So, I know I'm really behind but for my own peace of mind I need to catch you up on last week's antics... I can't believe this whole party hard/work hard phase (ouch did I really just say that?) started almost two weeks ago. So to recap: we started on a Wednesday by bringing random people from work to Julia's for an after-party; then I had to go into work on no sleep and promised myself I would never put myself through such horror again; then on Friday we ended up in le Blue Note where I met Smelly Charver (so called because he smelt delicious, remember); then Saturday we went back to le Mansart where we bumped into Georgie's ex and ended up in another gorgeous apartment...
Sunday was a day of rest. We made vegetable curry at Georgie's to try and get some vitamins in us and swore that the next week would be a Quiet One. This vow lasted approximately twenty four hours, because on Monday night we somehow found ourselves back at le Mansart...
For a Monday it was insanely busy, too busy to even have a hope of getting served at the bar, so we tried our other favourite le Sans Souci round the corner but that was just as packed. Across the road from le Sans Souci is a really traditional looking brasserie (which I can't remember the name of but which a little Google researching has led me to believe is called le Lautrec) and this was considerably quieter so we thought we'd give it a try.
As we went in this really loud couple came in behind us who had been stood near us in le Sans Souci, yelling in a mixture of English and another language I didn't recognise. Well, the guy wasn't yelling but the girl was LOUD. I thought they'd annoy us but Georgie turned round to ask them where they were from, because she thought they might be speaking Swedish, and they turned out to be really nice. They were from Sweden, here on their first holiday together, but they both spoke fluent English.
The girl was hilarious.
"Everybody is so BORING in Paris!" she kept shrieking, "I want to PARTY!"
Her boyfriend was lovely, not fazed by her extrovert ways at all. He even bought us all a beer (the beers were a lot cheaper in here than they were in le Mansart and le Sans Souci by the way). I can't remember now why she was so funny, maybe we were just drunk, but everything she said had us howling with laughter- she was just so loud. She was a breath of fresh air in Paris, where people frown if you laugh too loudly on the metro.
After a few cheap beers we went back to le Mansart which had quietened down a bit by now, but it was too quiet for our new Swedish friend, who was bouncing around trying to dance to the music, complaining that it wasn't loud enough: "You know Abba?" she kept asking everyone, "You do? Well I am a Dancing Queen, I want to dance!"
Georgie had the idea of going to Chez Moune, a club round the corner, but me and Kayt weren't sure because we'd met some guys who wanted to go to Social Club... We took them back to Kayt's for some drinks but in the end decided to go to Chez Moune, Georgie rang us to say it was really good in there and also it was free. We said goodbye to the Social Club guys and made our way back the way we'd come...
When we got to Chez Moune there was a queue and there was also a physiognomist- the fucking stupidest job title to ever exist in the history of pointless jobs. It seems to be a Big Thing in Paris at the moment, employing a hard-nosed bastard to stand on the door and judge people on their appearances, refusing entry to anyone they don't deem sufficiently attractive, and I HATE it. But. It's so elitist and mean. As we hadn't gone out with the intention of going to a club I was worried we wouldn't get in, but luckily Georgie was outside smoking and asked the bouncer if she could take us in with her. Also it was a Monday night and there were a lot of men in the queue, so they probably weren't being too picky with letting the ladies in.
We've wanted to go to Chez Moune for a long time and I'm glad we finally went. Inside reminds me of a burlesque club on its last legs, where the girls were once sexy and glamorous, but they're not in their heyday anymore, their beauty fading away like the peeling gilt on the banisters along the stairs that take you down into the basement club. It was really, really dark inside, which was brilliant for swaying around to the music like a crackhead, but it meant I didn't get a good look at the place. I remember faux-Grecian pillars and scantily-clad ladies painted on the bar.
They played a mixture of trippy house, drum and bass and I can't really remember what else, but I do remember it was the type of music you wouldn't enjoy unless you were On It. And I was On It, for the fourth time in six days unfortunately which is why I keep using words like hedonism (or 'hedony' as I called it in my first post, idiot) and 'fucked'. But I promise I'm going to clean up my act!
Anyway, Kayt and Georgie pulled and I didn't, so I danced around on my own in a little sulk until this huge bear-like man asked me with a curtsey if I would care to dance with him. I think I only said because I was so astonished. But being pleasant for a change (as opposed to rolling my eyes and turning my back on him like I normally do... bitch) payed off because although he looked like a Mental he was a really good dancer! By this time the club was almost closing and we had the whole dance floor to ourselves, so we span around the room like Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire.
YES, just like Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire. Why are you rolling your eyes like that?
I told you I've been doing a lot of public dancing recently. I was stepping around on my tiptoes, even holding my arms out like I was on Strictly Come Dancing. The DJ even put My Funny Valentine on for us so we could showcase our AMAZING ballroom skills... Oh, how the mighty have fallen. In a rather ambitious tango move, my dancing partner kind of knelt down on one knee so I could lean back dramatically. Then he let me fall to the floor, very slowly and not dramatically at all... just kind of idiotically.
Unlucky for me, lucky for you, Georgie happened to be filming us at this point and as it was so dark I don't think the video will jeopardize my Super Secret Identity, so I'm going to get her to email the video to me and then I will put it up on my blog for you to look at. If you like that sort of thing.
When Chez Moune closed, we walked back to Kayt's and had a much needed cup of tea. I had two hours sleep and then had to be up for work. I felt like DEATH. But because I had gotten off quite lightly last time, after working on no sleep with a night of heavy revelry directly behind me, I wasn't too worried. It was a bank holiday so I didn't have my au pair job in the evening. 'It's three hours', I told myself, 'And then I can go home for a lovely long nap.'
I believe in the power of Jinxing.
When I arrived at work, the terrace outside the restaurant was already full of people and we weren't even supposed to be open for another thirty minutes. Sarkozy was giving a big speech just round the corner and arseholes in their THOUSANDS had turned up to watch him and wave French flags around. As soon as we were officially open, people came flooding in and every single one of them was a Horrible, Right-Wing bastard. One woman stopped me as I walked past her, even though I was carrying a really heavy tray of drinks and was obviously busy, and started asking me about burnt tomatoes. I looked at her table and none of them had any food in front of them.
I told her I didn't understand, meaning 'What the fuck are you talking about??" and she rolled her eyes, asking loudly of everyone withing earshot "Is nobody French here? Do they not have any French waitresses?" I rolled MY eyes and walked off. She was white and I'm white, so I suppose most people wouldn't agree with me that she was a racist, but you can't argue that she wasn't a bigot. You can't go around asking why there's no French people working in a restaurant in France. It's offensive. Does she think everyone should stay in their own countries, all their lives, only moving abroad if they suddenly discover the magical ability to be fluent in another language without ever having lived in the country before?
Countries are not a REAL THING. We gave areas of land names and boundaries... so what? So fucking what. If we took all the boundaries away and got rid of all the names, what would these idiots defend then? Why do people get mad about immigrants? Why? WHY?
Pfffft. That is the one thing I can imagine becoming militant about: people's right to live wherever they choose. I may have moved to Paris for a bit of a jolly, but I'm talking about REAL immigrants- asylum seekers and refugees. What I like to say to people who moan about refugees and asylum seekers is this: If everyone in your area was raped and murdered or your home was burnt to the ground or global warming meant no crops grew and all your animals died or soldiers told you to leave the country because they hated your religion/sexuality/political agenda, would YOU stay there and wait to die or would you go somewhere else? Would you curl up and wait to die or would you try and get work somewhere else? Somewhere that you've heard has respect for human rights and can offer you opportunities and a better quality of life?
We make our own luck in this world, unless you've been lucky enough to be born in a country like France or England, in which case what right do you have to begrudge other people the same opportunities that you have had? Clean water, healthcare, democracy etc etc. Why do you deserve it? Why not someone from Bangladesh, like that flower seller we met, who used to be a surgeon but had to escape to France in the back of trucks and boats to avoid persecution because of his religion?
Anyway, I'm getting angry thinking about all the nobheads that were in the restaurant last Tuesday, but really I should be gloating because ha ha ha- Sarkozy lost, so all your prancing around in t-shirts emblazoned with SARKOZY JEUNES (Hitler Youth anyone?) was for nothing. Ha. Ha ha.
The restaurant was so busy that my boss told me I couldn't go home and I ended up staying until 7pm, four hours later than I had been expecting. It was grim, readers, very grim indeed.
My body was heavy and floating at the same time, people's voices came to me like a siren's call through the waves... But eventually it was OVER and because we'd made so much money we were allowed three free cocktails and I was suddenly a little bit drunk again. But I went home and had an early night, without much incident. (Although, I did send a few embarrassing Whats App messages to a, erm, male friend back in England... The Mass Boy Hysteria is ruining my life. I am thinking of writing to English health officials as something needs to be done.)
So. That it is. Last week's little stretch of Madness all blogged up. Let me see if there is anything I forgot to mention...
I had my hair cut! Thrilling news, I know, but for me it was quite a Big Deal because it had gotten so long I wanted to strangle myself with it.
Smelly Charver has been texting me. A lot. And I have replied once. At first I thought it would be good to meet up again because I kind of liked him and he doesn't speak any English, so it would be good for my French but then I realised... I just can't be arsed. Also, he can't spell. He sent me this text:
Ci tu veut en ce voi apres
When it should have been:
Si tu veux on se voit apres
I showed the text to one of the Social Club guys and he said: "I hope for your sake this guy is really, really cute because he is very stupid."
Ok, that's all folks, now all I have to do is tell you about my weekend and have a heart to heart (with, erm, myself) about my feelings on Paris and Future Plans and I will be all up to date, ready for the next adventure. Not that there will be any- I am calming down now. I swearrrrrrr.