SOCIAL EXPERIMENT NO. 609 Je ne parles pas . ..
28 . 03 . 10 : : There is a sardonic vibe and odor which hangs low over Paris.
Boy did I feel like an American. When someone says, you seem "so American", it is never a good thing. My impression is that it usually it suggests a fumbling, slightly constipated disposition, over-confidence and inflated ego. Meanwhile, when I make people guess where I'm from - the accent invariably prompts them to ask, they never say American. German, England and Canadian are always first. Still, I'm not sure whether this is good or . . .
It was my first time dancing since I broke my foot in India. Barrio Latino is famous for its salsa night and I had been wanting to go for some time.
When I arrived I walked right in despite the 'invitation only' status they were claiming at the door. A fashion show was in progress and yes, there would be dancing, right after the show.
So I found a seat and took it all in, my first fashion show in Paris. This particular crowd was a good mix of young and old, gay and straight, with several ethnicities represented.
Observably, however, not a particularly dancing crowd. I wondered what the turnout would be like.
Curtain call, flowers and bows as the music started and people mulled about to find their parties, greet praises to the designers and exit. Leaving the dance floor area empty and very few at the bar. The music was good and I was craving to dance. Since I wasn't sure about protocol, I waited to see how others proceeded or if anyone might ask me to dance. By half a dozen songs later, there were several women dancing alone on the floor and one couple. There were three guys hugging the bar and five at the DJ box. Those were the dancers; I went.
The least-shy one positioned himself in front of me with a cocky assuredness and reached out to brush my cheek with the back of his hand. Unimpressed I pulled away and said simply that I wanted to dance.
"Apres, madmoisele, apres." he waved me off.
"After what?" I asked.
He started to answer me . .. at which point I interrupted,
"I don't speak French." I declared glibly. "Do you want to dance or not?" None of them would have me so I went to the bar and ordered a water. Six euros! Well, at least I hadn't paid cover.
Through several songs I sipped my water as people slowly filled the dance floor. The gay boys decided to flash and flaunt just in front of me and seemed to gloat as they worked their moves. Meanwhile, it was clear none were about to ask me to dance.
After recomposing myself I gathered my courage and quietly asked the men on either side who were apparently too shy for now, to ask me. They all claimed not to dance. This wasn't going very well. Finally a distant observer noticed my efforts and came to my rescue.
He was a good dancer, but I had no problem keeping up, which, was all I needed for others to notice and start to ask. At some point the gay boys decided I was worthy and started dancing around to include me in their circle. They were over dressed and having too much fun. The boldest (handsomest) and best dancer of the bunch pulled me toward him for a showy clearing of the dance floor. Neither of us danced with anyone else after. Hours must have passed before I noticed my throbbing foot and growing fatigue. As I slowed down, my new friend, Rico, asked if I wanted him to show me a club nearby he thought I would like. It was just one rue away walking distance and there were still dozens of people out and about in the Bastille, so I went. The Bastille is one of my favorite areas with much to offer including a variety of different kinds of dance clubs, excellent restaurants of all kinds and of course art.
We came to a man standing on the street in front of a dark door I might not have noticed, where Rico clearly knew the doorman.
We entered and it was like another world - my minority status increased exponentially. The beats of Jamaican Dub hit my ears and instantly I was revived. We hit the dance floor and I soon discovered my new gay-boyfriend wasn't gay. At least not only gay if he was gay at all. After interviewing a couple of 'gay' boys, I learned that it is a popular trend to be by in Paris.
My fatigue returned and I excused myself to collect my coat and limp home. It had been good, a fun time finally, but I would limp for 2 days more.
