to wow the chef into giving me a letter of recommendation too. Without this lunch happening, I would have to ask someone more important than the chef if I really wanted to come out of this experience with some good press for myself. That person would have to be TG.
TG is very fond of something called bichter museli; it is a combination of honey, yogurt and dried cereal. It is actually pretty good, but this guy probably goes home to bathtubs full of the stuff and eats his way out. He loves it.
So, when that morning I served TG his breakfast, and he found the bichter museli wanting, it wasn’t a good sign. He sent it back by way of the head waiter and ordered “some good museli this time.” It so happens that we were out, and TG had to order something else. Big deal, right? Well, nobody says “no” to this guy. He gets what he wants, whenever he wants it, so it was a problem that I had screwed up his morning routine.
Fast forward back to my meeting: asking for this letter that I really needed now that I couldn’t get one from the chef, from a guy whose day had been started badly because of me was a daunting task.
I asked, and TG smiled warmly. I thought he was going to turn me down, but it seemed that this man, whom I had been told from my first day was as mean as they come, was not so mean after all.
He asked how old I was, and on learning that I am 30, agreed that I would need every advantage I could get to outpace the younger graduates from my school. He happily told me that he would write me the letter, and then told me that he really appreciated all my hard work and dedication. He said he liked my attitude and thought that Hyatt could use people like me.
Then he said, “I will write your letter, but I will do you one better. Spin a globe: pick a place in the world where you would like to work, and I will have my friends at Hyatt HR in Zurich forward your resume to that place. We’ll try to recruit you right after school.”
I am still in shock. There are Hyatt’s on every continent in the world, except for Antarctica. I asked him, giddily, South America? “Sure.” Tokyo? “Why not?” Ummmmm, New Zealand? Africa? “Great places to work, either one.” Could I come back to Paris….. maybe? “We’d be happy to have you.”
I thanked him profusely and got the hell out of there before he could change his mind. He called after me though, “Hope to see you at the party tonight!”
I called Ruta later in the day, and pretty much told her to pack her bags for anywhere on the planet she would like to go.
I mean, think of the blog possibilities! Kiss My France would be peanuts.
Kiss My Cape Town!
Kiss My Melbourne!
Kiss My Dubai!

So, that night I got dressed in as much white as I have here, as the formal dress code for the party was, “smart whites” meaning “all white.” I didn’t think that I would be alone in wearing some khaki pants and a white shirt, but I was dead wrong. These people were covered in white: pants, shirts, belts, socks, shoes. You name it, they wore it.
The party was actually pretty cool. You had to enter Café Mirage (one of our restaurants) from the outside, through a long tent tunnel that had been set up with white candles along the ground and blue lights above it.
Once inside, the whole floor was covered in tiny white Styrofoam pellets to simulate snow, and fake igloos and stuffed polar bears where everywhere. There were blue and white lights all over the place, and the DJ was great. With everyone in white, it actually looked pretty cool.
I thought I was going to stand in the corner though, while the rest of the hotel got jiggy with it.
Not so, TG came by and said his, “Joyeux Noel’s, and the assistant GM, Monsieur Laurant said his “Au revoir”s to me. The chef stood in the corner, hitting on some woman who actually seemed pretty interested, and the rest of staff ran around throwing fake snowballs at each other.
I stayed at the bar with my friends Olivier and David and talked, while they plied me with 1664, France’s cheapest beer, though “Its better than that Miller crap you people drink. Oh la la!” remarked David.
David, you should know, was born in Paris and spent a year of his adult life living in Chicago, so we have a lot to talk about. My first day he told me, “In America, you have Mexicans doing the dirty work in your kitchens. In France, we have Americans.” That’s his sense of humor, but ever since, I am “that Mexican over there” to him. I actually think I will miss that.
Later, a guy named Microvin came over to the bar and started talking to us. He asked if this was my first time living outside of the States, and I told him about my time in Greece and the Philippines.
Microvin exclaimed, “The Philippines is my country! Where were you?”
I told him that it was a tiny town in the rain forest that no one has ever heard of.
“Try me” he said, so I told him it was called Majayjay.
“OH MY GOD! MAJAYJAY IS MY TOWN!”
My jaw dropped. This is a town of 300 in the rain forest on a little island in the South Pacific. How in the hell did I meet someone from there, ten years later, in Paris? I love how small the world can be, and it made me feel more adventurous about where I might like to go next, now that TG had offered up the world on a plate.
Further, Microvin asked me where I had traveled, and I told him all about the places I went to. He knew them all, and he had been there. It felt like I was talking about home. I talk about the Philippines to people, but no one can ever say, “Yeah, I really love the water there. Its sooo blue!” No one can ever relate. This guy could, and it made me miss the Philippines.
Later, someone started passing around vin chaud, or hot wine. It is basically glug, and that made me miss Andersonville, as it is glug time there. Glug, if you don’t know, is a hot spiced wine that is only made in the winter. The Swedish bars in Andersonville all have their own homemade brew, and it is something I do every year, to go and sample them. It signals that winter and Christmas have officially come, to me anyway.
So, I had a glass.
Vin chaud, it should be noted, does not mix well with beer. I got to bed late that night after a night spent dancing and laughing with people about subjects I do not recall.
The next day, my alarm went off at 4:45, and I got up, having gone to bed three hours earlier.
My head was pounding, and I felt like death. The good thing was that when I saw the chef, he was still wearing what he had on the night before, and he looked just like I did. In fact, everyone was in bad, bad shape. That made things a bit easier.
Service went smoothly, somehow, and by the end of breakfast, I was ready to go die quietly in my room. Then a strange smell came to me. I looked around the kitchen, but couldn’t find where it might be coming from, but it was definitely getting worse.
When my socks started to get cold and wet, I realized what it was: water was coming up from the drain in the floor, into the kitchen. I ran and got the chef, who called maintenance.
Maintenance called their crew, who began to route the drain, and that was when the cooks from the show kitchen came sloshing into the back kitchen where I was.
“What are you doing?! The drains in the floor of the show kitchen are over flowing!”
We all ran to the show kitchen, and after only three or four minutes, there was about two inches of water on the floor. Maintenance shut down the water supply and started sucking in all out, but it kept coming from God knows where. All the cooks grabbed mops and started to push the water out of the restaurant.
“Katrina, huh?” was everyone’s joke.
An hour later, we were all sopping with sweat, and squinting under the pain of our hung over heads, but the kitchens seemed to be dry, so maintenance turned the water flow back on. We all held our breath for a minute, waiting to see what would happen,
Nothing. We were fine.
Until the sous chefs came running into the kitchen to say that water was coming out of the floor drains in the banquet kitchens, so we all ran over there with out mops in hand.
And that is when the fire alarms went off….

It was a disaster of a day. It all ended finally by late lunch time. I had a gallon of water to drink and an aspirin. My head settled, and the chef sat me down to do my final review.
He gave me an A and thanked me. On my way out, he told me that he was taking Christmas week off to spend with his kids, so he had better give me this now.
In a little plastic sleeve was his letter of recommendation for me.
I was too tired to be ecstatic, so I thanked him, shook his hand, and wished him a great holiday season
He left for the day, and I will not see him again before I leave.
I went to my room, and stared into the mirror. What a couple of days.
Up or down, though, I’ll take it. At least life’s never dull….