All of the Lights: Week 3
Traveler’s Note: What we have is here is a collection of write-ups composed during downtimes (let’s hope there are few) that tell my French story. Mon histoire francais. As this is partly a music blog, my journal entries will be sonically driven, giving insight on how music is shaping my time in the City of (flashing) Lights. Enjoy!
I just booked a ticket Nice (pronounced like “niece”), which is not as popular a place as I thought. I usually hit y’all with a few different entries per week but Monday thru Friday evening was pretty tranquil. I spent most of my time preparing for quizzes that might as well have been in a different language. Wait! They were in a different fucking language! … Guess that explains it. But Friday evening was good. C’etait bon! I went to my first European futbol game with, yeah you guessed it, the Squad Abroad.
Nucking futs! Place was electric whenever they scored. And just crushed when their goalie fumbled what should be an easy save allowing the opponent to score with ultimate ease. He must have been… kicking himself about it! Eh? Eh? That guy ruined my first experience. But I’m a PSG’er for life now and def getting immersed into the futbol culture. Def tryna learn the chants and shit before I get out of here. ALLER PARIS!
Y’all will never believe what happened after the game tho! Ya boy find a hip hop club that played like contemporary hip-hop. Real shit! But… it cost 20 euros to get in. So… I snuck in. Then… I found out Jagerbombs costed 18 euros. Which is when I “reached back like a pimp and…”, sulked because before I found out they would get into the type of tunes of which I’ve been in constant desire, they were in like full house mode (no John Stamos). I almost
cried left. Then the DJ, that emotion-jerker, dropped the “Next Episode”. It was the beginning of something beautiful. I was still a little salted cause I wanted some new. But he made it there eventually and once I heard Dej Loaf’s voice on “Be Real”, I was like “you know what, I think imma buy a drink”, to reward them and all for doing well. A little Pavlovian conditioning, if you will. And idk if it ever worked but the DJ continued to play the hits (YG, Migos, Silento, etc) and I continued buying drinks.
You’re probably wondering… did this guy buy those 18 euro drinks? Hell naw! Found out that Patron was 8 euros a shot and had a few of those. It was probs just cheap tequila but imma say it was Patron since they had the signage everywhere, which lead me to think 8 euros was a goddamn steal for p-a-t-r-o- to the-n!
After the club, I went on a 2 hour quest, on foot, with the squad for food only to end up back at my house way hungrier than before. Awesome.
Saturday we attempted to hit a different place, as we would hate for our regular romp at Rue de Lappe to get stale as a 2 day old, 97 cent baguette. We tried… and found that not only could we not get in anywhere but that the area closed at 2 am which is hella a-Parisian. So we decided we’d run another… Lappe. Eh? Eh? Left out of there around 4am and went looking for food -you know how that go- ended up at this place that wouldn’t serve french fries, alone. They insisted we buy a drink. We refused and were not served but you know that’s what good people are for. A half American dude with an French African accent leans over and affirms what we already thought; that ol garçon was an asshole. He then offered us wine, which we’d have been bad guests to deny. Three bottles later, all of the squad had departed and i’m third wheeling pretty hard with this dude and his girlfriend, who was like hella into me (lmao, im jk. kinda…). He was bit older so we spent a lot of the time talking about politics and the Rap of a decade ago: Luda “Act A Fool”, Young Jeezy “Trapstar”, 50 Cent and things of the like. Sick convos. He also liked YG. His mantra for the night was “im that neega, I’m that neega… bank of america” (to be read in French African voice)
We bump some group from whom the new homie was bumming cigarettes off. We end up joining tables and tryna convince the group that I was an American once they heard me speak. Apparently, French people are gulla-bulls cause everybody knows my French is booty-butt-ass crack. But we chopped it up with for a bit, met an rather belligerent drunk Italian chick who spoke French and we had a nice little cohort going for a bit before we got kicked out the restaurant around 8am. We cap the night at the only place serving alcohol at 9am and have a few beers. I walk the 5 minutes home. Don’t have my keys. Damn!