The happy hour blended these random souls into an interwoven mesh of human warmth and kindness and earnest intellectual discussion in English and French while our guards and inhibitions were stripped away by the alcohol flooding our systems. Nine o'clock and the night was already well underway, the less keen drinkers making their excuses and slipping away to quiet, homely evenings and prior social engagements while everyone present, feeling jovial and cajoling, finished up their pints and mojitos and caipiroshkas and grabbed their work satchels to march forth into the night towards the metro and Bastille, the promised land of madness and alcoholic freedom!
The journey was short enough but looking around the carriage at my companions I could tell that tonight was to be a great social success. It was this anticipation of the diversion to come and the stories to be written which reminded me of those chaotic, brilliant nights in Xalapa, Buenos Aires, Tokyo, New York and San Jose, the movement and desire to enjoy the bonheur of all present to mix and spread love and happiness amongst friends new and old that built a kind of elated buzz in all on hand. I personally was eager for these before distant souls to become one, one ensemble of free, young individuals coming together to leave the working week well behind and dive into the boozy excesses of the evening ahead, to throw my friends into a melting pot of dancing and flirting and watch with pride as all unfolded before my contented eyes!
Arriving at Trucmush after a mediocre street crepe it was time to fling open our senses and gorge on the mania that so often only a bar packed with amiable strangers can permit, a place of music and dancing, much more consumption and unforseen rendez-vous that thrilled all the onlookers with their erotic indulgences. Some went to extremes of sudden passion and clawed each other like beasts, reverting to a primal sexuality in the midst of the throbbing energy of the crowds, others pushed their bodies to new heights of drunkeness, dizzying for their anatomies and fell like Icarus into a swoon of vomit and violent convulsions.
I flitted between these raging scenes inside and the calm of the smokers in the street where the grizzly bouncer fought against the rising tide of excitement, just trying to do his job and spare the voisinage the soundtrack of shouts and laughter that hurried forth from our fun and inebriation. Jovial moments shared with klop in hand I threw my butt into the street and plunged back into the melee, barely holding onto my balance and coherence, eager to return to the entertainment within and the joie de vivre exuberantly splattered over the walls and floors of the bar.
It was not long before we had worked up the energy to move on, back out into the street sauntering like a swarm of happy bees towards the next nightspot, picking up people along the way, attracted by our ravenous energy, and losing those who could not take anymore madness and who sought out the comforts of their beds.
Le Furieux was the after-hours bar we chose and therein met more funky souls with whom to continue the soiree but by this point things were drifting into a sour tasting blur for me. Conversation no longer came easily and my image must have seemed tortured and unsanitary to those who now avoided my presence, I cared not and awaited the arrival of another best mate but I knew that the evening had gone as far as my body would allow and upon his arrival I explained that I had reached that aforementioned peak of inebriation and would be making my way homewards to revel in a great experience, a new memory burnt into my brain forevermore that would bring a smile to my face with its contemplation. Leaving my friends kissing and stumbling around the facade of the bar a friend and I started out into the night and took bicycles over taxis, parading our happiness around the streets of Paris crossing a large expanse of the city and arriving en route in front of Notre Dame, the normally over-crowded tourist plaza now emtpy, not a breath of life present except for the rodents and our good selves.
We bawled at the church and ran in circles, exploiting the space for our childish delights before remounting the bikes and slipping along the now so familiar banks of the Seine through sleepy Saint Michel and back to my garret where we could finally rest and laugh over one last glass of wine. But before dropping off the bikes my friend turned to me, lidded eyes and off balance, and mumbled in an embarrassed tone that he had lost his precious satchel of three years containing many important things. I could barely believe his words but my instinct took over to I sent him, tail between his legs to wait for me on the steps while I turned round the Velib and darted madcap back along the avenues and streets we had just passed by, circling the fountains and dodging the sparse traffic all the way to Notre Dame where right in the middle of the plaza lay his bag, unstolen and serene, a relic of a crazy evening like ancient artifacts discovered under desert sands by European explorers. It was to bring him one last moment of great joy to see me riding towards him, bag raised high in triumph, picking him out of his doldrums and giving us one last laughter-filled trek up the 7 flights of stairs to chuckle our way to sleep and to dream of the adventures we had lived this one liquid night in Paris.
No hay comentarios:
Publicar un comentario