Crazyvores

It’s Saturday night in Paris. Alex, Ariel and I are planning to go to Crazyvores. Ariel had to work, and cancels. Alex wants to back-out. But, I am persuasive. Reminding Alex that what we do is much more interesting than what we don’t do, he concedes. A phone call to Ariel, following a nap, convinces him that it is better to go dancing than to be at home alone on his ninth-anniversary weekend. If he can’t be with Renaud on their anniversary (could it be the manipulative mother-in-law?) then I am happy to persuade him to go out and have some fun.

La Nuit des Crazyvores alternates with La Nuit des Follivores. The origin of the name is not clear, but I like the idea of “carnivore” colliding with “crazy.” French music from the 1980s is the theme for Follivores, whereas English (language) music from the 80s is what we are looking forward to tonight. “Night” or “la nuit,” is a bit misleading as the club opens at 23:45. Apres un petit rendez-vous chez Ariel, we walk over to Boulevard Voltaire (doesn’t that sound French?) and wait… in… line… to get in to Bataclan http://www.le-bataclan.com It’s about 1:00, so technically it’s Le Matin (morning) des Crazyvores.

The place is packed. For a moment, I’m thinking… “what the hell am I thinking?” It’s early in the morning when I’m usually asleep, the place is huge and crowded, I’m feeling old having just past #43, and they’re playing ENGLISH music which I don’t recognize. “Oy.” But then I remember my theme for this trip “pourquoi pas?” “Why not?” And, earlier in the evening it was me who was reminding Alex that what we DO is far more interesting than what we DON’T do. Okay, let’s go!

Finally, some American songs from the 80s. Of course all of the French “mecs” knew the lyrics better than I. Then, some music from Madonna (is she American or English?) Fortunately, as of February 1st of this year, smoking is no longer permitted in bars, clubs and restaurants, so I could breathe. Well, almost. The lack of ventilation was obvious as I started to sweat despite just starting to dance. Now, for the good news - bad news. Parisian men are better looking, better groomed and dress better than American men. But as Alex pointed out, French guys can’t dance. For some strange reason, I just assumed that “les mecs franciais” would dance better than they do. Instead they dance as poorly as straight men in America. Tonight, I’m not so self-conscious about my own lack of dancing skills.

After a few hours of dancing, Alex and Ariel decide to bail a little after 4:00. My second wind has kicked in and the DJ is starting to play more familiar music, so I decide to stay a little longer. Like Billy Idol – an 80s icon – I am “dancing with myself,” albeit along with hundreds of others. A nice crowd. Fun music. Hot men. Even I was feeling hot – literally. Due to the lack of ventilation, I was sweating like a “cochon.” My shirt was completely wet, which would usually gross me out, but when in Rome (or Paris)… it’s somehow okay.

The Metro resumes service between 5:30 and 6:00, so that is when most people go home. But I am not a crazyvore parisian, and I can walk home, so I leave earlier than most. Moi, je part a 5:15. The streetlights go off while I am returning “chez moi.” It’s Sunday morning in Paris… and time to go to bed.