First cigarette. The night is still young. Second cigarette. The night is still young but very cold. Finally winter has arrived, and you have the impression that the whole city holds its breath and hides under the quilt. Paris has changed a lot. Pigalle used to be this dirty neighborhood, a sanctuary for all the weirdos and dangerous minds of the city. Now the crummy hostess bars are cocktail lounges and all the restaurants changed their menus from old steak frites you could barely swallow to burgers and bo bun.
Classic gentrification. But still, if you know how to look between the lines, behind the red velvet drape and inside the hidden passage, maybe you can find something interesting.
Third cigarette. So here I am, standing strong like an old statue wearing Dr. Martens, in front of Le Carrousel, going in and passing the door guy like it is my personal garden. Behind the booth, I recognize Omaima Salem, one of the youngest and cutest French stylists. I also identify this young and thin tornado with brown hair. I like his style. Very punk. Very free. Vodka number two. My vision gets better.
When something fun happens in Paris by night, you can be sure that Gaspar is around. He always has the gift to find the right young people and put them together like pawns on the chessboard. The game is on. Vodka number three. Last one was too short. I know him. He is the eyes and memory of the young creative crew that has brought back energy and madness to Parisian nights.
Pierre-Ange is sweet. We start to talk. About Paris. About the night. About the new clubs and the new drugs and the new sound and the new clothes. About the boys he likes. About the girls I like. About the fashion industry, the art industry, and the industry industry, which is everything and nothing.
