Saturday afternoon, and we’re on the move again. Breakfast is pain au chocolat and baguette from the bakery, with an espresso to shake off the last remnants of sleep. Last night in Paris was long. We’re heading to Pierre’s father, who lives right next to Place de la République.
Pierre is a true Parisian, from generations of locals. His parents are both professors, but Pierre has chosen not to work—a decision that deeply frustrates them. On the way to his father’s, we stop by the Seine to drop off two bags of old clothes for the homeless who camp there. Pierre explains that most of them come from Eastern Europe and have ended up stranded in Paris.
Pierre’s father lives in a stunning old apartment. The tall windows are open, letting in a gentle breeze. Below, the canal flows, and nearby is the entrance to a long underground tunnel where countless tourist boats pass daily. Over the table hangs a chandelier, its candles oddly twisted and warped. I ask if it’s art, and Pierre laughs. “No,” he says, “the heat from the past weeks softened them, and they just bent like that. But it kind of looks like art now.” We briefly consider leaving them as they are.
Like many Parisians, Pierre’s father escapes the city’s summer heat by retreating to a house in the countryside. After saying our goodbyes, we head to the Champs-Élysées—not for sightseeing, but to visit Pierre’s new girlfriend, Fany, who has invited us over. Fany comes from old French aristocracy, with multiple estates to her family’s name. Her parents are currently out in the countryside.
At Fany’s, we share a bottle of wine and chat. At first, I feel a bit out of place in the refined surroundings. But when Fany plays a CD of ‘60s music and Velvet Underground blares from her vintage stereo, I suddenly feel transported 40 years back in time.
After dinner, we meet Greg at “Bertie.” He’s sitting with a diverse group—Americans, expats, and a few Europeans. About an hour later, the group decides to move on. Many of Paris’s top clubs are closed for the summer, including Rex, so they settle on the VIP club. I wonder if I’ll get in wearing sneakers and a T-shirt, but they insist I join. We’re about 15 people, and despite the long line outside, someone knows the bouncer, and soon we’re inside.
The group heads straight for the VIP section. Before long, we have a table with a magnum of champagne and a 2-liter vodka bottle. At this point, I feel uneasy. A song from a German beer garden plays in my head: “Who’s gonna pay for this? Who’s got so much money? Who’s got so much cash?”
The VIP area has a small dance floor and plenty of space for mingling. I notice two older businessmen, a group of Spaniards with South Americans, our group, and a few lonely hearts—all under 30, funded by their parents’ generous party allowances.
I’m still nervous about being stuck with a €2,000 bill. I tell my friend Greg I might slip away to avoid paying. He bursts out laughing and assures me the evening is covered. Two guys of our group, who come from Kuwait, have already paid for everything with their credit card. We’re all invited. A weight lifts from my shoulders.
After a few vodka Red Bulls, I dance until morning, chat with strangers, and flirt with a few girls. Naturally, I thank the Kuwaitis for the generous evening.
By 5 a.m., I slowly head home. I decide to walk part of the way, taking in the fresh air and soaking up the summer vibes along the Seine. I watch the first boats passing by.
Honestly, I have no idea how I made it back home, but somehow, you always manage to in Paris—even without getting robbed.
Photo by peter bucks on Unsplash
