I made my first trip to Paris as a 30th birthday present to myself.
While working as a server at the Hotel Meridien in Irvine, CA, I met a number of Air France crew members. When they flew into Los Angeles, they stayed at the Meridien. One of the flight attendants, Jean-François, and I became especially close. It was all very coy and flirtatious at first…until I snuck up to his room one night after work—it took a hot Frenchman to get me to violate that rule. That was the first time I ever had sex with a Frenchman. I think that was his second time at the hotel. Staying, not having sex. But then, I don’t know that for sure.
It was love at first sight the night he and a couple of his friends came into the restaurant. I think it was the accent. No, it was more. JF was hot. The night the crew left he came by the restaurant to say goodbye. In his uniform. I don’t think I’d ever seen such a handsome uniformed man before. I tripped on a rug as I was heading over to say goodbye to him. He smiled. I’m sure I was blushing. I know I had a hardon.
A couple of the flight attendants I’d gotten to know came to visit me on their vacations, Jean-François being one of them. I had a cute little one-bedroom apartment in Laguna Beach, just a few miles from the hotel. They eventually convinced me to come visit them in Paris.
I’d started out planning and saving to throw a big 30th birthday party for myself. Paris and the invites changed that plan. On May 27, 1987 I boarded Air France flight 4 from LAX to CDG for a six week stay. I still have the Itinerary/Invoice from Council Travel in Laguna Beach…for $532. Since one of the perks of working at the Meridien was free stays, I spent my first two nights at Le Meridien Paris.
JF had a cool little one-bedroom apartment in a building just on the boarder of Les Halles—one of the chicest areas to live in in Paris. You could see the shopping center, Les Halles, from his window, and Saint Eustache behind that. He also had a boyfriend. Patrick. The French view relationships and sex differently than Americans do. I know that now. Back then, I was disappointed I wasn’t the love of JF’s life.
I have a huge scrapbook full of photos and memorabilia from that trip. I’m not a big souvenir buyer. I collect things from my trips. Restaurant receipts, business cards, menus. In some cases, ashtrays…although, I’m not sure those were freely given.
I was going to be in Paris for six weeks. This plan changed. Floyd and his family were in the Army, stationed in Manheim, Germany. I found out mom and dad were planning to visit them, so I made plans to surprise them by being there, too. I flew from Paris to Manheim the day before they were scheduled to arrive. It was a great surprise when they got off the plane and saw me along with Floyd and his family waiting for them. I was always their favorite.
We toured around Manheim. It was also Spargelzeit, Spargel Fest. It’s the celebration of all things asparagus. Quaint, but fascinating. I’d never seen white asparagus before. It’s created by growing asparagus in mounds of earth, never allowing it to photosynthesize and turn green. Tastes the same, as I recall. And makes you’re pee smell the same, too. We toured around Manheim and visited St. Peter’s Cathedral in Worms. We had dinner one night at a nearby castle.
It was a great time with my family, but I was anxious to get back to Paris—I was young, my priorities were different. One week away was enough.
Paris is full of touristy things to see and do. And full of tourists. But it’s one of those cities whose touristy things to see and do are really worth seeing and doing. That’s how I spent my first couple of weeks.
Learning to navigate the Métro was easier than I expected. Getting used to the heavily armed policemen around town was not. This was a period where there’d been a number of terrorist bombings in Paris, utilizing trash bins. There were no public trash bins around. Ah, but there were self-cleaning pay toilets along the sidewalks.
My first visit to the Eiffel Tower there was a student demonstration of some sort. Some of them separated from the crowd and began scaling the Tower to hang a huge banner. A battalion of police vans roared to the site. Policemen with military style rifles poured out…and stood there watching. Policing in Paris is most often in the background rather than aggressive intimidation. You know they’re there, but will only see them in action if it becomes necessary.
Everything about Paris fascinated me. It was so different from what I knew and was used to. The culture, the food, the language, the people, that fashion, the architecture. The age of everything. There were paintings in the Louvre 200 years older than the United States.
Jean-François, a flight attendant, was often gone. I was left to my own devices. I explored the Louvre, walked through the Tuileries Garden, scaled the Eiffel Tower, and more. Au Pere Tranquille, a café near the apartment, became one of my favorite spots for lunch or just coffee. It was right across from Les Halles and was perfect for people watching—I think that may have been where I met John. I affectionately referred to it as the South Coast Plaza of Paris—IYKYK. Another, Café Beaubourg, was just across from Place Georges Pompidou and the Pompidou Center—it’s still there. Another great spot for people watching and street performers in the Place. And then there were the bars and clubs.
There were so many within easy walking distance. Open Café, Quetzal, Le Depot, Le Piano Zinc, several I don’t recall any longer. I don’t think I discovered them all my first trip, but know they all became important regular hangouts for me over several visits.
Open Café, 17 Rue des Archives—unfortunately, permanently closed—had tables surrounding the bar in the middle. The front was all framed, floor to ceiling windows that could be pushed to either side to be open-air to the patio on the sidewalk—it always fascinated me that patrons sitting inside at the row of tables on the windows always sat facing in, not out to watch the world passing by. The most interesting bathrooms were sous-sol. The urinal was a trough, inset into one wall, with a cascading waterfall down iridescent tile. The waterfall was motion activated. There was one or two regular toilets and one or two with a tiled platform in the center of which was a hole and two indented footprints, to show you where to stand and squat. The boy from Ohio loved it. Many a lunch and happy hour was spent here.
Note: Cokes or juices cost more than a beer or a glass of wine. I couldn’t care less about cokes or juices anyway.
Quetzal. Quetzal was just a bar. A very popular bar on the corner of rue de la Verrerie and rue de Moussy. There may have been pool tables, but those were covered over for happy hour to allow more people into the bar, and I think pinball machines. The crowd often spilled out onto the sidewalk and street. It was the place to meet up with friends, see and be seen, and could be quite…sexual later on at night. So I heard.
Le Depot I discovered when my friend, Lara, was visiting from the United States. It was in May. It must have been in the late ‘90s, because I knew her from working at Preston Gates and Ellis, LLP. I know that, that it was May, because I gave her a bouquet of muguet—Lillies of the valley—for May Day. Which is what one does for the women in one’s life on May 1st. It’s also French Labor Day, with parades and stuff.
Aside…The US was not very popular internationally at the time. I think because of Bush, maybe. I purposely wore a Canadian t-shirt a lot.
Lara and I met up at Notre Dame. Or maybe it was the Louvre. Or maybe we did both. There are photos. I probably took her to L’Amazonial for dinner and then around the corner to Banana Café for the boys dancing on the bar…using only small, white towels. Then we ended up at Le Depot. I didn’t know it, and not sure why we ended up there. We walked into a large, open room. Dance floor in the center, a small stage at the back, with the bar behind that. It wasn’t very busy yet. We walked to the bar and got drinks. To the left of the bar was a wide stairway leading down. We started to walk down, but for whatever reason I stopped and told Lara to let me check it out first. Good move. Good.
At the bottom of the stairs was the entrance to a labyrinth of passageways, video monitors playing gay porn, dark rooms, rooms with peepholes, and a bar—with monitors playing porn. As intrigued as I was—having never seen anything like this in my life—I need to get back to Lara. I don’t think I gave her details, but told her it was strictly for the boys. We drank, we danced, we took in the dancing flame twirler on the stage.
(I ended up including them all in a Gay Guide to Paris I authored a few years later…another story)
I don’t recall how I first came across Piano Zinc. Maybe Jean- François took me there the first time. It was on a side street off of rue de Temple on rue Blancs Manteaux. Very non-descript façade, set back off the sidewalk and street. There were three levels. First floor was a bar with a few tables. Next floor down was sort of the conversational floor with tables. The bottom floor had a bar, stage, and tables. That became my place. Throughout the night, the staff would perform on the stage, often singing songs the regulars knew and would join in on. It was always fun. On maybe my second or third visit, I’d gotten to know some of the server/performers and eventually got up the nerve to get up and sing—they would sometimes invite patrons to take to the stage. After that, at some point in the evening they would invite me up to sing the one song I knew was in my key…Evergreen.
I was invited to join Jean- François and his boyfriend, Patrick, for a trip to the south to visit JF’s parents in Palluaud. They were driving down ahead, I planned to take the train down to Angoulême—about a 40 minute drive away—where they’d pick me up. My ticket was good for May 29-July 28, 1987. I don’t remember exactly when I used the ticket.
The drive from Angoulême was mostly through open countryside. Palluaud is one of those quaint little French villages. His parents’ house was on the edge of town. Across the road, was an old village house they owned and where I stayed. While their house was a charming, smaller country house, my house was on an old fermette surrounded by stacked fieldstone walls, and had a swimming pool. The house itself was made of stone with stone wall interiors, and exposed wood beamed ceilings. My room had a round, sort of portal like window that looked out toward the pool.
It was either that trip or perhaps another one, a holiday weekend, that we were included in a big Sunday holiday lunch at a neighbor’s. It was outdoors at one long table where we all sat, family style. OMG! There were langostinos, shrimp, oysters. And those were just the entrées—appetizers. The meal included steak, lamb, fish, and vegetables. And then, of course, there was a salad after that. And after that, cheese and more bread. Oh, and throughout, alcohol. Lots of alcohol.
I’d had one semester of college level French before this trip. I spoke very little at this point, but could at least understand some things I read and heard. At the meal I sat next to this wonderful older woman. I wish I remembered her name. Even with the language barrier, we had so much fun, communicating by sign language and a mix of English and French. Over coffee, I tried sneaking a little extra cognac in her cup. She caught me, though, and made me drink it all. The photos of that with JF looking on are so fun.
There were several family and friends dinners while we were there. One was with JF’s mom and dad, Patric, and his brother Vincent—the French pronunciation of which I love! Anothere was with two older women, I don’t recall if they were family or friends, the older of the two was shamelessly flirting with me the whole time. We also celebrated John- François’ birthday in “my” house.
The last thing I remember is the sign as we were leaving Palluaud…
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