Hotel Living Read Free

highest in the world, I took EBS seriously.
    Yet, proving Paul’s point, half my class already had jobs lined up, which allowed for a campus hedonism of epidemic proportions: a final year of partying, of “don’t-ask-but-please-do-tell” promiscuity mixed with sleeping pills, pills, driving drunk in the forest, and any other type of self-indulgence as long as you stayed cocky or “MBA-bohemian” about it. Each week was dedicated to a country, whose students hosted alcohol-soaked blowouts that built up to weekend wickedness. On top of that, there were “party playoffs”: the Summer Ball, hosted either at the Château de Courances or at Versailles; the Winter Ball; the Montmelian Ball—all black tie—the Bois le Roi parties; the Farmers’ party (planned around a cave); the “Crossover” party—for crossing the middle of the academic year—where guys wore girls’ clothes and vice versa; and, of course, that evening’s S&M party in the chambers of the Château de Fleury-en-Bière, an EBS tradition that sent students all the way to Pigalle sex shops to get outfits, and summed up all my campus disillusionments about Paul’s play-for-future-network mantra. He was selling me indulgence as the first step toward old-world entitlement; a puzzling concept, but after three years of programming C++—and another ten of studying, working, and constantly proving myself—I didn’t mind a sample. I mean, come on, I was in a French forest. I could play for a change. For a bit.
    I finished my pint and hit the bar with my glass. “Are you bringing your fiancée to the S&M tonight?” I asked, trying to find out how deep his dirt went.
    â€œThat’s where we met two years ago.” Paul smiled teasingly. “So, what do you think?”
    My curiosity had put me on the spot. “You said you wanted to work on your engagement,” I said carefully. “So, I guess not?”
    Paul gave my empty glass a once-over, almost reached for it, gave me a brother-handshake instead. I mirrored him tentatively, awkwardly—hand, arm, and shoulder, then hand again—guessing that I was being rewarded for my answer. He slowly stretched and disengaged our sweaty fingers. “Try again,” Paul said. Once more, I looked around.
    WHEN I GOT BACK TO the hut, there were no cars parked outside. The lights were on, but no one was there. A plastic bag was on my bed with a Post-it on it: “You know you want it.” I peeked in: there was a toga, basically. A pair of leather sandals lay on top of what looked like blue drapes. Half a shower later—forest freezing water—I caught up with Alkis, my fellow Montmelian refugee, at one of the many S&M preparties held in houses around the forest. It would be hours before a bunch of us made it, drunk, to the Château de Fleury.
    Under Paul’s artistic direction, Alkis entered the château’s dungeon in chains. The enslaved president was paradedaround the floor to be auctioned for whipping, and I was too wasted to remember if, or for how much, I was supposed to bail him out. Still, Alkis was dressed on the Disney side, not as Mapplethorpe as others. I scanned the chamber and saw the chain hooks on the walls that the Nazis had used to torture prisoners some sixty years before. At the end of the catacomb, a snake was being passed around. I needed another drink to make sense of all this, so I was heading toward the bathtub that served as a beer cooler when two Argentineans with permanent suntans offered me a shot.
    â€œAre you from Buenos Aires?” I asked the one with a lollipop in his mouth.
    â€œVia London investment banking.” He handed me another shot, though I was clearly still holding the first one.
    His friend mumbled something about Chechen gunmen seizing a Moscow theater.
    â€œNot if Paris Hilton’s performing,” the lollipop replied. “She should be on