The first pull that I ever took of a cigar tasted exactly the way I thought it would. Everyone says things are exactly the way they imagined them to be. Most people are liars.

Ian took a pull from his Latino and laughed. He extended his dirty hand, blew smoke into the moist Avignon air and said, "Shake my hand. Shake my hand, dude! We're in France." I shook his hand and looked at Baptiste, who laughed at the disgusting display of tourism.

Baptiste asked me if I liked smoking cigars. I nodded. "Don't I look classy?" He smiled and shook his head. "I don't understand, 'classy'" Ian translated it for him and Baptiste smiled.

We ran into Baptiste and Quentin outside of a trailer park in the outskirts of Avignon. They were staying with about twenty other kids who were going on a road trip from Normandy to Marseille. All of the kids were sitting on a grassy patch underneath the bridge connecting Avignon Centre to the outside walls. There was hashish and pot being smoked. It reminded me of college. It was midnight when the four African drummers began playing.

Baptiste took a sip of Vodka, turned to Ian and said, "Fuck George Bush." Ian looked at me. I was the first to start laughing, and then everyone else chimed in. I liked Baptiste.

Quentin opened his pack of Latinos, took one out, looked at it as if he were inspecting something in a lab and said, "Why have you never smoked before tonight?"

"I dunno," I said. I honestly didn't. I was enjoying myself more right then than I had the entire trip. Everyone was drunk. The drummers were beating the drums as if every tap was pulling life along, and if one beat were missed, it would all stop. There was one girl who danced the entire time they played. Her blouse was very low cut and her breasts were the perfect size for a girl her age. She had on baggy skater pants, which hung very low on her hips, exposing the perfection of her body. She almost had me thinking about why I was so unhappy. Then I noticed the moon, which hung very low in the sky, just hovering above the city walls. I felt as if the moon and I were playing peek-a-boo and he was watching me to make sure I didn't start thinking unhappy thoughts.

Dan tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to him and he snapped a picture. Baptiste smiled and said, "Photographer?" Dan nodded. Baptiste looked at Ian and said, "You too?" Ian said, "No, I sculpt." Baptiste looked at me. I said, "Poet."

Baptiste asked me to read something. I did. He didn't understand but loved it. He took a pull of his Latino. "Poetry is like smoking cigars," he said. I agreed.

We took many pictures with Dan's camera to document my first cigar. I shook Baptiste and Quentin's hand and thanked them for the smokes. They said that I was welcome, and we began to walk away.

We walked ten feet toward the bridge so that we could get back into the city and find a park to sleep in. I was looking at the reflection of the moon on the river, which created a beautiful contrast because the moon was so white and the river was so black. Baptiste called out my name in his poor French accent. I really liked his accent. I turned around. He chucked a box at me. I caught it. I looked down, smiled the way that I figured the moon expected me to smile, and once again, thanked them both. As I kept walking I heard Quentin and Baptiste laughing. Baptiste screamed out, "Fuck George Bush!" I still liked Baptiste very much.