I wouldn't be running with the bulls. I made that promise to my mom before getting on the plane. It was a reasonable concern. "The Sun Also Rises" inspired my post college trip to Pamplona, Spain, and I had intentionally timed my arrival to coincide with the festival of San Fermín. A herd of furious bulls would be chasing idiots through narrow streets, but I intended to stay safe drinking, smoking, and whoring about in the bars.
Pamplona was in an uproar without the beast raging in the streets. Instead it was throngs of tourists and endless rows of porta potties and vendor stands. The big events leading up to the bullfights were a few days away, but there were people sleeping in the train station and it was clear that the popularity of this holiday was much more commercial and unfamiliar than what I had envisioned. The hostel I had lined up dropped my reservation when they found they could get double what I was willing to pay. It was all very miserable. Given that this was 1984, there was no Yelp for me to share my frustration.
I felt like I couldn't breathe. People were everywhere and I needed to get out of there. It was two hours after my arrival and I was once again in front of that huge train station marquee with it's multitude of clapping panels for all the trains coming and going at the RENFE station. I had the money I planned on spending on wine and hash in my pocket, so I didn't hesitate when queuing up for the next train. Paris.
Paris was everything I thought it would be. Old, huge, elegant, and romantic. As crowded as Spain turned out to be, I now walked the streets of Paris in search of a hostel and felt very alone. I had no grasp of the language. This was an unplanned detour. Couples in love were everywhere. Everyone seemed to be holding hands or in a passionate embrace. It was like being in a commercial where someone cried "Action" and couples in love wandered in and out of frame. I remember laughing to myself at how completely out of place I felt. I'd fled to someplace even more uncomfortable.
My hostel was too expensive, without the benefit of a holiday. Without question, I'd need to move or leave Paris altogether. I didn't even bother to unpack and after stairing out my tiny window at the elegant rooftops, I took a stroll. I knew there were the Siene and Notre Dame. As sexually frustrating as it was to see people making out around me, I couldn't imagine when I'd be in this place again.
By 11 p.m., the city streets were in full bloom. The cafes were bright and busy and the sidewalks were busier than in the daytime. I had made mental notes of "markers" so I could find my way back to my room above a pharmacy. I tried to get my bearings when a cab pulled alongside me with a couple of short, petite beeps. The driver called me to his open passenger window and I was instantly suspicious of anything he had to share.
I only heard "Papillion", among the French. He then tried English.
"For you, I have the bar. It was a favorite of Papillion. You know?"
I repeated Papillion back to him and he gave me a big, toothy grin. Bullseye.
He then spoke to me as I settled into the back of the cab. We were going to a bar that was a favorite of the most compelling real-life characters I'd ever heard of. Henri Charrière was "Papillion". A French criminal made famous by his memoir recounting his escapes from prisons in French Guiana I was a notorious Frenchman, to be sure, and so yes, I wanted to go where this great man had his whiskey.
We weaved in and out of impossibly narrow streets and I heard him mention that we were near the Opera House, which seemed to be a district all it's own. And finally, we came to a stop outside a bar that looked like an English pub. I was anxious to get inside, so I paid the cabby, who got a tip from both me and the big black guy standing outside in a long white jacket. At first, I thought he was a doctor but his bulk told me he was there to handle the door. I nodded as he let me in and once inside, the similarity to a pub disappeared.
As you enter, a lineup of exotic-looking women, their bellies at the long walnut bar, turn to greet whoever comes through the door. Mirrors, glass shelves, and very heavy smoke in a dim bar made this the experience I had in mind when I booked my trip to Spain.
An older gentleman with the very faintest of a white moustache came to my side. He wore the same white jacket as the guy outside, but on this man it was like a long, white cotton robe. He gave me the same smile that the cabbie had. He found his French was wasted on me and immediately waved at the red-headed woman near the middle, as she was apparently the only enchantress on duty who knew English. Her name was Pascale.
She was stunning. They were all really stunning, and I had begun to note that in Paris, to look stunning was a fashion choice. Every woman I have seen since getting off the train has a certain look about them. Clearly distinct from the tourists, these women carried themselves with a natural authority and an air of superiority and I could not get enough.
