behind closed doors
When I think about what Parisians do behind closed doors, it usually involves heady red wine and stimulating political or art talk, mixed with a strong waft of seduction. The recent experience I had in the magical city of Paris was quite the opposite. My fantasies of sipping on Calvados while listening to jazz in an airy apartment in Montmartre living la vie de bohème were dashed. It was in fact a slap in the face back to the 21st century.
The story begins on a rainy day spent exploring every hidden corner I could find in Paris. I wandered through Montmartre for hours and got myself quite lost both in time and in location, with no concept of the present. It’s during such excursions when time seems to stand still for me while continuing to move in the real world, and before I know it my stomach is growling and it’s time for dinner. This particular day, I stumbled upon a perfect little café in Montmartre and it would have been a shame not to sit at a table and watch the traffic pass by, absorbing every little bit of French life.
I ordered a glass of red wine and the chicken provencal, opened my notebook and got inspired by the scene, while every so often inhaling the fumes of the gentlemen’s cigarettes from the next table, wishing I had one of my own. I was in Paris, after all, and just one Gauloise wouldn’t hurt me.
In my terribly broken French I asked the men to my left if I could trouble them for a cigarette. Marlboros. I had come all the way to Europe and I ended up with an American cigarette. The men’s attention was now on me and they asked my reason for being in Paris. Does anybody really need a reason to be in Paris?
Their English was far better than my French but the language barrier was still in place, and our conversation was rifled with pauses to find the appropriate words that would cross the cultures smoothly. They seemed educated and worldly, sophisticated and personable. Jean worked in fashion and beauty, which was evidenced by his mane of wavy locks, perfectly groomed five o’clock shadow and designer motorcycle jacket. Stefan was in the music industry, and dressed down in a more starving artist fashion. They were an odd match but had seemed animated with each other throughout their earlier conversation, proving that opposites do attract.
Stefan invited me to a party at his apartment the following evening, saying that they would be drinking aperitifs, chatting and listening to music. The paranoid in me was careful to note that I was traveling with friends, and he quickly extended the invitation to them as well. Although Stefan seemed completely harmless, perhaps he was just trying to get a lone girl into this apartment. Sometimes I just can’t shake my father’s heeding to “be safe”.
The friends I was traveling with had planned a romantic dinner for two the night of the party, which meant it was up to me to find my own adventure. The French version of sugar plums had been dancing in my head since my meeting and there was no way I was going to miss this opportunity. I was so excited the morning of the party at the prospect of actually going to a Parisian’s home and interacting with real Parisians that for once the day seemed to drag on forever.
As I made my way to Montmartre that evening, I realized that in my excitement I had forgotten to eat dinner or buy a bottle of wine for the host. I came to the conclusion that it was likely better to arrive fashionably late when the party was in full swing, and have a glass of wine prior to that to calm my nerves. I suddenly worried that no one but Stefan would speak English and I would be forced into awkward charades and spotty French. My French is always better after a glass or two of wine when my inhibitions drop.
After a delicious pot of moules frites and a crusty baguette, I found myself standing outside a grand old building with painted shutters and Juliet balconies. Taking a deep breathe, I punched in the security code and let one of the foreboding doors creak open. The winding wooden staircase ascended into darkness, and with no light switch in sight, I slowly felt my way up to the third floor.
I could hear the music before I knocked on the door – the electronic rhythm was practically vibrating the floor. Once realizing my rapping was a futile attempt, I shoved the door open and set my eyes on a completely unexpected scene.
In the tiny studio apartment there were seven men and women surrounding a coffee table strewn with overflowing ashtrays, balloons and canisters of gas. This is not really what I had in mind.
Stefan gave me a warm welcome and introduced me to the group, while handing me a glass of wine. I settled on a couch and watched my companions as they filled balloon after balloon with nitrous oxide, getting more and more euphoric with each inhale. I soon learned that I was sharing the evening with two high profile French CEOs, two visiting Americans and three Parisians from different walks of life. Each one tried to coax me incessantly into inhaling some of the laughing gas, but I just couldn’t bring myself to join in on the out of place ritual once popular with 19th century medical students.
It was when the tray of cocaine that would have stunned even George Jung was placed in the middle of the table that I chose to make my exit. This simply was not the Parisian fantasy I wanted filled.
My Lessons from a Bar Stool:
Lessons for the Ladies:
1. When travelling alone in a foreign land, be cautious when going to a stranger’s apartment. You may not be faced with something as innocent as laughing gas.
2. Expectations are dangerous and may just set you up for disappointment.
3. Unfortunately, not every moment in Paris is a Woody Allen movie.
Lessons for the Men:
1. Inviting a pretty girl to a laughing gas party is not a smooth move.
2. Welcome foreigners to your country by inviting them to hang out. It’s not always easy for them to meet people.
3. Don’t force drugs on someone. If they say they’re not into it, they’re not into it. End of conversation.
-SA
If you enjoyed this Tale, you may also enjoy From Paris with Love.