POSTCARD: Sunday Night Out

PARIS, France—“Just get to the river, turn right, and find us” were the only instructions Sean and I received from Arthur as we walked through the 12th Parisian arrondissement in search of the Seine.

We met Arthur last Monday on the Pont des Arts, a bridge where crowds of French students descend every night to chill together with a bottle of wine. That night we had a mission, the aspiration of any student abroad: to make local friends. It started off as sort of a joke, until we realized that we had brought red wine, but no bottle opener and asked for help.

“Un tire-bouchon s’il vous plait?” A hip-looking French redhead in a plaid shirt and artsy hat opened the bottle for us, and we started talking to him and his friends, a group of architecture students at the University of Paris. As a thank you, we shared our wine, and they shared theirs. And then their vodka, and then their apple juice, and even the absinthe they imported from Spain. When it was ten passed midnight, we decided to go back to catch the last metro. We exchanged numbers with Arthur and his friends and said good-bye.

A week later, we were on our way to meet up with him again. We expected another quiet night of drinking on a bridge.  What we got was a wild underground electro music rave on a raft. We came at 11 pm to find that this party has been hopping since 2 pm with no end in sight. Being there was like watching Luis Buñuel’s Un Chien Andalou for the first time – absurd, surreal, shocking, and fun.

A faithful account of the ensuing events follows. It can also be used as a model for being bohemian for the reference of anyone who is not feeling sufficiently hipster:

2 p.m.–indefinitely: Arthur and friends make Sunday their big party night, as it is the least practical one. Friday and Saturday have become too mainstream.

11:35 p.m.: We are ridiculed for not understanding the difference between house and electro. Apparently, the distinction is key to understanding the life of a French hipster. We are even more criticized for liking Lady Gaga. (Leedi Gaaga? Heads shake with disapproval).

11:55 p.m.: Arthur  illicitly sneaks a bottle of red wine onto the raft. Looks of respect all around.

11:58 p.m., 12:06 a.m., 12:14 a.m. and every 8 minutes for the next six hours: Arthur makes his own cigarette and smokes it.

11:59 p.m.: We start imitating the spontaneous dancing style we see, made up of wild but smooth gestures best described by the word “whatever.”

12:30 a.m.: The music gets turned off. There is kind of a riot.

12:50 a.m.: After raucous protests, people resign themselves to the fact that the first party is over. Everyone is on their cell planning their own underground after-party.

1:02 a.m.: On a Paris nightbus. Arthur is sharing the wine with neighbors.

1:48 a.m.: On another bus. Arthur refuses to share any more alcohol. Sean and I start to realize we are leaving Paris, and don’t know where we’re going.

2:06 a.m.: We arrive to the banlieue, the place outside Paris where the rent is cheaper, sometimes called the ghetto. I get nervous. Sean is feeling great.

2:21 a.m.: We keep walking. It’s very dark and empty. I consider taking a taxi and escaping before it’s too late, but there are no taxis around. We’re really not in Paris anymore.

2:24 a.m.: Arthur sees a chair on the street and takes it. Reason given: we need more chairs.

2:35 a.m: Raggedy old man asks the whole group for a cigarette. They all say they are very sorry, but the Americans don’t smoke (what!?) and they’ve run out. The man tells us that we are all really awful people. The chair Arthur is holding over his head starts breaking, and parts of it almost fall on the man’s head. Now he has a real reason to think we’re evil. We apologize and move on.

2:45 – 3:03 a.m.: Arthur reassembles the chair. We reach Pierre’s apartment. He has been waiting there for the last 40 minutes, and is very happy to see us. Pierre is a part-time student, part-time DJ and has a girlfriend named Lucile. He puts on his headphones, takes out 45-inch records, and starts blasting electro like we’ve never heard before. The place turns into a private disco. Somehow, the neighbors don’t complain.

3:10 a.m.: Lucile silently decides that my outfit needs a change. As I’m dancing, she comes up and begins to tug on my skirt, which renders me somewhat distressed. She says, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to rape you or anything.” That’s a relief. Lucile reaches for my shirt and pulls it into my skirt for me. “There. You’ll be more comfortable.” She goes back to decorating everyone’s arms and legs with permanent marker designs.

3:11 am: Arthur sits down on Sean’s lap, and assures him he is not a homosexual.

3:15–6:13 a.m.: Six person rave. Hours of unrestrained dancing. We all try on the DJ headphones which makes the music sound even more amazing.

4:46 a.m.: I lie down to rest on the couch, and the even electro beat lulls me to sleep. Everyone seems perfectly understanding, until I feel Arthur’s teeth bite into my arm. When I look scared he tells me, “don’t worry. This doesn’t mean anything. It just means we’re becoming friends.” And it’s true, he tackles all the guys and girls in the room in a similar way – the French are much more physical with each other than Americans can imagine. After this, I feel wide-awake and we keep dancing.

5:15 a.m.: The neighbors complain. We turn down the music for ten minutes, and then blast it again.

5:46 a.m.: Arthur is hungry and takes out a huge bowl of rice salad from Pierre’s fridge. He passes the salad around and we all eat some. He puts spoons of rice salad into the mouths of Sean and Jacques.

6:15 a.m.: It is now morning. The metro opens in 15 minutes. We say goodbye and thank you to Pierre and Lucile, and the four of us leave the apartment.

6:30–7:25 a.m.: On the way out, Jacques takes a little boy’s parked bike and looks very happy riding it as we walk to the metro. As we kiss them good-bye on the cheek, they tell us they’re doing the same thing again tomorrow night. We get back to Paris at 7:25 am, leaving us plenty of time before our 9 am class.

7:30 a.m.: We both get a text from Arthur: “Good night friends.”

Having recorded the aforementioned events with our utmost diligence, we hope that it may serve as a fruitful contribution to hipster awareness in America. As academic norm dictates, we end this report with a call for further study.

Elizabeth D. Pyjov ’10-11, a Crimson Arts writer, is a romance literatures and languages concentrator in Adams House.

Sean R. Ouellette ’12, a Crimson editorial writer, is a history and literature concentrator in Cabot House.