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 FermÃn. 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.
Pascale waited until my eyes returned to hers. That much cleavage was going to get unapoligetic stares. Her breasts appeared to be fighting to be freed from her crushed mustard evening gown. Her skin was alabaster, yellowed by the low lighting and her hair was dark red and piled high, 60's style. Her ears were bedazzled with a parade of tiny pearls that ran their length. Though abruptly picked for her English, I felt fortunate to have been paired with this elegant femme fatale.
She offered a discrete smirk, which I was taking as her smile. It felt like we just shared a secret, though I was unclear exactly what it was. She then took my arm, directing me to a staircase at the furthest end of the bar. The other ladies no longer had an interest and turned back to smoking and drinking until the door would swing open again.
It was a short journey past crates of wine and onions to a basement showroom, set behind a heavy velvet drape. Pascale held it aside as I passed and there in front of me was a modest, raised wooden stage illuminated with two faint pink spotlights. Facing the stage were high-upholstered Vegas-style booths, but they were scaled down to accommodate a very small cocktail table. There were a few couples already seated. Hostesses and their guests. Pascale steered me to our booth and slid close enough to where our thighs were side by side. In just a brief moment, before I could say a word, another lovely hostess presented us with a split of Champagne. I turned over my credit card while watching Pascale's bosom roll about as she got comfortable. How expensive could it be?
Her accent made everything she said sound flirty. She surprised me by talking about herself and her family. I had a feeling almost instantly that Pascale was actually her name. Another hostess walked past with an older gentleman, who seemed like a local. The others weren't tourists either. I was the only one. Pascale exchanged a look with the young woman as they passed and once seated, the lights dimmed even lower and from a sound system up in the ceiling, there was a soft rumble of bass that backed an MC welcoming us to "Papillion." It was the name of the bar. Unless they named the place after their notorious patron, I now figured the great French safe cracker probably never stepped a foot in here. The place was cashing in on the guy.
I thought about the taxi driver who brought me here. Was it so obvious that I would get sucked in? He had me pegged from twenty feet away.
I then looked at my new, lovely friend. She smelled so floral, and with the lights even lower, her pale arms, legs, and breasts seemed to glow. Her hair now seemed to be a bright rust color. I was feeling very vulnerable all of a sudden.
Pascale smiled, unaware of my sudden disappointment.
"You're going to love this," she purred into my ear. Watch and see if you can tell which one is gay." I looked at her, unsure what she was talking about, when the MC introduced a couple who came on stage. A man and woman in kahki painter smocks.
