Blackout_ Remembering the Things I Drank to Forget - Sarah Hepola

My friend Meredith lived in an apartment a few blocks from my hotel. I met her when she worked
at the New York Times , but she had since moved to Paris to work for the International Herald
Tribune.
“I’m having a cognac,” Meredith said as we stood in her kitchen. Cognac was an after-dinner
drink, she conceded, but it was one of those days when 9 pm needed to arrive sooner. “Would you
like one?”
I’d never had cognac before. But I was trying to be more refined. I’d started ordering high-end
vodkas in Manhattan clubs where labels mattered. I’d been drinking Patrón tequila, and I liked to
inform anyone who would listen how tequila was intended to be enjoyed slowly, not knocked back in
one gulp.
“I’d love one, thanks.” Her apartment was very Architectural Digest. The first floor had a glass
ceiling, and if you looked through it, you could see the second-story skylight, and beyond that the
stars. I wondered how many reality hosts I’d have to interview each month to afford a place like this.
I sat on the midcentury modern couch, rocking the snifter back and forth. I took a sip, and flames
ripped down my throat. Goddamn. Why hadn’t I been drinking this all my life? The buzz was warm
and total. Cognnnnnnaaac. I liked the voluptuous sound. Two syllables, so much music. Meredith
asked if I wanted another glass, and I hesitated for the briefest second. It was my last night in Paris. I
had to say yes.
We ate dinner in Montparnasse at a restaurant that had once been Fitzgerald’s favorite. Meredith
worried it was a bit touristy, but I was excited to roll around in Lost Generation history. Art deco
fixtures, high ceilings, white tablecloths. Meredith ordered a bottle of wine in fluent French, and I
pretty much fell in love with her.
Did I blurt this out at the table? “I’m a little bit in love with you.” I might have. I made such
pronouncements all the time when I was lit, because most women walked around with their selfesteem
around their ankles, and I felt a duty to help them lift it up. You are really pretty. Did I ever
tell you about the time you ordered the wine in perfect French? Alcohol turned all my jealousy into
buttercream.
We ordered oysters. We ordered escargot. Everything Meredith suggested, I responded with a hell
yeah. The booze made me hyper. My foot was jostling, a motor without an off switch. And I drank to
calm myself, as much as I drank to keep myself revved.
“This food is amazing,” I told her, though even Spaghetti-Os tasted good when I was drunk.
The waiter came to offer dessert, and Meredith and I gave each other a conspiratorial look. Two
more cognacs, please.
It was well past 11 when the check arrived, and we had burned through half a pack of cigarettes. I
threw my credit card on the table without even looking at the total.
“I can’t let you pay for all this,” Meredith said, and I winked at her. “Don’t worry. I’m not.”
We tumbled into a cab. And here is where the night starts to stutter and skip. I see Meredith in the
cab, the bundle of her scarf around her face. It’s cold, and we are huddled together now, too drunk to
care about our thighs pressed against each other. Good friends now. Old friends now. I see the red
blur of the meter, a fuzzy dot in the corner. The baffling matter of euros. What the fuck are all these
coins?
I’m pretty sure Meredith says, “I’m going to walk home from your hotel. I need the fresh air.” We
must have hugged good-bye. I had such a good time. Let’s do this again. But that’s not how it