Tales of a Viking

A baguette. It all started with a baguette. And a glass of wine of course. Now quirky electronic music blasted the stereos of the minuscule club. A silent movie was playing in the background with seemingly no relation to the dropping beats. The stereotype of stuck up Frenchmen too cool to mingle with anyone uncultured enough not to speak their language had officially been blasted to smithereens. How long was it since we had been wandering aimlessly through the streets of Lyon, desperate for a place to eat? Time was but a blur. The present was but a blur. The latter was probably due to the amount of alcoholic beverages consumed throughout the night, but little did it matter.
It was like a stream of consciousness. The beats. Trying to piece together enough French to string a sentence together. Strobe lights flashing. Happiness, oh the happiness. All thoughts of exams washed away in a river of bliss. They had undoubtedly been thrown accidentally into La Saôn along with the key to the padlock now hanging unwearyingly on the bridge like so many others. The contrast to the quaint restaurant we had stumbled upon earlier that day was apparent everywhere, the only constant being the chef. In his navy blue shirt and black jeans kept up by suspenders, he was the reincarnation of the French soul.
The restaurant had only been open a month, leaving no time to get sick of unintentionally rude tourists like us. Instead of wary looks, we had been ushered into the rustic venue. Free samples of local and more exotic meats had been placed in front of us along with baguettes and the wine menu which had until seconds ago been hanging on the stone wall. The gig we had been meant to go to momentarily forgotten in the food-induced mental haze, we decided to risk it and go for the dessert though this meant we might be late. And we were. Yet even now, months later, neither of us regret it a second.
A promise is a promise, and we had promised the chef we would be back after the concert. And somehow, there we were, in a club not even most locals know about flaunting our slurred French, blending into the music. As time went by, the meaning behind the silent movie became more and more clear until suddenly – the lights went on. Reality. Where were we again? How were we to get back? Why, the chef in shining armor of course. As I was asking him out about his life my friend whispered from the backseat “Baguette, Ingrid?” “Oh, yes please!”