The Hipsters of Belleville

So...where the hipsters at? I mean, really. I’m in Paris, the chic capital of the world. Where are my walking American Apparel ad ladies and flannel-wearing men? Where is the Greenpoint and Silver Lake of Paris? It’s harder to find than you would think. Or maybe I’m just not cool enough. My theory is that hipsters in Paris are much more discreet and underground. They’re not as concerned as Americans to be “seen” around the town. They cozy up at each other’s tiny-ass apartments, or huddle in dark cafes talking philosophy and smoking Lucky Strikes. But I think I might have found one of their neighborhoods last night: Belleville.

I got another random reach out from a girl who found me on an ex-pat website. Again, I would probably never go out of my way to meet people online back home, but here, I will never turn down an invitation! Unless it’s clubbing on the Champs-Elysees. (I am still amazed at how much that particular activity sucks.) She invited me to Aux Folies, a neighborhood dive bar whose terrace is apparently always packed—-even when it’s below 40 degrees. It definitely had a “le cool” vibe and wine was pretty cheap and the people were beautiful and the service shitty. Sign me up! My new friend was very pretty, very skinny, and somehow managed to sit outside in a jean jacket and leather pants and look effortlessly chic, while I tubbied it up in a sweater, hoodie, long coat, wool scarf, and hat. Honestly, that might be the biggest reason I hate cold weather. I just can’t be as cute as I am in, say, LA weather. I’m a cotton dress kind of girl. I feel best in a simple dress, tights, and boots. Taking your winter coat off and on, lugging it around to clubs, finding places to put all your shit, losing your gloves on the metro…it’s annoying. All those damn accessories that take up so much room and cover up your cute outfit. Most of the time I think, shit, I might as well just wear pajamas underneath this crap because I’ll never get warm enough to take it off.

The girl has lived long enough in Paris to know her way around, and has a French boyfriend in a band. All signs point to…cool. We had a good chat discussing our lives and then Annabel and Kacy showed up. At Addison’s recommendation we headed to a café that played classic “American clubby dance” music and boasted 10 Euro double mojitos. I made the mistake of ordering something called a “Poire Miel” for half the price…which of course turned out to be a thimble of some kind of aperitif. Delicious but gone in five seconds. Not to worry, because then a DJ (who looked like every chubby hipster dude from Chicago) bought us all shots. And then Addison bought us tequila shots. And then some nasty-ass French dude Kacy was flirting with bought us tequila shots. And then we began dancing. And then poor Kacy and Annabel got incredibly drunk and we all got separated. And then Addison recommended we head up to Montmartre to meet some friends. And I might have agreed without saying goodbye. God, I’m a terrible friend.

So, both of us very tipsy, we headed to Pigalle and went to some girl’s apartment and drank lukewarm 1664s with some French kids. They were actually very nice but it was 2am and I was drunk and feeling not-so-charming. Then Addison sat on a girl (who was apparently sleeping under a huge blanket on the couch and therefore invisible) and the girl got pissed and we had to take a cab back to her place. Two other people from the “house party” joined us and we sat in her tiny-ass living room and listened to music. I think at some point I fell asleep sitting up. Then Addison was kind enough to let me crawl into her bed and I passed out with my coat on top of me. Luckily (unluckily?) the boyfriend was out of town, so no ménage a toi.

It’s a strange feeling to wake up in a strange bed in a foreign city and be incredibly hungover. My first worry: where the fuck are my priceless vintage glasses? I have to pee. This is kind of awkward, I think there’s a girl I just met sleeping next to me. Is it rude to sneak out? Is that like a platonic one night stand? I want to be home right now in my pajamas. It was around 10am, but luckily my moving around woke Addison up. I got us some water, shoved my bra in my purse (a Lindsey classic from the old days) and wished her a good day. Then I got to experience the glory of the walk of shame in Paris! Guess what! It’s so much worse than just driving home hungover in Texas! It probably took me an hour to get home, and I thought about barfing on this kid on the bus who wouldn’t shut up. I couldn’t imagine living with a family like most of my au pair friends do. I mean…walking in at 11am on Saturday, smelling like booze and cigarettes and makeup smeared? “Hiya kids! Nanny partied a little too hard last night!”

The autumn two-week holidays for kids begins this week. And, to further continue the theory that I picked the shittiest, middle-classiest family in Paris, mine are staying at home. Yes, most of my friends are either going with their families to French islands, their country homes in Brittany, or grandparent’s homes in the south of France. And if they’re not joining them, they at least get the whole house to themselves for a week. I would be more than happy with that. But nope. Mine’s staying here. I don’t know if my family is just incredibly boring or just not that wealthy. Either way, they suck.

But, it could be worse. I could have to take care of the kids. But I told them six weeks ago (as soon as my mom booked her plane ticket), so they made plans for the dad to take off work and stay at home with them. God, how miserable he will be by the end. Sounds like a shitty vacay to me! So yeah, my mom is coming on Monday! Hopefully. You know, assuming the strikes and petrol shortage don’t ruin everything. I really can’t believe I’m going to see my mommy in Paris. I feel like I’ve been living this weird, surreal, kind of fake life in Paris. Like time has stopped back home and I’m just in this bizarre European world waiting to go back home. I’m really curious to see what my mom thinks about my French family, my attic prison, getting around the city, the people, the food…we’ll have a lot of fun.

And then Colin in three weeks. Crazy. I really can’t imagine him here. I wish I had an amazing itinerary planned, but honestly, I just don’t do that much here. I don’t have enough disposable income to have a favorite restaurant, café, bar, museum, neighborhood yet. Every day I play “poor confused tourist.”

Okay it’s raining and horribly cold outside. It’s time to watch a 1980s John Ritter film and eat stale, expired bread with jam…yup, this is my life.