Sangria and a jukebox on a thursday night
Located on Rue de l’Odeon, underneath a sign bearing simply the number 10, rests one of the best bars I’ve occassioned in Paris. Simply referred to as “le 10 Bar” the establishment opened its doors initially in 1955 - the only bar to serve sangria in paris at the time - was revamped and expanded in 1968 and hasn’t changed a thing since. The walls are littered with early 20th c. lithographs, the benches are crowded and shine with red vinyl, the walls are yellow, the jukebox sports muddy waters, david bowie, van morrison, billie holiday, and the sangria is strong enough knock the socks of any local matador.
After French class last week I headed over to check it out with a school friend and her work colleagues. Happily, the scene is rough enough to remind me of the Argus back home in San Francisco: comfortable, unpretentious, and pours a great drink. After several pitchers i was nice and buttered (”beureé” as they say in France), missed the last metro, had to take a taxi home, and fell in bed contented with my introduction to this beautiful hole in the wall.
Naked Chest and Pink-rimmed glasses
Standard club ingredients: loud techno, alternately tacky and interesting visual projections, menu of redbull cocktails (new in Paris), bored-looking skinny Parisian girls, and one club owner slipping through the crowd barefoot and half naked. i’m convinced he had pectoral implants set over that soft belly. Hair down to his waist and small pink bottle-cap glasses; watching him circulate through the crowd with a palpable air of entitlement was one of the highlights of the evening.
Last week Dustin’s company had visitors from the California office, so in showing them a proper time we finally made our way into paris for a night in the bastille. In Paris the clubs are open until about four in the morning, a novelty for most American’s (myself included), so after a nice meal and a few bottles of wine at Cafe de l’Industrie we headed over to OPA Paris. The American visitors proceeded to buy shots of tequila for all (insanely expensive in France) and consequently we all became uncommonly drunk. Ridiculous dancing, “i love you” moments with new friends, the courage to strike up conversations in french with strangers (i know i make less sense in french when i’m drunk then sober - meaning i’m completely incoherent), and eventually an adventure finding our way through the metro and seeking out a place to eat at 6am on a saturday. The club turned out to be pretty fun, despite the sort of trendy overkill - plus we didn’t have to pay a cover, so that’s another point in its corner.
best drunken moment of the evening: dancing in the abandoned metro station to “are you man enough” blasting from my husband’s blackberry. we got home at 9am. I felt 21 again. sometimes that’s a reaaaally good thing.
Cafe Philo: Pontificating the Futility of Pontification
Last Wednesday, the first Wednesday of the month, I attended the Cafe Philo[sophy] at Cafe de Flore. Based on the French model, which meets near the Bastille, this English-language group gathers to ponder the more important questions in life: for example, which over-priced beverage shall I order? The Cafe de Flore is well-known as Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir’s preferred haunt, but the prices now reflect the cafe’s touristic location and legendary status. So when one attends the Cafe Philo one is compelled to order something like a 9 euro beer. No joke. That’s around 11 US dollars.
I had my share of uselessly philosophical discussions in grad school, so I mostly went to observe and giggle within. This is exactly what I did. Upon sitting down I ordered a hot wine, which was delicious in the cold weather and seemed to offer more booze for the buck. Just as I and my friends settled into a corner booth, sizing up the plump lady who installed herself at the neighboring table, we watched as a thin man with wiry grey hair approach eagerly. Thankfully, he ignored us and, addressing said plump lady, declared, “I am the organizer, this is MY table.” The woman shrunk under the small man’s glare and slithered, if indeed a plump lady can slither, out from behind the table, her eyes shooting around the room desperately as she tried to locate another perch.
The majority of the audience was composed of alternately nervous and pompous grey-haired folks. As I settled in and sipped my wine (the haughty waiter demanded payment on deliver) I tried to locate my favorite characters. I decided the moderator was chief among them. Once he sat in what was formerly the plump lady’s seat he removed from his satchel several disheveled notebooks and texts, stacking them in high, important piles. His receding hairline and receding chin matched in their trembling excitement. Jolting me out of my blissfully unobserved observance, a man leaned over to ask me why I was there. I tried to look at his eyes instead of the forest of curly hair that refused to be concealed by his tightly buttoned polo shirt, replying that I was there mostly out of curiosity. He whispered to me, “A lot of what you observe here will be curious indeed.” I flushed.
The first order of business at the Cafe Philo is to decide a topic. To do this participants slip little surreptitious suggestions, written on folded little paper notes, to the moderator. Then, the moderator reads them all out loud and asks for a show of hands. Some of the suggested questions: “What is the Importance of Art?” “Are we violent?”(to which one man replied “do you want to step outside to talk about it?”) “Is happiness possible without family?” “Are we born equal under the law?” One group of young hecklers (the group in which I was included) submitted the question “Is philosophical contemplation inherently pretentious?” This question made it to the top three. The winning topic involved the following statement: “No matter who you are or what you do you live your life entirely in the confines of your head.” I didn’t vote. I felt a bit like an anthropologist researching an ethnography - I didn’t want to influence the natives’ behavior.
The winning topic was chosen by a man with a curly flat-top and wire-rimmed glasses which only served to make the sparseness of his eyebrows all the more frightening. After a brief explanation of his topic, the discussion began. Passing around a noisy microphone, several people attempted to address the topic, but it seemed to me that nobody really understood what the hell it meant. The moderator sat in his throne smirking, the corners of his mouth turning up just so, until he finally decided that the topic needed revising - responses were not to his liking.
Before finally deciding I could take no more I noticed my new love - a burly French man in a red turtleneck. He sat like a beatnik king from an episode of Happy Days: red cotton turtleneck, slim dark pants, a black wool blazer, and a fake cigarette (the kind you suck on for a nicotine fix when you’re trying to quit). He had an uncontrolled bush of black and grey striped hair that shook and bounced as he confidently expounded on “silopsism” and Sartres. He words unrolled themselves with difficulty, muffled as they were by his thickly carpeted upper lip. I’ve never before seen such a mustache - as uncontrolled and bountiful as the hair on his head. Enamored as I was with this character, wanting to see his apartment, picturing lots of nude paintings and leather-bound books, maybe thick oriental rugs and velvet furniture - the sort of lair Fred Astair rescued Audrey Hepburn from in the movie Funny Face.
But alas my mental exploration of his imaginary cave was interrupted, my friend Lili poked me in the ribs as she pointed to the note she had left on my paper: “I am completely uninspired, let’s go.” As I had long-ago tuned out of the “discussion” and I wanted to get home to tell my husband all about the man in the red turtleneck I agreed.
Though Cafe de Flore is overpriced and the conversation didn’t really seem to go anywhere, nor did it seem to be of any real consequence - I had a great time watching it all unfold. I loved peoples’ nervous attempts to participate, I loved when people got caught in a tangle of their own unintelligible words, I loved when people where equally tangled in the chord of the microphone. And the hot wine was nice, too. I would go again, in the right company. And hopefully, learn more of the beatnik with the fake cigarette.
For more info about the meetups see philosophy.meetup.com/274/
The Theatricality of Decadence: Jeff Koons in Versailles
Last Saturday Lili, Rebecca, and I made the long journey out to Versailles to visit the Jeff Koons exhibit. Situated within the royal apartments themselves, the exhibition promised to be one of the most remarkable art spectacles of all time - and it delivered. The humour of Jeff Koons contrasted beautifully with the chateau’s imposing Baroque interior, while shared decadence bound each work to its setting.
In short, the show was funny. I loved that Koons’ work seemed to bind the decadence of Versailles to contemporary consumer culture. It wasn’t that the work necessarily drew some sort of historical parallel, though perhaps it did, but rather seemed to continue Koons’ play on and elevation of pop culture - his exploration of kitsch - bringing this exploration to its zenith, embuing everyday material objects with royal status: balloon animals, inflatable toys, fake flowers, porcelain figurines . . . with the artist himself posing as royal divinity.
And it did indeed feel as if Koons was playing with the setting, with the relationship between the setting and his own work. They combined to feel like the set of some surrealist play, a theatrical production commenting on decadent consumption, excessive wealth, and the iconic status of objects.
Le Limonaire
It was my dear friend Rebecca’s birthday this last week and we (of the Territory) went out to celebrate. We went to a cute, rather hidden, restaurant in the 9th called “le limonaire” that has a changing menu and a rotating list of nightly entertainments. The restaurant was almost as charming as my companions (see the pics - they’re an entertaining bunch, to say the least), with beautiful yellow and red decor, large mirrors spotted with age, tasty red wine, and succulent olives. It was the sort of Parisian restaurant that fuels our romantic imaginings of 19th century paris. A band played as the night grew on and kitchen service came to a close, singing run-of-the-mill folk songs about american cities. I was fairly disinterested until they broke out with a clarinet, a trumpet and a violin — at which point i was thoroughly enamored.
Dinner Party at Butte aux Cailles
Saturday night my friends from the Territory - Lili, Rebecca, and Andras - graciously hosted us at their flat in Butte aux Cailles for a lovely dinner prepared by their chef friend, Daniel. Butte aux Cailles is a beautiful little neighborhood in the 13th arrondissement that has shorter-than-usual buildings (read quaint for Paris) whose ground floors are largely inhabited by homey cafes and rowdy bars. After talking me into downing my first fresh oyster (really just tasted of sea water), our hosts plied us with calamari, artichokes, garlicky mussels, herb-encrusted cheeses, and a delicious baked pasta. Satiated to the point of intoxication, we began to collectively dramatize the Jabberwocky in English, French, and Hungarian respectively. Ridiculous, yes, but unmistakably fun.
By the time Dustin and I were ready to leave it was nearing 2am and we ran to try to make the last train home to Boulogne-Billancourt. We did make the first part of our connection, but were left stranded when the second did not appear. So, there we were at Gare Austerlitz, in the middle of the night, the wind blowing fiercely (but not meanly), and a slight drizzle collecting on our coats. Unwilling to brave the night buses, we decided to walk until we could find a cab. Unfortunately (or not) all cabs were either occupied or off duty, so we settled ourselves into what promised to be a long walk. But we found that Paris is quietly adn intimately beautiful at night, late at night when it’s calm and most people are warm inside. With the wind blowing our hair into Doc Brown fros and the streets shiney with moisture life felt so fresh and open and full and the city seemed to exist only to fill dustin and i up with its old old whispering secrets.
We took indirect routes, stopping down on the banks of the Seine for a brief photoshoot and a smooch. We viewed from afar tall windows flashing with purple lights and imagined aloud what sort of parties were taking place behind them. We discussed what we love about this city and our life here and the night and finally we found ourselves near the Eiffel tower and happily flagged a taxi (a very serendipitous encounter). By the time we got home (only 5 minutes later) it was near 4 am and the city was finally asleep (or at least dozing off) in the biting air of pre-dawn.
Ole!
Last night Dustin and I met my French cousin, Stephane, for a Saturday night rendez-vous. The location was north-west of Paris at a concept restaurant called Ole Bodega! It features Spanish cuisine, salsa dancing, and also serves as a general dance club. Dustin describes it as the French version of a beer tent (and i haven’t yet told you all about our beer tent adventures in Germany, but that will come later). It seems to host only larger parties of 6 or more, but the atmosphere still felt surprisingly intimate. I think this is because it’s all located under a circus tent!
Driving up to this place you may think “where the hell am i and what have i gotten myself into” as it seems from the outside to be the secret citadel of French carnies, but upon entering it’s festive and lively! Festival lights are copiously strung throughout and the ceiling is painted with lovely stars. The tables are situated around a circus ring that promised to be filled with entertaining spectacles. After my cousin and his friends arrived and we had ordered drinks and appetizers (not the best Spanish food I’ve had, but passable in my opinion) an acrobat proceeded to climb a long swath of white fabric at the center of the tent. She swung precariously, wrapping herself in the fabric to the time of the music. While her feats of balance would not perhaps rival those of a cirque du soleil performer, her nipples did peek out over the top of her leotard, adding interest to the show. heh.
Following the performance the crowd began to enthusiastically dance and sing in the ring to the tune of the jackson five and “cotton-eyed joe” and various French hits that I was not familiar with. It was pure French hedonism and I loved it — not the refined and fashion-pregnant hedonism of Paris but the enthusiastic freedom of the non-Parisian in a circus tent. And I must say it was a nice break from the constant cool-contest of the city.
Here’s a pic from the website, not the best, but you get the idea:
