There is no such thing as a free drink

“I was fully prepared to hate that!”, I quipped, slurping another mouthful of champagne. A balmy summer night in Paris. Mum, just in from New Zealand. Despite my concerted effort to hate it, we had both just enjoyed a show in the Moulin Rouge. I had been very quick to disregard the idea when she suggested it. A nasty, overpriced piece of commercial tourism. Not fit for an “industrious traveller” like myself.

We started chatting with two girls across the table from us. One seemingly sweet, the other strangely disaffected. Belgians. “We’re only here for the weekend!”, they sighed. We regaled them with stories of varied travels and gratefully accepted the offer of finishing their champagne.

Twenty minutes passed. The Belgians were suddenly absent. I noticed that Mum appeared to be drunk. Extremely drunk. She had cornered a timid English couple, laughing manically, her words slipping off her tongue and her arms flailing around like those of a passionate evangelist. She excuses herself and stumbles in to the busy Parisian night.

The streets are groaning with people. The red windmill of the Moulin Rouge lights the pavement. I take Mum’s arm and struggle under her weight as I pull her towards the Metro. Her face is now expressionless and her pupils dance around her eyes.
“Rose, Rose please. I....I think I’ve been drugged. Really. I’ve drunk a lot in my time and this isn’t alcohol. Please. Oh my god. What’s happening to me?”. She bursts in to tears.

I am paralysed with fear under the weight of this impending reality. Has someone really done this to us? I frantically scan the faces of the pedestrians. I spot a middle-aged couple looking in the window of a shop window a metre away. “Excuse me, i’m so sorry but..... but I need your help. My mother has just been drugged at the Moulin Rouge”. They exchange glances with a bemused smirk. They think we’re one of those scams they’ve read about in their guidebooks. “Ah sorry no English, lady”, the woman says, shaking her head.

I drag Mum on to the street, her head slumped back and her mouth wide open, mumbling incoherently. I hail a taxi and she falls heavily in to the back seat. The contents of her bag empties underneath the seats. The taxi driver fiddles with the tuner on his radio. “Please sir I need a hospital!”, I scream at him desperately. I bite my tongue, fighting back the urge to cry. I had never felt so far from home and yet only an hour ago home was right beside me.