Mon premier jour à Paris.

My first day in Paris.

I arrived in Charles deGaulle airport on Thursday, April 26th, at around 10am, which is 1 in the morning Pacific. I slept a little on the second leg of the flight, but not the deep embracing sleep that I love. The night before, like I have mentioned, I was up all night trying to decide what to throw in my bag and what to leave behind. In hindsight, I could have brought my jeans and a few more shirts. The deadline made me decide somewhat rashly, I tossed everything in the car, and Mom drove me the two hours from Davis to SFO; I could barely stay awake to converse, and I felt guilty about being such poor company. Thus the journey to Europe started at 6:30am (Wednesday April 25th) and ended at 3am the following day, with a few hours of light sleep sprinkled in between turbulence and airline meals. Added to my ongoing debt from packing the night before (not to mention my long days the previous weekend as I extracted myself from Portland), this meant that I was probably in a pretty bad way as I climbed the stairs at Place de la Nation, into the Parisian air. But the adrenaline of a new experience is quite a drug – nice and natural – and I forgot that I needed 16 hours of sleep.

Justin wasn't home when I buzzed, as he had warned, so I walked back a block to the Extra Old Café — that is the actual name, not my translation — to sit and wait. Most of the larger cafés here have dozens of tables out front; the extra-wide sidewalks can easily accomodate them. The Extra Old is packed in the evening, but at eleven in the morning last Thursday there were only a handful of patrons. I chose a chair facing la Rue Faubourg St. Antoine. It took a few minutes, but un garçon came up to me and asked in French what I wanted. "Je voudrais une limonade, s'il vous plait." I tried my best to sound French. At 11:30 I ordered a second - "une deuzième, s'il vous plait". This one he brought with ice, and I figured my accent tipped me off, because I had heard that Europeans don't drink their sodas with ice, only Americans. (Every limonade I've had since then has had ice in it, so I don't know anymore.) By the time I went to pay at noon, even though I still hadn't said a word in English, his answer to my "Combien?" was "Six." I realize for you readers that "six" is spelled the same in English and French. Well, he said it in English. Just by reflex, of course, I said "thanks" instead of "merci". So much for trying to blend in.

Justin still wasn't home, but his roommate Antonio was, and let me in. Antonio is from Puebla, Mexico, and speaks better English than French, so it was easy. We hung out until Justin returned at 1. It was a nice slow afternoon - lunch, relaxation, c'est tout. Still, I wasn't crashing. The bright sun and the unfamiliar environs were keeping me going, quietly and subtly, without causing any jitters.

For the evening, Justin proposed that we go to a big flashy cabaret called Bobin'o — his friend Julia worked there and could get us in for free. (Later I found out that tickets + dinner for the show cost upwards of 150 euros. This was no young, struggling artist production. This was Parisian glitz and glamour. Drinks were pricey, too; nous ne bouvons rien.) So at 8:30pm (now 36+ hours sans bed sleep, and feeling grand) Justin and I left for Montparnasse. I was ready for my first Paris outing, and my first conversation in French. At Montparnasse, we met Rose, Julia's younger sister. The double cheek kiss was actually a first for me (now, five days later, it's nothing. However, most of the people I meet who know I'm American offer their hand, I guess for my comfort), but for anyone who needs to get accustomed to kissing strangers on the cheek, I recommend you start with a pretty girl. It makes it much easier. Rose is a very pretty girl.

We didn't talk that much on the way to the show, because we were in a hurry. Julia met us at the door and led us to our seats. The place was intimidating in its poshness, and had I been in the States, I would have felt ridiculously out of place. As a traveler, however, I'm already so far past my comfort zone that I could just enjoy the scene. I think that it was fairly out there for Justin, too; I'm not sure about Rose. Julia had already seen the show 30 times or so, working there. I'm not sure how much it differed from your standard Vegas spectacular – there was a lot of dancing and some singing, some lipsynching by drag queens, a clown, a magician, a few topless girls, bright colors and a lot of sparkly and flashing lights. It was very cheesy, but I warmed up to it quickly, and by the end I was really enjoying it. The only difference, perhaps, from a Vegas show were the inside jokes (by this, I mean the jokes shared between the performers and all of the French people in the room, for example the spot-on drag impersonation of the coach of Miss France) and the second language. They sang three or four songs in English, and a drag queen did an extended Donna Summers/Michael Jackson bit (Last Dance-->Thriller/Bad). That was not even close to the gayest number, either (and by gay, I don't mean lame; I mean flaming) — they actually did The Village People's "In The Navy", performed by four midriff-showing midshipman with tear-away pants and Union Jack speedos, led by a black Adonis dressed all in white: captain's hat, tiny tight blouse, 8-inch pleated skirt, and thigh-high patent leather boots. It was something else. After that, Paris seemed pretty darn heterosexual. (By the way, the French apparently have a term specifically for a black man's six pack. Unfortunately, I can't remember the exact words, but it is ____ du chocolat, and it refers to the chocolate bars, like a Hershey's bar, that are scored.) Lest you start to feel sorry for me, let me assure you that the female dancers did their share of sexy numbers; all of them were gorgeous, except for one who had Marilyn Manson's face. And all of the dancers, male and female, were really good, and danced many different styles – hiphop, salsa, tango, modern, ballet. In addition, the emcee, a fit, black, bald man in a dark blue, sequined, tight-panted tuxedo-thing, was very good. Justin liked the magician with her black tutu and her slightly askew ponytail. I liked most everything. My only criticism, for those of you who are thinking of going, is that it was not very au courant. It was very sanitized and safe — no risks taken — and a bit unoriginal. Still, to take someone else's art, and to package it as tightly, brightly, colorfully, and perfectly as Bobin'o did takes a lot of skill, and I was very impressed.

* An interesting language note: In French, the word for a show, whether it be a play or a cabaret or a concert, I think, is "un spectacle". I found this funny, because the Bobin'o show was definitely enough to be considered a spectacle in English, and I asked what the French word for a spectacle was. Can you guess what they say? They say "un show"! How wonderfully circular!

At the end of the show, tous les nouveau riches can stay at the club and dance and drink. Mais nous, nous sommes les jeunes pauvres, alors nous quittons le club. While the lights were down, we could pretend that we belonged there, but afterwards it was clear that we were not wearing sparkling jewelry or holding $20 drinks carelessly in our hands, so we split. The stroll back to the metro station was nice and slow. Justin and Julia walked in front, and Rose and I followed. Justin had cautioned that Rose spoke practically no English, and he was right. It was fantastic. I guess that when two people are trying communicate, both grasping for the simplest words in their own language that the other can understand, or using the simplest vocabulary of the other's language, all pretension or hidden meanings are dropped. It seems like a purer connection, maybe. We managed to communicate to each other the instruments we played, and what we studied in school, and what we wanted to do with our life, and I can only hope that my halting French was as adorable as her tiny English vocabulary.

Justin and I left the girls at Châtelet les Halles (a major metro hub), and took la ligne 1 back to Nation. Soon after we arrived back at his apartment, all of my energy bled out of me. It had been a full day, and I dropped off to sleep quickly. I dreamt of home.