Le bal le plus hot de Paris
Le Bal des Pompiers is one of those mythical summer-time events that only us hard-core Parisians who don't ditch the City of Lights mid-July get to experience. Okay, it's actually where all the schmucks who blew out their vacation time in the spring, teeny boppers, and banlieusards mish-mash miserably, but still.
I'd heard my fair share of extensively raunchy tales about steamy nights spent in various of the city's casernes for the pre-14 juillet fête; when J-B proposed that we join the rowdy crowds, I happily accepted. I called up another dancing machine copine to see if she wanted to join the festivities, and we giddily discussed the awesomeness of such a shindig, both agreeing that the female fireman fantasy must be universally innate, sort of like Chomsky's inherent language theory. Totally. A few phone calls to faithful partying friends later, and I was rearing to test out our hypothesis.
With visions of dancing le rock, airborn champagne flutes, and blisters on my toes, we made our way to the caserne du Vieux Colombier in the 6e. The reveries I'd been entertaining, inspired by WWII footage of newly liberated, Parisian street dancing lovers, died in their tracks when we arrived at the entrance. A thick line extended beyond rue de Rennes, snaked into side-streets, and terminated at a point described as the three-hour wait point by fellow attendants.
Plan B, wherein we dance like fools to Antillaise music at a generic St. Germain pub went into effect. We danced unhinged and uninhibited; laughter gurgled from my belly as we invented new ways to strut and shake. Surrounded by friends who are revelers, an unmitigated happiness returned to me, the way that it always does when my limbs are sailing freely. There was no philosophy to it; I didn't have to convince myself that others, so many others, have it way worse than I do, or practice the art of faking it to become it. It felt richly good to be stomping and flailing and guffawing in conspiratorial buffoonery with François, cheering J-B on with his faux strip-tease gyrations. I saw that maniacal glee mirrored in my companion's face, and forgot -- for once, and truly -- that this wasn't where I thought I'd be six months ago.
The fireman's ball, where we did eventually end up, was a sardine can, Oktoberfest, and an ode to teenage pregnancy all wrapped up in one pulsing mess. We ditched after 10 minutes and caught a lucky cab home.
I'd heard my fair share of extensively raunchy tales about steamy nights spent in various of the city's casernes for the pre-14 juillet fête; when J-B proposed that we join the rowdy crowds, I happily accepted. I called up another dancing machine copine to see if she wanted to join the festivities, and we giddily discussed the awesomeness of such a shindig, both agreeing that the female fireman fantasy must be universally innate, sort of like Chomsky's inherent language theory. Totally. A few phone calls to faithful partying friends later, and I was rearing to test out our hypothesis.
With visions of dancing le rock, airborn champagne flutes, and blisters on my toes, we made our way to the caserne du Vieux Colombier in the 6e. The reveries I'd been entertaining, inspired by WWII footage of newly liberated, Parisian street dancing lovers, died in their tracks when we arrived at the entrance. A thick line extended beyond rue de Rennes, snaked into side-streets, and terminated at a point described as the three-hour wait point by fellow attendants.
Plan B, wherein we dance like fools to Antillaise music at a generic St. Germain pub went into effect. We danced unhinged and uninhibited; laughter gurgled from my belly as we invented new ways to strut and shake. Surrounded by friends who are revelers, an unmitigated happiness returned to me, the way that it always does when my limbs are sailing freely. There was no philosophy to it; I didn't have to convince myself that others, so many others, have it way worse than I do, or practice the art of faking it to become it. It felt richly good to be stomping and flailing and guffawing in conspiratorial buffoonery with François, cheering J-B on with his faux strip-tease gyrations. I saw that maniacal glee mirrored in my companion's face, and forgot -- for once, and truly -- that this wasn't where I thought I'd be six months ago.
The fireman's ball, where we did eventually end up, was a sardine can, Oktoberfest, and an ode to teenage pregnancy all wrapped up in one pulsing mess. We ditched after 10 minutes and caught a lucky cab home.
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