How much can you cram into one night in Paris?? When you sort of know where you're going, you're with a willing partner (who happens to be a travel writer writing an article on doing things in Paris without a guidebook), and the weather is fine, a lot can be seen and done. There's endless places to discover in Paris, tiny side streets, new cafes that are old really but new to you, and for me this evening, a small, quirky anglophone bookshop nestled away on Rue Parcheminerie in the 5th. The large Canadian flag outside Abbey Bookshop dominates the small street, it is almost impossible to miss yet I seem to have done easily over the past two years.
As I walk down the crowded, narrow lane I can hear a loud English voice reciting something. People are milling about drinking red wine from white plastic cups, and there are slabs of wood teetering on towers of books outside the shop carrying huge chunks of cheese and saucisson. They are listening to the freckle faced man describing an unfortunate situation with sheep and shit, using many expletives in the process. Quite expressive in his reading, he shocks the ignorant people walking through who have stumbled across this little street. Some stop and listen and laugh (presumably anglophone), whilst the French or other Europeans look a bit disgusted with his f'ing and blinding. He is an author promoting his book on what is their 19th anniversary of being open.
Brian, the Canadian owner, is intrigued as to how I never heard about his shop, and jokingly asks his French assistant in charge of marketing how this could be so. We decide that it's a combination of foreign ignorance and bad luck but on the bright side contains the appealing possibility of delightful discovery in a place that isn't in your face....or something like that. They immediately put me on their mailing list and invite me on their next 25km hike outside Paris. The Canadian friendliness in a European city is very much welcomed.
Before heading to a restaurant for dinner Roger (my writing instructor from my writing course in Norway) is keen to check out the Samba dancing on the Quai near Institute Monde d'Arab. I've always wanted to do this. We jump on our velibs and ride along the river, the warm air turning to a welcoming breeze as we pedal faster. On such an evening the quartier was heaving, but we dove straight through the crowd. They do this dancing every night in the summer when weather permits, the quai is transformed into an open-air dance floor. Roger takes many pictures and I wished I had my camera too. Then he invites me to dance and I remember he told me he took Salsa lessons in Argentina. A bit hesitant but in we went, joining the other already sweaty and very good dancers. I wish I could have relaxed a little bit more and let loose, but I was a bit overwhelmed by the crowd and quality of dancing around me. We caught the last song and the music stops abruptly at 11pm. People continue to hang out and dance and drink by the river. We jumped on our velibs again and headed toward the Marais for dinner. We stop en route at Hotel De Ville which is beautifully lit up and Roger takes more photos of me on the velib and tells me I'll be in the Daily Express next weekend. Not impressed, I take some of him to use instead.
Maite, the French girl from the bookshop, recommends a restaurant on Rue de Montmartre called Le Tambour. The plastic chairs and tables with umbrellas outside put us off a little bit, but are encouraged more when we go inside to eat. Cute and kitsch with friendly anti-tourists signs on the door to the toilet and above the kitchen, you get the feel of a different kind of French flair, hurried in the staff's rushing about, but laid back in atmosphere. Service is unbelievably quick and the food is good. Whilst eating the tables fill up around us as more and more people come in to eat their dinner at midnight. The very cute French waiter handles it all with ease, shouting 'C'est chaud' about everything he carries so people make way, even if it's two cold glasses of beer.
Then we head to a bar called 'Le Coeur Fou' (The Crazy Heart) which was apparently going to be called 'Craps' until someone saw a movie of the former name and changed it. After an expensive cocktail, Le Coeur Fou surprisingly announced last call quite early and we ended up at a nightclub called The Social Club. We paid 12 euros each to get in so we decided we better check out the funky DJ called Barbie something. Little did we know it was gay and lesbian night, or if it wasn't their night it was definitely a place favored by them, more lesbian than gay really. We had a beer each and got into the groove of the music. The consistent thumping of the dj's bass gets under your skin, and after a few songs we were drawn to the dance floor. It is so easy to lose your sense of time and space in this kind of atmosphere. Your head automatically thumps along to the beat, you close your eyes and seem to go up to another world as the soul core of the music reaches up through the floor to your feet and reverberates through your body. Everyone is dancing alone and dancing together at the same time, we are all in harmony with each other, moving to the same beat, on the same plane. Time is irrelevant in this place, and before we know it it's 4am. I feel I could stay longer but know I will have a difficult time getting home. Taxis always a nightmare in Paris, we jump on yet another bike and go our separate ways, I have at least a 30 minute bike ride ahead of me, but it is a lovely evening (or morning!) and I need to cool off from all the dancing.
As I ride past the Eiffel tower just after 4, I see it all lit up blue for the first time and am mesmerized. The atmosphere in Paris even at this time of night is one of frivolity, with friendly 'Bonjour Madame's' from everywhere, people on the street, in their cars, or other fellow bike riders. I do not feel unsafe in the least, a woman on her own at such an hour, you can't help but feel at one with all the other late night partiers, slightly fizzled from their night out. At this point I did wonder if riding a bike slightly drunk was illegal, but managed to make it home, unscathed, by 4:30, only my feet aching from my high wedge sandles and from biking and dancing all night. My amazing (and slightly worried) husband offers to park my bike so I can rest my weary feet and I am asleep by the time he gets back.
I love this city...
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