By now, if you Facebook stalk me to the extent I expect, you know that something magical happened in Paris this past spring break. Something greater than Florida State’s Cinderella run to the Sweet Sixteen. Something even greater than Whoopi Goldberg telling Donald Trump to STFU. Something outside of my wildest dreams. I’m referring, of course, to the time I spent with Morty “The Fucking Legend” Schapiro in the City of Lights.
It seemed like a regular Parisian afternoon. I guess that’s how these things usually go. I was walking with my parents up to the Louvre after having lunch at a café in the Tuilleries. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a flash of purple.
As I turned my head, the source of the purple came into view. There was no doubt in my mind: it could only be one person.
“Mom, I think that’s Morty Schapiro,” I said in awe. She laughed. I pointed over to the man in question. A stunned silence came over the conversation. Then, finally, my dad said “Oh my god, I think it is.”
Having noticed us staring and pointing from about 20 feet away, Morty waved to us. I could tell that he, in his omnipotent ways, already knew what was happening.
I walked up to him and said, “Hey President Schapiro,” obviously displaying the level of respect that such a man deserves. “I’m a freshman at Northwestern.”
He laughed that sweet, lovable laugh and shook my hand. His wife, another woman, and two other men laughed and smiled at us. Morty proceeded to introduce us to his lovely a wife, a friend and his wife, and an NU alum living in Paris. We exchanged hearty handshakes, but my gaze scarcely left the beautiful face of our dear President. As the intros settled down, I asked him for what had been my ultimate goal: a picture. Dreams of a new profile picture swirling in my mind, he agreed and we posed beautifully against the backdrop of the old French royal palace.
Then, the unthinkable happened. Our camera, which had been faulty all break, ran out of batteries. I was mortified (or in this case, Mortyfied). I saw the profile picture of a lifetime flashing before my eyes.
But the worst of disasters turned suddenly into the best of miracles, all on the whim of Morty. As we made small talk while the batteries were being switched, he asked me why I hadn’t taken his economics class in the winter. I responded that I wasn’t able to get in the class because it filled up too early in the week. Then, in a stroke of genius, he told me that he was teaching another class in the fall and that if I wanted in I should simply email him and he’d get me an early registration number so I could get in.
It was in this moment that I fully realized that every aspect of his legend was undeniably true.
We proceeded to take several more pictures and talk about my plans for where I am going to live next year. Morty even knew without hesitation that Allison Hall was scheduled for renovations over the summer. His omnipotence was overwhelming.
As our grand encounter neared its close, we shook hands and traded farewells, then walked off in opposite directed. I turned to look one last time at him and saw his delightful lavender sweater fading off towards the Arc de Triomphe, probably on his way to go swim the English Channel or act as the best wingman Sarkozy ever had.
Also. I went to the Eiffel Tower and Versailles and a bunch of museums and cool shit.
But mostly it was about Morty. Trip of a lifetime.