Le Bal du Moulin Rouge!

As an avid supporter of the 2001 film of the same name starring my Scottish heartthrob Ewan McGregor and Australian beauty Nicole Kidman, it only seemed natural to be drawn to its namesake and take in the glam and glitz such a place has to offer. You got it! It’s off to the cabaret old chum...!

Located in the heart of Montmartre (the red-light district of Paris) amidst sex shops selling erotic memorabilia and raunchy attire, the Moulin Rouge (quite literally, the "red fan") is as spectacular as it is iconic. We arrived, 109€ (each) the poorer to a queue which ran its course down the Boulevard de Clichy, lit up with street lamps and the buzz of a crowd slightly stifled by the overbearing heat.

Once the queue started moving we were up and away and flapping our tickets at the door to suited waiters who scoured the room momentarily, decked with oblong tables of four to eight people. The majority of the seats were on the ground floor but I noticed that a cluster of tables had also been arranged on a balcony above. The ground floor surrounded a huge T shaped stage and there was no set seating per se; it really was all down to the attendants to choose where to place you. 

I had wanted to dress to the nines for the special occasion; each lick of mascara and stroke of eye shadow had been delicately placed with precision. I was wearing a white dress with a bandeau adorned with golden sequins. The night was all about opulence and extravagance and I was going to be part of it. I was only lacking in long silk gloves and a feather in my hair.

The waiter smiled at me and my suitor and I gleamed back at him with a needy elegance, as if to ask with the bat of an eyelash to be placed in the most superior of seats. He swung us past various different tables, some empty, some full, before arriving at a half-empty table at the front of the stage. He called me Madame and pulled back my chair. We'd done it! We'd been seated like royals, with a view matched by none.  It wasn't long before our Champagne arrived and the cool liquid was bubbling through my veins. Bliss.

The music started and the singers appeared with beads and faux diamonds hanging vivaciously over their slender frames. Each one of them a vision. The costumes were spell-binding; the lavishness, the colours, the feathers and the eccentricity. Each song or dance showcased a new magical ensemble as the troupe of the world's finest dancers performed in bewitching unison against the exotic backdrop. Their bodies moved like sculptures, chiselled and refined by the hands of an esteemed artist. From birds of paradise to peacocks, the dancers flaunted their costumes in glorious array, much to the excitement of the audience.

Perhaps the biggest highlights of the show were the acrobatic acts in the interludes. The sheer physical strength of the dancers was one thing, but the danger they placed themselves in was what made it even more provoking.  The ability to balance their bodies on each other in such a manner that one slight twitch could prove to be fatal meant it was both exciting and nerve-racking at the same time. The control and skill possessed by these select performers was inspiring to say the least. We also witnessed a woman diving into a pool of snakes and watched in horror as she coiled the snakes around her body as she danced amongst them. 

I couldn't say that I was aware of a narrative in the cabaret, but the show was not void of humour or character (the ponies being a definite favourite!) My one criticism would be the slightly 'cheesy' French songs and the fact that the singers were miming to a soundtrack which was noticeable given that we were touching distance from the stage.  The proximity was fabulous though: the tiniest mole, scar or wink between the dancers didn't go unnoticed. 

One thing which the Moulin Rouge was not was vulgar. Yes, breasts were sometimes on display, but a naked form in itself is not vulgar. It's how you choose to present it. This was art, not profanity.

Next stop (hopefully!): the Paris Opera!

My Romance with Restaurants: Fondue

Since my love affair with men hasn't gone so well in France, I've decided to turn my amorous efforts towards food instead.  And since I couldn't possibly discuss all of my restaurant adventures in one blog post, I've decided to start my own mini series, starting with fondue.   I need not remind my readers of my intimate relationship with cheese.  Cheese, fromage, formaggio, queso...it's one of my greatest pleasures, in every language.

On Valentine's day (oh so long ago now!), the girls and I went for a late night seating at "Le Refuge des Fondues" in Montmartre where they serve a set menu for 21€ per head.  Between six of us this included an aperitif each, a couple charcuterie sharing platters, unlimited quantities of red wine in baby bottles, one cheese fondue, one beef fondue, and fruit salad for dessert.  We were crammed into the tiny restaurant which consisted of two long tables on either wall and narrow benches.  The walls were graffitied with messages and signatures of people who'd consumed fondue within its walls and old bank notes had been tacked up on one side.  The waiter held my hand as I stepped onto a chair and clambered over the table to get into my seat.  For anyone too preoccupied with the term 'personal space', I wouldn't suggest going.  I also managed to splatter sauce all over my silk dress after attempting to pull my bread out of the cheese fondue which appeared to be at the other end of the table.  It was a little on the runny side which meant getting it to melt on the bread was a chore and a half, but I managed.  Would I go back?  Perhaps with a party of four because it's a mini adventure.  But I think six was slightly too many for practicality's sake.  Not the best fondue I've had in my life but the waiters were lovely, particularly the older one who had a sense of humour and was slightly eccentric.

I went to another fondue restaurant recently on Rue Mouffetard with a friend of mine.  The cheese here in my opinion was superior to that in the other restaurant, being a much thicker consistency, but the service was shoddy.  And I mean offensively shoddy.  It took us about ten minutes to get a menu - not because it was insanely crowded but rather because it appeared that they had about five menus in total between God knows how many people.  It was like battle of the menus.  When we were finally in possession of said menus, we quickly decided upon the three cheese fondue and a tomato and mozzarella salad to share.  After a long wait, the waiter returned and snatched the menus off us.  This would have been mildly acceptable if we'd already ordered but quite the contrary: we were still waiting for him to scribble something illegibly into his notepad.  He stared at me expectantly but instead I looked at him incredulously and tugged the menu out of his hand before opening it and pointing at what I wanted.  He then snapped it back out of my hand and asked what we wanted to drink.  I turned to my friend opposite me and sighed, mumbling something like 'Well if he'd just give me the bloody menu then maybe I'd know what to have'.  He insisted on holding the menu just out of reach so that I was squinting at the rather meagre wine list.  After a short kerfuffle I asked for a carafe of red wine to which he responded: "carafe ou demi bouteille?"  I asked what the difference was in price and quantity but he seemed to avoid the question and the conversation continued in a vicious circle for the next few moments before I huffed and exploded with "carafe".

It arrived ten minutes later, half-baked apparently.  Yes, it appeared we'd been given a bottle that had been sitting in close proximity to an oven.  Before long, I noticed Naomi's eyes straying from me and a frown formed on her lips.  "That waiter just ate a hunk of meat from that plate he's about to serve" she insisted.  I turned around in dismay and saw his jaw chomping hurriedly through his stolen bit of meat.  We were practically adjacent to the kitchen which I would never recommendd.  We soon witnessed our waiter bringing his hand to his sweaty forehead and wiping it.  Two seconds later he was pulling a baguette out of the bread basket and slicing it.  He scraped the bread into the basket with beads of sweat trickling down his fingers.  He placed the basket on our table.  We paid about 26€ each.  I wouldn't go back again.

So I'm still searching for the best fondue in town, and I'll let you know when and where I find it!  Alternatively, if you have any great suggestions, please comment below!

Les Misérables

Now I know this may seem a little out-dated to those of you back home, but Les Mis only came out on the 13th February here in France so I think that justifies why it's taken so long to get on the blogging band wagon.

So in a nutshell, what did I think?  (Warning: this is a large nut!)  Given the intense hype surrounding its prolonged release and the star-studded production, I was expecting it to be quite the spectacle.  And it was, to a certain degree.  Hugh Jackman and Anne Hathaway, as anticipated, stole the show with their gritty performances which at various points had me weeping.  I would argue however that Valjean and Fantine are the strongest parts in the storyline so maybe they had a head start.  It's no surprise therefore that both actors were up for Academy Awards and that Miss Hathaway came away with flying colours. 

Eddie Redmayne's Marius was perfectly sufficient but there's no denying that the actor who played his friend Enjolras (Aaron Tveit) was superior in both looks and musical talent.  Redmayne's slightly weedy voice and slippery portrayal of the story's dominant love interest meant his big number "Empty Chairs at Empty Tables" was as empty as the lyric.  This statement is perhaps overly critical but I sensed a lack of focus during his performance which could be mistaken for a young vulnerability but I put it down to uneasiness.  

Amanda Seyfried's Cosette was as well executed as can be (dull and shrill) but I've never been particularly fond of Cosette so it's hard not to shrug.  She seems to melt into the backdrop of the student rebellion and as much as I pity her (young Cosette's rendition of "Castle on a Cloud" was a clear winner), she grows into a bit of a wet blanket, hardly helped by Marius' soppy obsession with her.  I suppose she feels confined in many ways due to Javert's insistence on hunting down her adopted father Valjean but I've always struggled to warm to her.  Any emotion she exudes is cutting; not because it extracts sympathy but because it's so jarring and irritating.  Eponine on the other hand knows a thing or two about passion and her love for Marius seems more deep-rooted while Cosette has "A Heart Full of Love" even before knowing his name.  She's suffering from the notorious "need to get out more" syndrome which results in her falling for the first man who gives her the time of day.  Since Amanda Seyfried ticked all these boxes, all credit to her.

Eponine has always been my dream role.  She has more umph to her, more passion, more grittiness, more depth.  She's not pretty and pristine like Cosette; she's earthy, and I suppose I like that about her.  I find her interesting and bien sur I want Marius to fall in love with her.  Yet I was very disappointed by Cameron Macintosh's protegee Samantha Barks.  With a song like "On My Own" she should be raking in the emotion and I should have had shivers down my spine.  I was trying to make my eyes prickle but they didn't; I was more focused on the pavement shining like silver in the rain, or so the lyric goes.  It was a pretty poor attempt at heartache and I wasn't pining for Marius to declare his love for her.  Their duet "A Little Fall of Rain" seemed a little flat and watching Barks die in the flailing arms of Redmayne was a miserable affair.  He hardly seemed to care that she was on the brink of death (having saved his life and all that) and I looked on in dismay at his lack of interest at the perishing body below him.  The song is meant to be a combination of unity and intimacy and neither were implied. 

Russel Crowe's portrayal of "the baddy" Javert was brutal.  I loathed the man from the very start.  But then I guess that's the point.  Crowe's very clipped musical intonation sort of worked, as long as you didn't mistake it for poor projection.  It grew on me, much like a veruca.  I didn't want it to, but it was contagious.  I suppose Javert is a rather empty man, ruled by the law, with no ability to use human sympathy or gratitude to adjust his actions so my expectations had to align with this.  I actually think one of my favourite scenes was his suicide.  Wait for it.  So he was standing on top of a pretty tall building, his feet tippling over the edge as the camera panned in on the sheer drop to the water below and I think somewhere within his apparently empty soul, he felt a shred of guilt.  Perhaps guilt isn't the right word but I felt at last that justice had overcome evil.   (Nb: I know he's 48 and 27 years my senior but there's something incredibly sexy about the man.)

And now to the true heroes.  Anne Hathaway's rendition of "I Dreamed a Dream" was nothing short of a miracle.  The song has been sung God knows how many times but she still managed to put her stamp on it and I could feel every inch of her sorrow.  I need not mention that Hathaway chopped off all her luscious locks for the film and is now sporting a pixie crop.  Or how she ate next to nothing so she could shrink down to the size of a skeleton.  I certainly admire her audacity.  The greatest heartache of all was that she died too soon.

Hugh Jackman likewise was fantastic as Valjean.  It was only unfortunate that during his fantastic performance of "What Have I Done?" in the chapel that the lighting was so poor and I could hardly see his face.  He played a fantastic criminal-come-Mayor and the emotion and energy he brought to the role was incredibly uplifting.  His impressive falsetto in "Bring Him Home" showed off just how great and versatile a singer he is.

In conclusion, I am glad I went to see it and I would definitely see it again.  However, the film modem is still unable to capture the raw essence of the stage and something so simple like flying the red flag over the barricade seemed so much more impressive in the latter; partly because it seemed much more vast.  On the other hand, one cannot forget that the film is still in many ways a piece of theatre.  It is the same script and retains many of the theatrical elements of the stage production.  I will not deny that it touched me in ways I didn't expect and I felt a strange voidness after watching it, like there was so much more to life that I needed to reach out and grasp.  I wanted to rehash the movie in my mind (incidentally that's the title to a song in Miss Saigon) and I just felt this strange hunger and connection with what was being played out before me.  It may not live up to the stage production, but it still had me on the edge of my seat.

Splashing out by the Seine

Tucked away on a luminescent strip of river, the boat looked every inch the glamorous water haven.  Its magnificence seemed unparalleled by twilight and I felt every inch the starlet as I walked across the jetty, my hair blowing gently in the icy breeze and my red ochre smile widening in eager anticipation.  I was wearing a strapless rouge dress, my new pearls, skyscraper nude platforms and a scarf made of rabbit fur draped gracefully around my neck.  I was going for classy with a hint of sultry.

As I walked through the grand entrance, I delicately slipped off my leather gloves, trying my best to retain an air of sophistication.  The waiter took my navy blue coat when I entered the aqua universe and swapped it for a numbered ticket.  I looked past the pristine white tablecloths towards the sparkling ripples of water magnified through the big glass windows.  We were to be dining on a boat.


It was already quite late when we waltzed in to celebrate my friend's birthday, so we swarmed the table with a vibrant energy.  Glowing lanterns were hanging above us like modern-day chandeliers, each one a different shade of yellow, pink or orange.  Menus were swiftly placed in front of our expectant eyes and before long I was persuaded by the lady of the evening to join her in ordering a Mojito Royal.  I thought of my ever-slimming wallet, and then of the occasion, and made a very blasé hand gesture as I finally succumbed with the words "oh, why not!".  I knew it wasn't going to be a cheap evening, and I'm particularly fond of my Mojitos.  Especially when they're topped up with Champagne for that added treat.  The perfect Aperitif.

The boat was a giant expanse of enchantment and it felt so liberating to step into this harboured beauty; like the world really was my oyster.  I looked around at the other tables, many of them empty, bar a large table of men and women who howled and guffawed in timely unison.  I soon conjured up images in my head of romantic soirées on boats in dazzling ballgowns, dancing to the music of Elvis Costello or Louis Armstrong.  All that was missing was a man in a tuxedo to sweep me off my feet and twirl me across the shiny strips of wood.  In this fairytale sequence, I playfully let my red ringlets bob up and down like the gentle waves lapping at the boat's exterior.  The fantasy was overpowering.

Just as I was picturing my dress revolving in twirling pleats, my eyes were suddenly drawn to the bread sticks, olive tapenade and fish paté which were sitting in front of me, desperate to be eaten.  I immediately swept the bread stick into the pungent olive mixture and let the strong taste melt in my mouth before the inevitable crunch.  It was truly divine.  To my right, an overflowing bowl of crusty bread looked too appetising to be ignored so I slipped a piece from the basket and nibbled on its soft, doughy goodness.

Before long, the waiters arrived laden with plates of different fish and meats.  A true seafood fan, I had ordered the salmon which came with a side of creamy tagliatelle.  I looked in awe at the heart-shaped pinky fish which was sitting beautifully in the centre of my plate.  It was fleshy and tender and I marveled at the infusion of flavours.  The eggplant purée and concentrated lemon and thyme juice were bursting in my mouth and complemented the salmon in delectable fashion.  A couple glasses of white wine only intensified the goodness.

After finishing the main course, the birthday girl wowed us all with a huge birthday cheesecake.  Mojitos, salmon and cheesecake are possibly my three favourite luxuries; I was literally in heaven.  The cheesecake had a gelatin-type top layer which was adorned with fresh passion fruit and mango, a soft creamy centre and a crumbly biscuit base.  I think I must have scraped my plate clean; a testament to my satisfaction.

According to my mother, I need to find myself a rich husband if I'm planning on living the high life and taking it seriously.  My expensive food tastes, my love of cocktails, my slightly rash spending habits; the money has to come from somewhere.  Happiness comes in many different formats, but for me, dressing up, eating fancy food and sipping complex cocktails while soaking up good company in glamorous surroundings is a sure way to make me smile.  Why?  Because I know I'll savour the experience for years to come.

Restaurant sur la Seine - je veux retourner.

West SLide Story

The reviews were fantastic and phones were ringing nonstop in the theatre's reception as everyone tried to get their paws on the coveted tickets to see West Side Story in Paris's Chatelet Theatre.  December 2nd had arrived and I was wearing a new sparkly dress - courtesy of Zara - my favourite Dorothy Perkins' purple heels, a rabbit fur neck wrap and my new Longchamp handbag hanging off one shoulder.  I looked every inch the theatre-goer.

I was certain that this would be a night to remember, that I'd literally be singing its praises for all to hear.  And as a lover of heart wrenching romance and bursting into song, there really was no reason why West Side Story shouldn't deliver.

Sadly for me, this particular production of West Side Story fell flatter than a crepe (now that I'm in Paris, I'm abstaining from using the phrase ''flat as a pancake''). Imagine going to a restaurant which has received rave reviews and ordering the michelin star salmon only for it to be over-cooked to the extent where it can't be improved with a squeeze of lemon or a shake of salt.  You're desperate to enjoy it but there's something stopping you from fully appreciating it because it's lacking a vital kick and frankly, it's a little dry and flaky.

Comparing West Side Story to a piece of pink fish might seem a little odd, but bear with me on the analogy front.  Salmon is a delicious fish, much like West Side Story is a fabulous tale, but if the chef doesn't know how to properly cook the salmon, and the director doesn't know how to successfully direct his cast, you're left with something which is just about edible or watchable, but bland and unfulfilling.  Your final product is a piece of fish, or a play, which had so much potential because the raw, untouched original had so much going for it, but it was placed in the hands of someone who lacked creativity.   Instead of savouring each mouthful, or each moment of stage-time, you spend it thinking about how you should have been the one putting the icing on the cake.

Part of me is happy to blame it on the fact that nothing will quite match the lustre and skill of West End or Broadway.  I'm in Paris after all, not London or New York.  And there is certainly no Cameron Mackintosh lurking behind the red curtain.  This time it is a German company who are producing Sondheim's grand oeuvre.  The theatre's director Jean-Luc Choplin was desperate to bring the musical back to the Parisian stratosphere after its successful run five years ago, but this mark of success seemed foreign to me and I still struggle to accept its flawless ratings.

I wanted to see the actors bring the story to life, to live and breathe the stage they were standing on, but there was a lack of chemistry and freshness.  The show's director Joey Mckneely explained how “believability” was a huge factor in casting his leads because “I always have to believe their love story” he said.  His intentions were all too accurate, which makes my confession all the more painful because he was just off the mark.  Believability was exactly what the show was lacking.  I wanted something a little more edgy, more pumped, and oozing with vitality.  Instead I felt deceived by the wishy-washy ''love'' between Maria and Tony which left me begging for a refund.

Maria's sweet youthfulness needed to be sung with a girly vibrancy which the lead actress just didn't grapple.  I had to accept that the vocals of Marni Nixon in the 1961 movie production were simply unbeatable.  The Maria on stage lacked the sensitivity and raw emotion apparent in Nixon's voice, replacing it with a matured operatic falsetto which gave a faux representation of the naive, love-struck heroine.  Tony similarly took the notion of vibrato to new heights and was lacking in manly fecundity.  I struggled to see why and how Maria would fall in love with the effeminate Tony who looked like he needed a scruff in the mud and a few Turkey sandwiches in him.  Their duets were painfully unmoving and doing the odd large breath and semi-passionate sigh at the end of a note isn't going to make me believe it any more.  Crackling voices, painful whispers, sob-style singing, clogged up throats and frozen vocal chords are things I can live with, because at least that would show genuine emotion.  Best leave the Opera to Mozart.

Whether it's melodrama, opera or vaudeville, a successful performance requires an actor to use emotional memory to be believable.  There's something telling about an actor's ability to experience the part during a performance whilst creating their own depth to the character which might not be inherent in the narrative.  Yet for me, in this production of West Side Story, the actors hinged far too much on the narrative when they needed to go deeper.  Of course a love story evolving over the course of two hours is nay impossible, but I was simply yearning for a bit of profound passion.  I don't cry in The Notebook or Love Actually for nothing.  Their duets needed to be more than just a shallow sound; to be the passionate unison of two people whose love can conquer all odds.

It probably didn’t help that our seats were disappointing, but that's what you get for €22.  It’s never ideal when you’re vying for the best view with a stubborn pillar for two and a half hours.  But this minor detail shouldn’t have been the be all and end all, and for such a big stage, I expected the passion to be bouncing off it left right and centre, invading each heart in the auditorium.

It's hard to fully pinpoint aspects of the performance which I disliked, after all, the dancing was beautifully choreographed, in time, acutely professional.  If the emotion had matched the dancing, I would have been on the edge of my seat.  I don't regret going to see West Side Story, but I was still left unimpressed with one of those anticlimactic hangovers that comes at the end of a performance which doesn't quite deliver.

Hollywood's Paris

This weekend I went to a fabulous exhibition at Hotel de Ville called "Paris vu par Hollywood" (i.e. Paris seen by Hollywood).  Since Hollywood's conception in the early 20th century, Paris has captured a multitude of film directors who have been drawn to the city's romantic allure and celebrated scenery.  The portrayal of Paris in these films dates back to the iconic performances of Charlie Chaplin and later Gene Kelly, who appeared in films such as A Woman of Paris (1923) and An American in Paris (1951) respectively.  Paris has consequently been depicted in over 800 American films, one of the most recent being Woody Allen's 2011 production of Midnight in Paris starring French leading lady Marion Cotillard, as well as Martin Scorsese's coming of age adventure Hugo, shot entirely in 3D.  Two monumental statues created by Dante Ferreti for Scorsese’s film were commissioned for the exhibit.  I wondered for a moment if they weren’t indeed part of the hall’s aesthetic, standing ominously like carved pillars.

The exhibition spoke as much about Paris as the American public.  For the average American, Paris is touted as a place representing desire, pleasure and sophistication. McDonald's transforms into Tinseltown French Brasserie.  They discover before long French fashion like Givenchy and Jean Paul Gaultier which appear alien to their Wal-Mart bargains.  The exhibit itself showcased a variety of gowns and outfits, in particular some stunning creations from Hubert de Givenchy who designed many of Audrey Hepburn's iconic looks.  One of the exhibition’s highlights was a gold-sequined ball gown from the musical Lovely to Look At (1952) which was displayed behind glass in the centre of the grand hall.

What was beautifully evasive however was the word “fantasy” which sparkled on the walls in the form of posters and blown up movie clips of scenes involving vintage cars, baguettes and lots of French kissing.  Here we see the Paris of German-American filmmaker Ernst Lubitsch.  Lubitsch created dozens of films in the 20s and 30s using replicas of Paris, admitting “I’ve been to Paris, France, and I’ve been to Paris Paramount.  Paris Paramount is better.”

The exposition walks the voyeur through the history of Paris' illustration in silent films, towards the stylish Paris of romantic comedies, the Cancan with all the spirit of Moulin Rouge (1952), and lastly Paris as seen in Hollywood action films.  The exhibition showcases a variety of film clips featured on the 42-foot-long projection screen, including a scene from Funny Face (1957) starring Hepburn and Fred Estaire singing at the Eiffel Tower summit, creating none other than a romantic illusion.  Dozens of smaller screens scatter the aisles, exhibiting excerpts from films and interviews with the likes of Alfred Hitchcock.  Photographs and set models from Hollywood films are part of the 100 strong collection, paired with colourful mood boards and fabric trimmings.  Original sketches of Paris drawn in coloured chalks steal the show with their fine detailing and impressive clarity.  It is one of the few instances when a spectator outside the world of film can truly experience the aptitude of the artists involved in creating both sets and costumes first-hand.

My immediate impression was that of wanting to fall head-first into one of these blissfully charismatic models of Paris, until I realised that the Paris I’m in right now is so much more authentic than the one depicted on the Hollywood golden screen.  Rather, they are reconstitutions of the Paris effect in Hollywood studios, not only of an aesthetic existence, but also a Paris identifiable by American sensibilities.

Like the exhibition’s curator Antoine de Baecque says, “Paris in Hollywood is not the real city, it’s a cliché. It’s an American projection.”

Funky Asylum

It was Friday night and I made my way towards Faubourg Saint-Denis, the up-and-coming and much-hyped about quarter in the 10eme.  We’re talking edgy and slightly hipster, with a hint of je ne sais quoi to satisfy personal intrigue.  We’d rightly chosen funky asylum over shishi Parisian café, and rightly so.  I was oozing with anticipation.

As I walked down the street, map in hand, a soggy umbrella hanging from my wrist and last winter’s coat draped over my arm, I looked excitedly for the rather inconspicuously named “L’Inconnu” (“Unknown”), a relatively new stomping ground which sells itself on the profound literature of Victor Hugo: “Le bonheur est parfois caché dans l’inconnu” (Happiness is sometimes hidden in the unknown).  The irony however was visible when I noticed a bustling crowd of cigarette-clad students mounting on the street corner like wildfire.  It seemed that the bar was more well-known than its name gave it credit for.   Needless to say I’d struggle finding my friends inside.

The length of the actual bar resulted in long delays re: getting drinks, but my friends had secured a leather sofa and armchair near the door on which I immediately flung my belongings.  The humidity was noticeable as I felt my shirt sticking to my back and there was nothing I needed more than a glass of wine to revive me after a long day in the office.  The drinks were reasonably priced and after grabbing the attention of the barista I immediately ordered a glass of their rosé which seemed exceptionally attractive at only €3.  My thirst was quenched in a matter of seconds.

This was the first time we’d all been out as interns and it made a nice change from staring at a PC all day.  Conversations no longer revolved around shift schedules, non-functioning printers and necessary vending machine purchases to while away the hours of email-sending and photocopying.  Instead we discussed the office eye-candy, a subject which I admittedly was willing to spend a few hours on, but an area not as keenly engaged with by the other interns who were more attracted to cutting news headlines and prospective employment.  I jest...slightly.

I was then informed of a mysterious dance floor which I hadn’t as yet paid a visit to.  After pushing through the crowds, we waltzed down the steps as girls with short skirts and low cut tops tried to push their way back up towards the bar.  The men’s toilets were on our right as we made our descent, the urinals protected only by a small shutter, giving us an intrusive display of men peeing which I hadn’t premeditated.  Needless to say, the furore surrounding this attractive exhibition wasn’t coming from my end.

The propelling music was coming from a darkly lit room, set further in the depths of the cave-like lair.  It was like we were in the basement of someone’s house for an underground lock-in and empty glasses cluttered around what looked like a makeshift DJ booth.  Heads were bobbing to the rhythmic beats as DJ Slow and Piu Piu kept the volume levels paramount.  A few kisses were exchanged as “exotic” (change the “x” to an “r”) dance moves were displayed with no eyebrows raised.   

I felt a drip on my head and realised that the ceiling was leaking.  After touching the walls I realised that they too were damp.  I was initially fazed by this unusual addition to the evening, only hoping it wasn’t payback from the men’s urinals situation.  It was now more than ever like we’d been flung into a cave surrounded by sea water.  I was just hoping I wouldn’t step on any crabs in the process.

I soon saw light of it however and agreed that it definitely gave the bar a very “edgy” touch.  Pumping music, not plumbing, was clearly on the top of their prospectus.

Watch this space.

Montana

Shakespeare & Company

A stone’s throw away from Notre Dame is the fabulously quaint Shakespeare & Company.  Simultaneously a bookshop and a library bearing all the charm of a ramshackle writer’s den, this little literature haven is sure to get your inner bibliophile going!  Crooked shelves laden with off the beaten track volumes; kinked ladders to reach the top ledge, gleaming with stacks of musky leather-bound books.  It is no wonder then that movie icon Woody Allen chose to feature the rustic pile in last year’s production of Midnight in Paris.

The ground floor serves partly as an English Literature bookshop, stocking books for university students and the like, while the first floor comprises a tea room, a children’s play area and reading rooms, playing host to literary discussions, writers’ meetings and group poetry reading.  The view from the tea room takes a stunning sweep of the River Seine and Notre Dame which is idyllically placed on the opposite side of the river bank.  In spring, two pink blossom trees thrive outside the antiquated building with old-fashioned stools and benches to while away all those hours reading and absorbing the energy of the books which amass in tiny stalls outside the shop’s forest green exterior.  

A narrow winding staircase connects the two floors, not wide enough for more than one person to pass at one time.  Post-it notes have been stuck onto every nook and cranny; love notes, not-so-secretive messages and favourite literary quotes filter through the shop’s partitions.  Comfy armchairs and beds are offered for impulsive napping, or more long-term residency.  George Whitman, the shop’s previous owner, would refer to these overnight operations as “Hotel Tumbleweed”.  Books would be placed to one side and improvised beds that double as book displays during the day would be commandeered by writers, artists and musicians.  “The first step toward entry” says Kate McBride, “was to show George your manuscript, write a short autobiography and, if he approved, you were in rent-free, in exchange for working the check-out desk, re-shelving books, cleaning and errand-running.”  A vintage chess table and ancient piano sit contentedly side by side and a modest writer’s alcove with an old-fashioned typewriter rests diffidently in one corner.  The spirit of the place is so fully captured in just one blink of an eyelid that it is impossible to question its on-going prominence in literary history.

The original Shakespeare & Company was opened in Paris in 1919 by American expatriate Sylvia Beach, and was frequented by Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ezra Pound to name a few.  This former book shop was located in Paris’ 6eme, in an area called Odéon, not far from where I’m living right now.  The literary sanctuary was soon nicknamed “Stratford-on Odéon” by Ulysses author James Joyce who created his office within its walls.  It is interesting to note too that it was Beach who initially published Joyce’s epic after it had been banned in the UK and USA.  The bookshop sadly closed in June 1940 however during the German occupation of France in WWII and never re-opened.

Just over ten years later, George Whitman from the USA opened another English-language bookshop on Paris’s Left Bank and called it Le Mistral.  Set up in the site of a 16^th-century monastery, Whitman tried to recreate it as a focal point for literary culture in bohemian Paris, much like that of Beach’s.  It wasn’t until 1964, after Beach’s death, that Whitman chose to rename it “Shakespeare & Company”, after she left him the legal rights to the shop’s name in her will.  When Whitman died in 2011, aged 98, he bestowed the shop to his only daughter, Sylvia Beach Whitman, who was named in tribute to the former shop’s owner.  

The shop remains to this day eclectically cluttered with rows and rows of books set on uneven wooden cases to picturesque effect.  What is truly most remarkable however is how the bookshop hasn’t lost any resemblance to a former time.

Watch this space.

Montana