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Below Pigalle
Midnight in a cave at a small, unmarked bar tucked away in
the 18th below Pigalle. I have unavoidably made eye contact with the
stern-looking gentleman across the dim room. Realizing this is
like mountain goats locking horns, I quickly make the escape to the
other room and pick up where I have left off with the more menacing,
yet unassuming, black bartender, who is in fact part owner of the
bar. The drinks flow freely here, which makes for an easy evening
on the coin pouch--with an entry fee of 10 Euros, it is boire á volonté
(open bar). It is the zone non fumeur in the tight corners of the
bar room so I bid him à bientôt and make my way back over to the bigger
space spattered with the low-lying illuminated Phillip Starck round
tables to have a cigarette. I sit on one of the long metal
benches to watch one of the original films projected on the wall and
listen to one of the lady DJs spin her magic. He
approaches.
He
stands about 5’4" before he sits down. His squinty eyes, serious
eyebrows and head full of fine hair keep their gaze as he does.
He has a slight frame accentuated by a belt wrapped tightly around his
waist, a body that almost seems to disappear when he turns
sideways. A harmless introduction, a pleasant one, an unusually
friendly effort is made on his behalf so I listen. A photographer
he is and, in fact, he comes here often, to Project 101. When I
speak and he listens, he lauds my French and asks me the question of
every French person in this country: “Est-ce que la France te plait?”
(“Does France please you?”), as though hearing a positive reponse is
going to please them more than you. He is witty and doesn’t let
conversation fade for more than a second. I am relatively charmed
and I like his musical tastes.
He
has already introduced me to his friends and introduced himself to my
lawyer friend visiting from Manhattan before I realized the music has
stopped. The ambiance of the intimate soirée is broken by rising
lights. The two lady DJs, the other owners, begin to break down
the turntables, letting all of the artistic types dressed in black know
that it is time to climb the windy stone steps to rejoin life above
ground.
I exchange numbers with the
bartender and thank him for the lovely evening. Since we are
“neighbors,” he proposes a drink in the near future. “On
s’appelle,” I say, agreeing to talk or texto in the coming week.
We do la bise, double kiss, and I exit to find myself walking on the
street next to the blonde curly haired part cherub/part Greek-God-faced
friend of the photographer. He is a philosophy professor and
friend from high school.
My lawyer
friend and I have been engulfed in a group of French intellectuals and
artists; we are being pushed up the hill towards Pigalle to a less
intimate, less stimulating environment full of Americans: La
Locomotive, “La Loco,” several floors of different (bad) music,
flashing lights, people dancing on mini-stages, and a lot of
“parlay-voo” accents.
My
photographer has not left my side and has quarantined me from the
group. Since drinks are almost 10 euros, he generously offers to
share a can of beer with me. (Meanwhile NY-lawyer friend is flashing
gold and dishing out fancy cocktails with sliced lime wedges and
colorful plastic spears to the lovely, young who have flocked to his
black leather jacket).
