Paris: From Churches to Gay Bars (With a Bit of Bohemia In-Between)

So, in a little over 24 hours I will be boarding a plane for Marrakech, Morocco. Yes, this li’l bird’s going to Africa, courtesy of my amazing and brilliant and thoughtful hubby!

But, this means that I really need to get my butt in gear in terms of finishing up my blog entries about Paris. So, here goes…

19 February (still):

As I left Notre Dame, it was late afternoon—but my time in Paris was limited, and so I hopped on the Paris Metro and made my way north! A short while later, I found myself emerging from the Anvers metro stop, and to my right—atop a steep hill—sat the magnificent Basilique du Sacré-Cœur.

This gorgeous building (the Basilica of the Sacred Heart of Paris) sits atop the butte Montmartre, and offers an unparalleled view of Paris—but I’ll come to that in a moment. First, I have to tell you about my adventure en route from the metro to the hilltop. 

So, it’s almost a completely vertical climb from the street to the top of the butte, and along the way—starting at the basilica’s gates, unfortunately—are small groups of hustlers looking for money, and they stand in tight knots so that you cannot avoid them entirely.

But I’m savvy, right? 

I recognized them right off the bat as hustlers, and wasn’t interested in playing their reindeer games. 

So, as I’m walking by, one of them gets in my face and starts asking if I wanted a trinket to remember my visit. Without stopping, I held up my hand and politely said, “No thanks.”

Well, the problem was that I held up my hand, because as soon as I did so he slipped a loop of red thread over my index finger and tightened it so that I couldn’t pull my hand free. I immediately protested, telling him to take it off and that I wasn’t interested (nor was I paying for what he was trying to sell me—one of those ‘friendship bracelet’ things that we all made in elementary and middle school). But, my new-found friend and kidnapper of my finger wouldn’t budge, and vowed that he would never charge me for something like this, that it was just a gesture of good will, blah blah blah…

Using my own treasonous finger as a weapon against me, the man proceeded to twine the offending red thread with additional white and black threads, making a bracelet which he eventually removed from my finger long enough to affix to my wrist...

And then the cheeky bastard had the nerve to demand 5€ for it!

I laughed in his face, told him he was dreaming, and chucked him a penny (I figured that was even more offensive than not giving anything) as I pushed past him. 

Suffice to say, he was not thrilled. But neither was I.

Then, not fifteen feet away, another one from the same group accosted me. This time I kept my hands in my pocket as I scoffed and said that I had already been caught by one of his other con-artists friends and that I wasn’t about to be caught again. 

Unfortunately (again), this one wouldn’t take no for an answer—he physically grabbed me by the forearm as he still (ostensibly politely) told me that I should stay and talk with him. I promptly took out both hands, gave him a mighty shove, and told him to bugger off. (And then I ran the rest of the way up the hill, where I was finally safe.)

So, now that I’m safe, I can tell you about the view. 

Truly, the vista from the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur was even more incredible than the one from the Eiffel Tower (which I’ll discuss in a later entry). The only thing you couldn’t really see properly was the Eiffel Tower itself—it was there, of course, just blocked by some trees.

Playing with the panoramic setting...

The bad hair day continues...

Peek-A-Boo...I see you!

After leaving this magnificent building, I headed slightly west and deeper into Montmartre. Now, let me just take a moment to talk about this amazing district. In many ways, my all-too-brief time spent here was my favorite part of the French excursion. 

Beginning in the late 1800s, the area became a favorite for party-goers and artists. At various times Montmartre has played host to nightclubs like the (in)famous Moulin Rouge and artists such as van Gogh and Picasso. And I can tell you that its role has not changed much in the subsequent years: the Moulin Rouge still stands, and (according to the owner of my hostel) it is still possible for starving, homeless artists to find temporary and free lodging within the district’s limits.

I was never able to find any proof of it, but I’d also like to think—and to a certain degree I simply feel as if—one of my favorite musical artists, the legendary Eartha Kitt, was a frequent visitor to Montmartre during her European 'exile' years. This fantasy is (falsely) bolstered by one of my favorite songs of hers, ‘Everything Changes’ from the much-maligned Mimi Le Duck. 

One of my favorite lines within that song goes, ‘One time at Montmartre / I drank gin with Sartre”...

So, in honor of Eartha Kitt’s character’s drink with Sartre—and for all of the talented men and women (known and unknown) who have called this stunning area ‘home’ over the years—I settled down to enjoy a glass of wine (I don’t do gin). 

I did so in a lovely little square called the Place du Tertre, at an equally charming, friendly restaurant called Chez la Mère Catherine, surrounded by paintings undoubtedly meant to attract the eye of unsuspecting tourists. (In fact, I was reminded of the scene from that old episode of I Love Lucy where Lucy, Ricky, and the Mertzes all wind up buying the replicas of the same painting from a ‘street artist’ who sells them to the foolish American tourists.)

I love the random older woman (who looks a bit like my paternal grandmother) who's totally crashed the photo!

As I mentioned earlier, in many regards this was the highlight of my trip. The air was both relaxed and excited in the same moment, and the people—from my server, to the manager (who made a special trip out to see how I was doing), to the couple at the table next to me—were all so friendly! Similarly, the weather was perfect. Sitting outside and drinking wine, all while surrounded by lovely old buildings and attractive paintings…it was tres magnifique!

Sadly, I knew I had to leave Chez la Mère Catherine eventually, and so with a heavy heart I settled the bill and was on my way once more. With help from a local business owner, I found my way along winding, twisting streets (passing, as it happens, the actual Café des 2 Moulins, where the title-character in the film Amélie worked—unfortunately, I didn’t find that out until it was too late, so no pictures).

After losing myself once or twice, I finally found myself standing before the famous windmill belonging to the Moulin Rouge:

She let me know they were 'bout the cake, straight out th' gate!

Now, I’d love to say that I got tickets to see a show at the Moulin Rouge…but tickets were between 100-200€. No way was I paying that much to see a bunch of scantily clad women. (Hell, I’m not even that keen on seeing that sight for free!) So, instead, I just snapped a photo or two and was then on my way again…

I wasn’t sure where to head next—the other big things on my list were going to happen the next day—so I just started walking.

And walking.

And walking.

A little over 3 miles later, I found myself (at dark) standing in front of Notre Dame—by way of the Louvre—once more. Circle complete.

And, since I was near le Marais once more, I decided to stop and have a drink (or two) amongst mes collègues hommes gais. But since I hadn’t eaten recently I got some food at Caffe Vito first—foolishly accepting Nic’s encouragement to order the steak tartare. Don’t get me wrong, if it was just the raw meat I would have been fine…but, I swear, it was the onions and green peppers(?) that did me in! Why people insist on putting those damnable things in everything is beyond me! 

(Ah well, at least the waiter was hot—oh-so-hot: slim, tight gray jeans, early- to mid-twenties, with curly dark hair, green eyes, and just the tiniest patch of black chest hair peeking through his low-cut white shirt!—and so was the guy at the table across from me, who kept eying me flirtatiously and ordering extra items while I struggled to eat my own dinner...not that I noticed either of them of course.)

So, with my belly (more or less) full, I circled the area a couple of times, trying to decide which bar I was going to work my nerve up to entering… In the end, I hit-up three of them (shockingly, each one was easier to enter after an additional drink): The Tropic Cafe, L’Open Cafe, and eventually Raidd Bar (which, I swear, was not nearly as scandalous and seedy when I was there as their website makes it seem…then again, I never went downstairs!).

Thus (finally) concludes my first full day in Paris.

*Whew*

I Will Always Love You, Whitney Houston (Part I)

I’ve been debating whether or not I wanted to do something like this. It seems so cliché. But, having allowed a few days to pass since Whitney Houston’s untimely passing, I find that I’m still struggling with the loss of a pop-culture figure who has been ‘with me’ throughout various epochs in my life.

I know that sounds silly. I mean, it wasn’t as if I really knew her, or likely ever would.  So, what makes the loss of Ms. Houston so much more home-hitting for me than, say, the loss of the late (great) Eartha Kitt, or Etta James?

The answer lies, as I alluded to earlier, in Whitney’s prominent, mediated place in my life over the years. To that end, I’ve compiled a list of my personal top 20 songs—because ten was simply not enough—with bits of explanation thrown in here-and-there discussing how they factored in to what was going on with me at the time. 

(NB: the list is in roughly chronological order, not in order of preference—I simply couldn’t pull off the latter. Also this is just numbers 1-10, and 11-20 will be in a subsequent update.)

 

Out of Whitney’s earlier works—the ’80s years, if you will—"Saving All My Love" is definitely my favorite. It lacks the poppy, teenagery feel of other early songs like “How Will I Know?” and, overall, feels more adult in my opinion. It also features that sexy saxophone element which, even as a kid, I was drawn to.

 Now, I’m going to step out of order for a moment here because, owing to an unfortunate lapse into country music fandom (followed by a much more respectful rise into a love of Motown, oldies, &c.). The next time I encountered Whitney was in 1992. 

On a school bus. 

You see, during my middle school years—which I loathed with a passion—I was forced to ride the bus, wherein the driver would play a local radio station called WPGC. Since I was still in my Motown phase at that point, I found most of what was played on WPGC to be less enjoyable than having one’s hair set on fire. But, my peers enjoyed it, as did the driver, so for three years I was subjected to it.

And then, one morning, the usual garbage being pumped through the bus’s speakers was interrupted by a deceptively quiet, gentle voice proclaiming that if she stayed she would only be in the way. My personal recollection is that the bus fell silent in a way that is nigh-impossible for a group of 50-odd adolescents. What’s more: I was just as enraptured as they were.

 

Who was this siren of song? I wondered. The thing she does with her voice… The notes she can hit… 

It was all quite magical (not to mention emotionally evocative)—especially at the moment just over three minutes into the song, when it shifts into something quite beyond a power-ballad—and, when I finally realized who it was that was singing, I fell in love. For the next few months, every morning I was gifted with a 4 ½ minute reprieve from the hell that was middle school. 

I discovered shortly thereafter that the song was from the soundtrack to “The Bodyguard,” a movie starring both Houston and Costner. Now, at the time, I wasn’t in the habit of seeing movies in the theater—I was perfectly content to wait for them to come out on video (yes, VHS!). So, as soon as it hit the stores, I rented it. That’s when I discovered my other two favorite songs from this era:

and,

In the case of the first ("I Have Nothing"), I have to be completely honest: it was the Cleopatra-styled headdress that she wears which roped me in. But, moreover, it was the wailing expression of her longing, coupled with the powerful declaration of having “nothing, nothing, nothing” if she couldn’t have the object of her affection. Also, there was that same brief pause before an orchestral sweep found in “I Will Always Love You.”

Regarding “Run to You,” I was intrigued by the idea of the duality in people (not, of course, that I could have articulated it as such at the time): this notion of someone being completely different on the inside than they are on the outside. 

Indeed, courtesy of my struggles with depression at the time, I felt I understood all-too-well this duality—oh, people could tell there might be something going on within me (unlike Whitney’s “always in control” character), but no one—least of all my peers—grasped the destructive thoughts and emotions roiling beneath the surface. I wanted desperately to have someone to turn to, to talk all of that over with…but, there were no Costner-like characters in my life to fill that need at the time. And so, I simply had to live vicariously through the Rachel Marron character.

Now, with both of these, I would love to be able to say that they also spoke to me because of something or other to do with having to live a closeted life at the time. But, that wasn’t the case. Honestly, at the time, I wasn’t even fully aware of my sexual identity; but, I knew that I was missing out on something in terms of the whole love-thing, and both of these songs spoke to that missing something.

Between “The Bodyguard” soundtrack and Houston’s “My Love is Your Love” album, various things happened in my life: middle school, as I mentioned earlier, continued to be hellacious—but it somehow managed to get even worse for reasons I’d rather not get into here; my paternal grandparents, who were both very sick, moved in with us for an extended period of time (turning a small, one-bathroom, rambler-style house into a home for six people), leading to much conflict within the family; and my sister and I were at frequent logger-heads owing to the difference in our ages coupled with the earlier issues I referenced. 

All-in-all, it was a shitty time, and all time not spent at school—and I really do mean all time—was spent in my room, with the blinds drawn and the lights off, sleeping, because it was the only way I could avoid my reality at the time. During this dark time in my life, I didn’t listen to music (except when forced to on the bus). Period.

Now, the first song I actually caught from the “My Love is Your Love” album was “When You Believe” (Houston’s duet with Mariah Carey), and though I liked it—and it re-inspired my love for her music—it still wasn’t enough to get me to buy the album. That happened the first time I heard Whitney, accompanied by Faith Evans and Kelly Price, talking about the “Heartbreak Hotel.”

But what was it about this mythical hotel that caught my attention? Well, the song was released (as a single) in December of 1998. But, earlier that year—around May or June—I had experienced the most profound epiphany: I am gay! (The moment of this epiphany happened in my Spanish II class, and involved a peer—but that’s a story for another day. Maybe.)

At any rate, by December, I had had some time to process this grand revelation, and also to assume one of the most basic, stereotypical qualities of your average US American gay man: I had developed a deep-seated, profound respect, admiration, and love for strong black women. Especially when said-women could sing. 

Sure enough, “Heartbreak Hotel” stars three gorgeous, fierce women with voices that could level a mountain, and they’re giving a big “f*** you” to the men who’ve done them wrong. 

Hell. Yeah. 

In term’s of the song’s video, it didn’t hurt either that I love the Florida coastline! Uhm…and the red dress-with-collar-and-white-fur-coat combination? Friggin’ exquisite! 

Speaking of (similar) amazing fashion choices: Whitney’s dress in the “It’s Not Right, But It’s Okay” video. 

Oh my gracious—that leather skirt! Whoo! 

Basically, the song ranks on here for the same reason as the last. In essence, Whitney is powerful, stunning, and the video appeals to my inner-drag-queen. (Plus, it gave me the whole “get goin’, get goin’” hand-flick that I frequently emulate when dancing and singing in the shower!)

Now, “It’s Not Right, But It’s Okay” also represents another new phase in my life. At the start of the new millennium, I was involved in a rather…trying relationship that extended well-past the expiration date. (If only I’d listened to my mother when she referred to him as the “anti-Christ!”)

 

However, one positive aspect of my life that came about as a result of this mauvaise relation was that, together, we entered into the world of drag culture. Practically every week we would make our way down to DC and watch the female illusionists at Ziegfeld’s work their magic alongside the music of MadisonAvenue, Brittney, Christina, Madonna, Cyndi, &c. Oh and, of course, Whitney. 

 

This merely added to my love of the over-the-top, spectacularly overly-dramatic, on-stage flair—which Whitney makes manifest in her video for “I Learned from the Best.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

So, on the one hand, this song spoke to me because of the video—there Whitney is, on a stage before an audience, with big hair and a kick-ass ensemble, just like so many queens I’ve known over the years. 

And then, on the other hand, the lyrics spoke to the intense feeling of betrayal and equally intense desire to end the disastrous, unfaithful relationship I was stuck in. (In fact, after I finally did end things—taking extra special care to be as spiteful and financially- and emotionally-vindictive as I could be, as a special “thank you” for all of the infidelities and emotional abuse over the years—this song helped ease me back into singlehood.)

Wash; rinse; and, repeat: you have the story of my love for “I Bow Out” as well.

The final song from this magnificent album I want to talk about is “If I Told You That.” Like the others, it hit me at just the right moment. (And yes, once again, I was mesmerized by her outfit as well!) 

Following my break-up with the “anti-Christ,” I entered into a succession of brief liaisons with numerous amazing people, many of whom number amongst my closest friends today. With that latter set, there were many times where I felt the bond was so strong between us that I was both intrigued by and scared of allowing it to cross into the mushy, wonderful realm of love. 

And that’s kind of what this song is all about—finding that balance between the closest of friendships and an affection so deep that it borders on love. In essence, should we or shouldn’t we? 

In the end, I never allowed the full transformation to take place. Quite simply, I was afraid and wasn’t ready (on an emotional level) as a result of what I’d just been through—and, honestly, I’m glad such was the case, because it enabled me to meet and develop a relationship with Nic years later, as well as maintain an amazing constellation of friends!

Okay, last one (for this part).

Circa 1999, I was listening to a lot of Enrique Iglesias—his music was pretty so-so, but I found him to be quite studly. Plus, I was coming out of my melancholy, post-relationship phase and ready to give love an honest shot once again, so the inner romantic in me was longing for the types of songs he was singing. 

Then, one day, I happened to be in a Radio Shack of all places. 

(What the hell was I doing in a Radio Shack? I couldn’t tell you, but I can say that it’s one of only about five times it’s ever happened in my life!)

At any rate, I was in the back of the store, and they had one of those TV walls—and there was Whitney, whispering “Dame un beso para siempre” (roughly: “kiss me forever”). 

Why was she speaking in Spanish? I was intrigued… 

And then, there was Enrique, too! Hotness!

And then that hotness proceeded to explode all over my face at the (roughly) 3:35 mark, when Enrique and Whitney start singing to each other in Spanish:

Enrique: S’lo, s’lo un beso, un beso para siempre
Whitney: Para siempre
Enrique: Dame un beso para siempre
Whitney: Para siempre-e-e-e-e

To this day, I find that to be one of the sexiest moments in music history! I can’t quite tell you why, but it spoke to the time and place that I was in at that moment in my life, and still resonates with me today!

Well, friends, I’ve rambled enough for this segment, I think. Part II will be up later (or maybe tomorrow).