Travel
Not Quite April in Paris
Travel
Not Quite April in Paris
par Ernie McLeod avec Kevin Moss
Romance
vs. Reality
Imagining ourselves in Paris, I had romantic visions of strolls along the Seine, languorous hours at sidewalk cafés, picnics on park benches amid manicured gardens, a river cruise on one of the famous bateaux mouches. All very April in Paris. Except Kevin kept reminding me that we were visiting in January, on the heels of a hurricane.
On December 26, we were overpacked and ready to go when, just to be sure, we called the airline to confirm. Little did we know that while we were gorging and unwrapping, France had been blasted with a storm bigger than Celine Dion’s vocal range. The airline offered to drop us in England or Belgium, but, since the guidebooks we had accumulated made no mention of these countries, we declined the offer.
Upon arrival–a day late–in the Jetson-like airport, we learned French baggage handlers weren’t handling. With hundreds of other jet-lagged souls we watched the same two valises carousel mockingly past for an hour. Despite the delay, it was still pitch dark as we vanpooled into the city. Perhaps dawn skips over France in January?
Once
we found Les Degrés de Notre-Dame Hôtel (our taxidriver was, apparently,
new to Paris), it turned out to be perfect. Situated across the river
from the cathedral, it’s relatively inexpensive (by Parisian standards),
simply charming, and convenient to the gay quarter. Our room, #43, was
spacious and had nice beamed ceilings. Poke your head out the bathroom
window and–voilà!–the spires of Notre-Dame rising into the drizzly
heavens. Only drawback: the steep, winding staircase down which I was
continually tempted to fall.
A preliminary outing was enough to burst my romantic bubbles. The Seine resembled a zillion gallons of café au lait run amuck. ‘See those streetlamps?” Kevin said. ‘Usually they’re above water.” No river strolls. No bateaux mouches either–the undersides of the bridges had not risen in proportion to the water. Parks and outdoor cafés proved equally problematic to anyone disinclined to sit in puddles.
But even when the gods are against you, one cannot grow désolé in gay Parée.
Le Marais
This is the premier destination for any gay tourist. Unless you suffer panic attacks in tiny spaces crammed with queer books and bookish queers (I won’t get into the sculpture posing as a staircase), make your first stop Les Mots a la Bouche. Then browse some of the exquisitely appointed shops. Paris is one big anti-Wal-Mart. There are shops selling only paper, or spicy things in barrels, or marvelously impractical objets for the home, or undergarments unsuitable for 99 percent of the population. Cruising beautiful fellow-browsers without crashing into highly breakable displays is a trick; flamboyant gestures, particularly with umbrellas in hand, are ill-advised.
After
browsing, pop into one of the many mainly-gay cafés. (In Paris, there’s
no excuse for not being hyper-caffeinated 24/7.) If it’s lunchtime,
head for the string of falafel joints on rue des Rosiers. Beware of tourists
walking blindly with overstuffed pitas. At Chez Hanna you can sit inside
and avoid the sensation of tahini dripping down your arms.
For dinner, there are a number of gay restaurants to choose from. We liked Au Tibourg, though the gelatinous terrines made Ernie nervous. Le Divin is a decent choice if you like to bump elbows and cutlery with other queer diners. There was added drama the evening we visited: the cook got into a tiff with the waiter and pots began flying around the kitchen. Less gay, but good for vegetarians, is the laid-back (don’t go if you’re in a rush) Piccolo Teatro.
After dinner, head to one of the bars. Gay bars come and go faster than Madonna movies, so it’s dangerous to recommend. We ushered in 2000 at Le Central, where blue and white balloons adorned the ceiling and cute patrons danced on the bar, waving in plastered straight people. Lesbians, as usual and alas, have fewer choices, but some Marais hangouts are at least mixed. We took along the handy pocket-sized ‘Paris Scene: Gay City Guide.” It has a lesbian section.
Beyond Le Marais
Pâtisserie, museum, pâtisserie, landmark, pâtisserie, church, pâtisserie: where to begin and end? How about random observations instead?
Every guide has dining suggestions, but for foodie winos like us, Patricia Wells’ ‘The Food Lover’s Guide to Paris” is, as it claims, an ‘indispensable handbook.”
Museums are generally dry, except for the hours you’re waiting outside in line. If you don’t invest in one of the passes that lets you cut to the front, we advise taking up a temporary hobby. While standing outside the Musée d’Orsay (de rigueur unless you have a severe impressionist allergy), we began counting people wearing Burberry accessories (that inexplicably adored beige-and-red plaid). Time flew–130, 131, 132!
The
daunting Louvre provoked procrastination until we received these helpful
tips: enter from the metro stop and go when it’s open in the evening.
Not only are the crowds thinner at night, but several wings are closed.
I was relieved to discover that the Mona Lisa had not metamorphosed into
Monica Lewinsky (see frightening Feb. 8, 1999 ‘New Yorker” cover).
If you see a lens cap through a sewer grate in the breathtaking courtyard,
it’s mine.
Catching unexpected glimpses of the Eiffel Tower is even more amazing than seeing it up close, particularly for the tourist with a dim sense of direction. Round a corner–surprise!–there it is. Through the mist–surprise!–there it is again. I was convinced there were either innumerable Eiffel Towers or that the one magically leaped about the city.
Do visit the newly renovated (you thought cleaning your windows was a bitch) Beaubourg, or Pompidou Center. Ever controversial–just like us!–plus Paris skyline views, enough 20th-century art to make your head spin, and really big pipes: what more could you want? Besides, the best-looking-most-likely-to-be-queer crowds are always in museums.
Ooh La La!
For
people (okay, boys – we don’t know where girls go) seeking a
blend of low and high culture, Paris does not disappoint. You’ll
know you’re not at 135 Pearl when you step into the shadowed recesses
of Mic Man or Le Trap. We preferred the Banque Club which featured Disney
cartoons on the top level and non-Disney animations below. Amid millennium
hoopla and ‘bonne années!” these queens never got to Queen,
or any dance club. Next time, if our ankles still work.
If you’re curious where (closeted? married?) French men go in the early evening besides home, take a tour of Hardclub 88 on sleaze-please rue St-Denis. The video booths with sliding peek-a-boo-neighbor windows are busy, busy, busy, and the patrons are more attractive than you might expect. Ce n’est pas le Blockbuster!
If It Really Is April
Possibilities for everything probably increase ten-fold, but then so do the fanny-packs and videocams. Always some trade-off. Should you, too, visit when the sun don’t shine, rest assured the lights of gay Parée reflect fabulously in floodwaters.