Bastille Day Weekend: The French glamour lesson

During my two-week séjour in June, I honestly wish I’d taken cabs a little more often in Paris. Why? There’s nothing like being chauffeured in the City of Light, a splendid panorama of monuments and pageantry through a car window. After leaving William’s apartment, the energy was palpable as we crossed the Pont du Carrousel from the Rive Droite to storied Saint Germain-des-Prés on the Rive Gauche, the towers of Notre Dame glowing in the now misty night while teenybopper Selena Gomez’s “I Love You Like A Love Song” gave the car itself a pulse. (Along with ‘Call Me Maybe’, this girly track is very popular in France.) This is how one lives in Paris, it occurred to me, forever passing between the ancient and the popular present.

I felt an adrenaline rush looking out across the glistening midnight Seine: I was in one of the greatest cities in the world, going to an intimate party populated by Parisians I didn’t know but who apparently knew of me through my friend-of-a-friend, another dimension of life to be discovered in mere minutes. Add this to being coincé in the backseat next to two beautiful men, practically perfuming the air with their fluid French: Pinch me please.

Hommes en noir

Exiting a glass elevator, I was thrust through the door of a palatial apartment in the heart of Saint Germain-des-Prés, puckering up to a succession of cheeks and dodging cindery Marlboroughs as they fluttered through the air, loosely wedged between impeccably manicured fingers. The intimidation factor was high as rapidly fluent French poured from every mouth but my own. The time had come: If I wanted to be taken seriously, I needed to start speaking. It was a somewhat surreal sensation in the first place, listening to American rap on the stereo against the one of the most aurally delicate languages on Earth. 

Mostly an assemblage of buyers, merchandisers and PR people for LVMH brands and other designers, everyone was awash in black and white on the salon sofa. I half-expected to find a New York Times journalist to profile the set-up, but no: just another Friday night pre-game on the Rive Gauche. I realized I didn’t feel like I was on vacation any longer; this was all spontaneous and informal enough to be real life.

The evening continued at none other than Silencio (can I call myself a regular yet?). Rotating between the fumor (smoking room), the glistening copper-toned bar, and the dancefloor – much more crowded this time – I spent the next hour welcoming fellow Americans to my “native city.” I expected that successfully feigning Frenchness would be more difficult with New Yorkers, but apparently wearing black and side-parting my hair was enough to prompt them to ask me “what are you drinking” in the worst high school French. Authentically faking a French accent in English is a small victory, of course, but dare I call it a rite of passage?

Serious clubs don’t close until 6-8am in Paris – hilarious considering what an ordeal it is to find a cab after 2h30 – so I woke up, face buried in my pillow, around 14h30. Believe it or not, this is a relatively proper Parisian beginning to la Fête nationale. Most of the French appear to do very little for this holiday, in comparison to America’s large barbecues, patio parties, sparklers and flags on the Fourth. The exception is the massive parade on the Champs-Elysées, in which uniformed representatives from France and its territories all participate. Les pompiers (firemen) are an interesting breed on Bastille Day. They’re known for getting fabulously inebriated at various public parties throughout the city. They also like to get naked.

On Rue Montorgueil

Of course, being me, I was ignorant of the grand parades and spent my afternoon traipsing around William’s neighborhood in the 2^nd arrondissement, which I hadn’t explored during my vacation in June. The streets around Rue Montorgueil and Rue Etienne-Marcel roughly compose an area called the Sentier, historically a Jewish textile district. Today, it is Paris’ more classical answer to New York’s Soho. Most of the city's arrondissements reflect either the traditional, opulent Paris or its bohemian heritage. But Rue Montorgueil is the height of trendy, a truly 

cosmopolitan quartier, and until I meandered through its Saturday crowds – safe from oncoming traffic, as the whole street is a pedestrian zone – I was surprised at the lack of interesting fashion in Paris. (Avenue Montaigne in the 8^th, with its flagship stores, doesn’t count. Like its American cousin Madison Avenue, one sees small groups of tourists and the occasional Saudi princess, and – excepting the Haussmannian architecture – just about every boutique on it can be found in other large cities.) I wandered to the end of the street, which ends at the glorious church of St. Eustache, place of worship for the neighborhood’s aristocracy since the 16^th century (think Louis XIV’s first communion…Madame de Pompadour’s baptism...). Photos never do a cathedral justice.

Sedating myself with glasses of kir at Café Etienne Marcel, I enjoyed a parade of chic before returning to William’s. It's no secret that Parisians may have invented people-watching. Sitting in such a state for two hours is something I’ve never felt comfortable doing in the States, but it grew to be such a natural ritual in France that I fortunately won’t give a shit whether I look like a pretentious lush resuming the habit back home. I’ve learned more about the world during those hours spent streetside, installed in a cane-back chair, than I have from any book. The education continued later that night, where I witnessed my first French birthday party.

Within two hours of leaving the Etienne-Marcel, I found myself in another impossibly posh apartment, this time off the Champs-Elysées. But this place exuded a storied, warm, family ambiance, the glowing parquet worn by generations of dance parties.  There were two fireplaces – one blocked by a white-tablecloth buffet of wine and exquisite little snacks – and classic French doors (redundant in this case?) opening onto a balcony for two. The group was a bunch of twenty-somethings, and a different crowd old friends of William’s gathered to celebrate the birthday of a lovely blonde in a black cocktail dress. It could easily have been a scene out of Le Divorce.

Best of all? For the first time, I conversed and partied completely in French - for HOURS. So long that it actually felt comfortable. I made my way around the salon, striking up fresh conversations with people I barely knew my name (kind of a big deal for someone who doesn’t yet consider himself fluent). William – whether he planned it or not – had thrust me into a dream-come-true, and his delightful friends carried me through perhaps the best evening of my entire life. This wasn’t just a birthday party: it was acceptance. I walked into a proper Parisian soirée, created my own conversations (even a few debates!), and walked away having finally witnessed how my generation in France socializes. Grenoble had given me the courage to speak French more often, but partying in Paris gave me the precious opportunity to use it and enjoy the outcome. 

Needless to say, I smiled to myself when I overheard another guest say "Il est mignon" as I was putting on my jacket to leave. 

Bastille Day Weekend: Playing Parisian

Train travel, if all goes fortunately as planned, is magically simple – even elegant – in Europe. I think the secret to ensuring this ease is simply adjusting to the fact that the French have, not surprisingly, a different way of transacting business. Like most Americans, I’ve become so accustomed to arranging all my affairs online and well in-advance, conveniently printing out confirmations of travel reservations and electronically entering codes at my points of departure without issue. Technology in certain domains is viewed differently in France, and the nature of purchasing tickets varies from public transportation to airports. The rail system exemplifies how much more direct business transactions tend to be here – that is to say, between client and seller. (Need help? You usually have to ask. Want to personalize a reservation? Tell the person serving you exactly what you want.) Once I understood this mentality, getting from A to B became so much easier.

Instead of trying to buy a train ticket on the Rail Europe website for my Bastille Day weekend in Paris (constant internet connection problems), I decided to employ my last-resort purchasing strategy at Gare de Lyon three weeks prior: I went to the guichet (ticket counter) an hour before my desired departure, asked what was available, and reserved a seat on the next available train. My agent was completely helpful, offered me far more options than were available online, and I was on my way to Paris – stress free – on a direct TGV within the hour. (Just long enough to shed the stifling afternoon heat with a cocktail in the lounge.) I’ve noticed that the French don’t like to deal with machines as much as they do human beings. In three hours, I arrived refreshed and comfortable at Gare de Lyon, the site of that heinously chaotic morning three weeks before. Savvy or not, I had a newfound confidence after a month in this country that didn’t exist the day I departed for Grenoble. Stepping out into rain by the taxi queue, the feeling of familiarity was almost overwhelming. I was back in Paris, my true home in France.

What’s more, the City of Light showed more layers this time, more detail. At the end of my two-week vacation in June, I had come to see Paris as more-or-less another large European city – certainly the greatest in France and one of the foremost in the world – yet aside from a few clichés and typically urban glamour, its people, its style didn’t strike me as terribly unique. Three weeks outside the périphérique changed that.  

Surrounded by phone-clutching travelers in the queue, I could distinguish the Parisians immediately. Take the (unnatural) red head in this photo, an eccentric type often seen on the streets of numerous quartiers in the city: orange, blunt bangs (might even be a wig?) with a matte red lip and glasses she may have worn to Maxim’s circa 1959. Only this city, rich with cabaret history and decadent intellectuals – either of which this woman could be a part – could produce such a theatrical creature.      

Sliding into a silver Mercedes (Miranda Priestly, anyone?), I alerted the media – also known as William – via text that I was en route from the station. I helped the driver locate William’s tiny street in a zone piéton (pedestrian-only zone), and exhaling, fell back into my cushy seat, my heart and stomach aflutter with excitement about being back and the marvelous couple of days and nights ahead in the Paris I could finally say I knew. I recognized the inimitable limestone buildings that passed, the street names on their iconic blue-and-white plaques, the broad awnings of cafés where – weeks before – I’d watched the world go by over glasses of kir. At last, I thought, I have a place, something of a life here. I have a foot in two cultures.    

After sheepishly clarifying which “second floor” William’s apartment was on – I’d forgotten if it was the European or American – I ascended the narrow staircase to his door as a light flipped on, William on the landing with a slightly fatigued smile.

“It’s rainingggggg,” he moaned, alluding to the unseasonably depressing weather that had been plaguing Paris all summer.

We exchanged les bises, dropped my bags on the floor, and hit the alimentaire next door to prep for the evening’s cocktail party. An old friend was visiting from Brussels, and wine was naturally in order.

Crossing the Pont du Carrousel

Pushing aside the Dior sunglasses and party invitations to Maxim’s, we arranged a spread of simple but typically French hors d’oeuvres – cornichons (tiny pickled gherkins), cheese, toast and pâté – and passed the hour chatting and catching up, sipping vin blanc from the Loire.      

“You know,” William announced in his velvety accent (accorded much attention in my third post), “I love pâté. But it’s SO gross. I mean, whenever I eat it I think, ‘This looks and smells like cat food.’ Yet it’s always so good…” I spread the minced goodness on a square of toast.

Obviously, as a student of French, one of the enormous advantages to having a Francophone friend is the occasion to verify what is taught in class – or heard out and about – with real-world parlance. I pulled out my conversation journal, required for my class on colloquial French in Grenoble, and William and I laughingly read through all the phrases and idioms I had learned or heard from Laurence and on the town. Most of what I’d encountered in daily conversation is still in current use, but some expressions are dreadfully old-fashioned.

“’Je me damnerais pour ça? (I’d damn myself/kill for that.)’ Oh God, no. Only grandmothers say this.” I conjured images of swooning matrons in Chanel skirt-suits, hands to their foreheads at a tea service. Still, convinced that my soul is at least half that of an elderly socialite, this is just theatrical enough for me to adopt.

The doorbell rang, and in walked Sam, a Cameroonian-born Parisian who’s now a buyer for a posh boutique in Brussels. I noticed that the boys, long-time copains, were both suddenly donning black – the fashion industry uniform – thus my cue to follow suit. I nixed my pink button-down for a sheer, jet-black deep-V and shawl-neck cardigan. 

Cole Haans and one umbrella later, I was scurrying downstairs with my Frenchmen to a cab in the glistening cobblestone street.