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. 

You can find me at Silencio

Post misdirection on my way
to Chez Julien, in the Marais...

Last Thursday, I received my first dinner invitation in Paris.

I had plans in the Marais at eight with William, a French friend of my friend Peter from Ann Arbor. Pete had – completely unrequested – generously reached out to his Paris connections to show yours truly a lovely time in the City of Light. We met at Chez Julien on rue Louis-Philippe – one of the Marais’ most elegant restaurants on the Seine – most famous as a location for Carrie Bradshaw’s Parisian experience in the final season of Sex and the City (where she feeds her neighboring bulldog pastries). I had carefully planned the extensive métro route there, and yet, despite my efforts, was easily confused upon arrival by the maze of streets that compose Paris’ large 17^th century quartier. I hurried across Pont Marie, surrounded by urban homes built proudly under the ancien régime, including Église Saint Paul, where – a guide told me years ago – Louis XIV was baptized.  

William works in fashion PR – his clients include some significant luxury brands like the Row – and had studied a bit in the U.S., so breaking the ice was hardly an effort. After a glass of mild white wine at our breezy sidewalk table, we laughed about trashy American reality shows – a guilty pleasure for both of us – and how typically “Paree-jahn” the snobby hostess was, regardless of who approached the door or how impeccable the ensemble (such Parisians, I learned, do this to everyone). I also received an enthusiastic compliment on my French, satisfying a MUCH-needed vote of confidence from a chic native-speaker. From then on, decreasingly inhibited on my second verre of Bordeaux Graves, I played up my pronunciation, punctuating my English with French expressions and exaggerating the seductive lilt of street names and words we gabbed about: Boulevard Rochechouart…Rue Montorgeuil…brioche perdue (“lost bread” – what we call French toast). Aside from half-blushing as I ordered my lamb très bien cuit (definitely anxious about a plate of gushing animal fluid), I felt totally at ease.

It was amazing how connected I felt to France all of a sudden, how familiar and welcoming its entire capital had become after less than a week. The distance from home and initial hesitancy surrounding language and people drifted further away. The world seemed smaller talking to William in both English and French, realizing – arguments about cultural imperialism aside – how incredibly popular many American things are in this place so often scorned as anti-American. The likes of Nikki Minaj are often heard near the Eiffel Tower. Whitney Houston and Britney Spears blast on weekends from either a bar or an apartment party at the end of my street in Pigalle. As my friend Peter told me: “People love America in France.”

We switched continents for a bit and talked about French cinema, which I obviously adore.  It honestly hadn’t occurred to me that fabulous French actresses like Audrey Tautou and Marion Cotillard might not be popular in their homeland just by virtue of being French. As a foreigner in another powerful first-world nation, it’s surprisingly easy to slip into this kind of thinking. William looked slightly nauseous at the mention of Audrey Tautou.

“I AY-TED Amélie Poulain,” he said, swiftly condemning her debut film, beloved in high-school French classes across America, “Eet was rideeculous…”

I burst out laughing. No luck for Audrey Tautou. Coco Before Chanel just might have been better with someone else. And Marion Cotillard in La vie en rose? A long pause ensued…

  

“I was moved,” he began, “But she eez so orriball in interviews…”

We had better luck with our favorite designers. But the more we talked about Phoebe Philo, Riccardo Tisci, and Sarah Burton, the more I lamented having to miss the upcoming menswear shows while studying in Grenoble.

When I was certain the evening with my new French friend was over and William had more than done me a favor entertaining the American in Paris at a fancy dinner, he asked me what we were doing next. I heard “Silencio”, and my heart skipped a beat.

“Yes. Yes, I have heard of Silencio. And how are we getting in?”

Should you need an FYI, here’s a link to a New York Times review of the most exclusive club in Paris, and one of the best nightspots in the world:

The height of fashion, six floors under

William attended a work party the same night the review describes, and – as luck would have it – thus knew the door manager. The impossible was suddenly happening, and I descended a soundproof, floor-lit staircase to the glistening underground world that is Silencio. Many euros later, we were sipping devastatingly sublime house cocktails and listening to dance remixes I’d never heard before. Why don’t I have photos? They’re not allowed inside :)

I have only one ENORMOUS problem with all of this: How the hell am I supposed to go to Grenoble on Saturday? Life here is getting way too delicious to leave...