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.