The bar I have come to find as being my favorite in this town I was told has a 60s night every last Friday of the month. I put on my black skinny tie. I look at my outfit in my reflection on the metro but still feel more 30s than 60s.
The last Friday fell into the time frame of spring break and so the bar was dead in comparison to how I usually see it.
Turn tables in the basement turning little obscure 45s.
Pretty people in vintage clothing.
Dancing in the basement, I keep trying to get out of the way for others meeting their friends and end up dancing next to the turn tables. Front row, center.
A question in French about my bondage belt. I have no idea what the specifics of the question are and mutter some things. Agree. And start dancing again.
The metro ends at 00.30. I look at my watch and decide 'fuck it.' The bar starts closing at 00.40.
We hang out in the street. A huge crowd. Slowly dispersing.
"After party chez moi!"
We walk up a wooden staircase. Perhaps medieval. A tiny apartment. No proper lighting. Some ugly modern desk lamp probably from IKEA is constantly being turned on and off.
The music begins with continuing the theme of 60s music, then blends into a huge slew of disco, then hip hop, and ends with Maps by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Two tabs for youtube. Play one, sync up the next song. I never realized that the French had such an interest in disco music. Although what is modern pop music now a days but overproduced with roots in disco, but never the name attached.
The one girl I knew before this night has one of the drunk French boys walk from across the room like a zombie with hands forward and grope her breasts. She slaps him. Something not quite like a fight breaks out. The French boys try to tell her this is normal in France. The French girls deny this.
Party ends. We migrate to another. I stand in the hallway entrance and have a conversation on the stereotypes on if girls from the States are sluts. It seems that this stereotype applies to most countries. I try to explain that things are more complicated than stereotypes. Somehow California and New York are the bases for how to compare other places in the country. He asks if Seattle girls are attractive. I tell him they are covered in tattoos.
Better music at this party. Same set up with two tabs on youtube. Joy Division and the Smiths upon entering. One of the people puts on Hang Me Out to Dry by the Cold Wars Kids. 'Music from your country.' Free style dancing.
Switches to disco music again. I sit down not quite sure how to dance to this style. Feels like it needs understanding of steps. Not a background in expressive punk rock.
I sit and talk with a poet. Mother from Birmingham. Uk, not the States. "Style is an expression of who we are, all that makes up the complexities of who we are" - paraphrased. He bums a few cigarettes from me. I offer them for free, but he insists in giving me three euros.
5am. The metro starts back up.
We leave. The poet knocks on the window of the patisserie around the corner to buy a sandwich. He has a test in singing in 4 hours. The two girls remaining from the group I started the night with get pastries straight from the oven. I follow them and gets a pain au chocolat for €0,90.
The poet tells us he has a concert coming up in three weeks at the bar where this night began. He asks for my number. I write it out on the wrapper for the pain au chocolat. He says he will call to lets us know about his show and then briskly walks off into the night to his girlfriends. Surprise her in the morning after a party and tell her that he missed her.
Kennedy metro empty. As I walk up the escalator that has stopped it begins to move. Two steps after stepping off it it turns off again. The next one does this too, but keeps running after I step off it.
Crash in bed.
The last Friday fell into the time frame of spring break and so the bar was dead in comparison to how I usually see it.
Turn tables in the basement turning little obscure 45s.
Pretty people in vintage clothing.
Dancing in the basement, I keep trying to get out of the way for others meeting their friends and end up dancing next to the turn tables. Front row, center.
A question in French about my bondage belt. I have no idea what the specifics of the question are and mutter some things. Agree. And start dancing again.
The metro ends at 00.30. I look at my watch and decide 'fuck it.' The bar starts closing at 00.40.
We hang out in the street. A huge crowd. Slowly dispersing.
"After party chez moi!"
We walk up a wooden staircase. Perhaps medieval. A tiny apartment. No proper lighting. Some ugly modern desk lamp probably from IKEA is constantly being turned on and off.
The music begins with continuing the theme of 60s music, then blends into a huge slew of disco, then hip hop, and ends with Maps by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Two tabs for youtube. Play one, sync up the next song. I never realized that the French had such an interest in disco music. Although what is modern pop music now a days but overproduced with roots in disco, but never the name attached.
The one girl I knew before this night has one of the drunk French boys walk from across the room like a zombie with hands forward and grope her breasts. She slaps him. Something not quite like a fight breaks out. The French boys try to tell her this is normal in France. The French girls deny this.
Party ends. We migrate to another. I stand in the hallway entrance and have a conversation on the stereotypes on if girls from the States are sluts. It seems that this stereotype applies to most countries. I try to explain that things are more complicated than stereotypes. Somehow California and New York are the bases for how to compare other places in the country. He asks if Seattle girls are attractive. I tell him they are covered in tattoos.
Better music at this party. Same set up with two tabs on youtube. Joy Division and the Smiths upon entering. One of the people puts on Hang Me Out to Dry by the Cold Wars Kids. 'Music from your country.' Free style dancing.
Switches to disco music again. I sit down not quite sure how to dance to this style. Feels like it needs understanding of steps. Not a background in expressive punk rock.
I sit and talk with a poet. Mother from Birmingham. Uk, not the States. "Style is an expression of who we are, all that makes up the complexities of who we are" - paraphrased. He bums a few cigarettes from me. I offer them for free, but he insists in giving me three euros.
5am. The metro starts back up.
We leave. The poet knocks on the window of the patisserie around the corner to buy a sandwich. He has a test in singing in 4 hours. The two girls remaining from the group I started the night with get pastries straight from the oven. I follow them and gets a pain au chocolat for €0,90.
The poet tells us he has a concert coming up in three weeks at the bar where this night began. He asks for my number. I write it out on the wrapper for the pain au chocolat. He says he will call to lets us know about his show and then briskly walks off into the night to his girlfriends. Surprise her in the morning after a party and tell her that he missed her.
Kennedy metro empty. As I walk up the escalator that has stopped it begins to move. Two steps after stepping off it it turns off again. The next one does this too, but keeps running after I step off it.
Crash in bed.
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