My first and last Parisian nightclub

I met this girl named Alexia at the Jardin du Luxembourg because she wanted to practice her English. We had an awkward conversation and I left thinking I didn’t much care for her and she probably felt the same way. But now she invites me to clubs, her birthday party, and other nightlife events. Maybe she wants the novelty of an American friend, even though we have nothing in common? I finally relented to one of her requests to go to a private club called Les Bonheurs des Dames near the Champs Elysees on Thursday night. She warned me the dress code would be very demanding but the drinks free. Hmmm I do like free things.

But I didn’t pack extravagant clothes for my stay here. No heels, no silky frocks. I knew I would end up wearing hoodies and flats every day. So when I told her I would just a dress and boots, her reply tickled me:

"yes the dress code is VERY VERY FANCY everything is based on what you are wearing to get in so you need to wear a dress and a black jacket, jewelries, make up, and the highest hill yo have but no boots, boots are fashion, but not fancy, and take a brand bag if you have if not a small one,
see you tomorrow!! "

Designer bag? Fancy not fashion? Why did I have a feeling tonight would not work out? Luckily Kacy was up for the challenge, and we met up early as Alexia was running late. Not knowing where to go, we ended up following a fleet of ridiculously gorgeous teenager models, who of course all ended up going to the same place as we. Thus, the line was ridiculous, it started to rain, and we just weren’t feeling it. Plus I had to pee as usual. We ducked into a sexily chic restaurant next door called Boudoir and had our requisite cheap cups of espresso. (I swear to god, I think every night out will involve me and Kacy being cheapasses, drinking coffee, and all dressed up with nowhere to go.)

Thinking we had struck out for the night (and totally pissed I was wearing heeled boots, a minidress, and shitloads of eye makeup for no reason) we were pleasantly surprised by a glamorous, skeletal older woman approaching us. Speaking in a posh English accent, she demanded to know who we were and what our story was: “DAHLING! YOU’RE EXQUISITE! YOU MUST GO TO AU BONHEUR!”

I informed her of the long wait. Our chances didn’t look good.

“Dahling, just tell Mathieu at the door you know Vicki! Then give him a big kiss! He’ll let you in. Then come back later and join us at Eno’s.”

We decided this isn’t a bad idea. We air kiss Vicki goodbye and head back to club, meeting Alexia on the way. They are turning everyone away at this point, and though Kacy attempts to wheedle her way in with Mathieu, our attempts are in vain. Mathieu isn’t having it, unless Vicki personally calls him.

I’m at the “Fuck it I’m going home” stage so we slowly walk back until Kacy does a 180 and runs back into Boudoir to tell Vicki Cotton what happened. Vicki is indignant, but insists we stay at the restaurant until she's done with dinner, and then follow her to the club. Not knowing how long their extravagant dinner will last, we reluctantly sit at a table next door, order the cheapest drink there is (a verre du vin rouge) and munch on a bowl of pretzel sticks. Alexia and Kacy aren’t getting along, for various cultural and girl reasons. An hour later, we follow Vicki to the club. She flirts with the bouncer, gets us in past the red carpet, and we walk downstairs…to a basically empty club. It’s only midnight, after all. People don’t start here until 1am. We are treated to a glass of excellent champagne and watch the middle-aged DJ with wild Andy Warhol hair begin his stuff. He isn’t bad, and the room slowly fills with people. It’s a definite higher ratio of attractive people than I’ve seen in most places. Apparently a Belgian soap opera star was there, along with an Italian singer. There were girls dressed in Britney Spears schoolgirl outfits who had no job other than to sullenly bump their hips and look around the room. The requisite Guidos were the only ones buying drinks, and it was only bottle service at that.

The most entertaining aspect was Vicki herself. Balanced precariously on stiletto booties, she threw herself into a Ecstasy-filled rhythmic dry-hump sort of dancing that led her from the middle of the dance floor to the top of the couches to the DJ’s speakers. It was a sight to behold. I tried to avoid eye contact as I did not want to be dragged into the elastic-limbed dance. Maybe after a couple more glasses of champagne, which I definitely could not afford, and which no one was going to buy for us.

An hour passed, my feet began hurting, and the metro had stopped running. At the end of the day, all nightclubs are the same, full of wealthy creepy dudes and beautiful, naïve young women. It was time to go. Luckily, Alexia knew the Nocturne (night buses) very well and put me on the right one. Crowded and full of angry-looking ethnic men, I was just happy to have a seat and be on the road home. It took about forty minutes, dropped me a mile from my house, and then the skies opened up. Yes, I walked home in the chilling rain, feet throbbing, and cursing the day I was born. Well, more the day I decided to come to Paris. As horrid as those nights are, it’s almost worth it for the ecstasy I feel when finally getting home. My shitty hovel has never looked so cozy, and my cup of tea has never tasted so good.

I crawled into bed around 3am and promised myself never to go to a nightclub again.