Who am I if not a girl in pursuit of escape? Many times it is fantasy, but I once managed to pull it off. It was a cool, Parisian summer night, and I was twenty-two years old. We had just come from dinner and a tantalizing cabaret show. French women exposing their breasts while the audience indulges under dim lighting and eternal champagne. I wore a plum dress, lipstick to match, and white ballet flats to dance. Outside on the terrace after the show, amidst the haze of chatter and smoke, we decided on jazz. Caveau de la Huechette, to be precise. This club was unlike any club I had ever been to before.
Upon entering, exposed brick curved the ceiling and the walls almost closed in on you. Warm lamp lighting and live instruments caressed your senses—the bass thumping in your bones, the drums beating in your heart, the sax tickling your tongue so that you were practically salivating for a drink. A winding staircase led you to the basement, where all the action was. Old, seasoned couples took up space on the dance floor in front of an elevated stage, where the band was literally glowing. You could pick up several languages in one earshot, the music a language of its own. It was fast, then it was slow, then loud, then quiet, always mesmerizing.
I started to dance alone for only a moment before a dark-haired boy introduced himself to me. He whispered something French in my ear, to which I told him that I speak English. His entire demeanor changed, and he responded in a Boston accent. His brother lives in Paris, he told me, and he was just passing through. He was rude and flirtatious, and my friends did not like him. I stepped on his toes once or twice as I whirled through a blur of dance partners, my favorite being a girl much more talented than I. She knew, effortlessly, the pulse of each note and how to respond to it with clever poise. I followed her lead until my breathlessness led me to sit at the bar amongst familiar strangers.
Eventually, the band played its last tune, and the sea of dancers and patrons washed out into the street, where nobody missed a beat. The conversations from the club carried on into the echoes of the city. The whole ensemble seemed routine, as if the club had swallowed us up and spit us back out a hundred times over. It was the perfect display of uninhibited youth, of storytelling travelers, and of limitless possibility. I felt I could be anywhere in the world, and yet, I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
The boy asked me to take a joyride with him, to which I obliged. Sure, it may have been careless. But careless was out of the question when the night offered itself to me so explicitly. We alone rode through the streets of Paris, where you could deny any other life ever existed or would ever exist. We had no names, no titles, no demands, and no doubts. Reconcile was saved for tomorrow.
We arrived at his brother’s apartment, where his friends were lying in the tiny bedroom, watching television. To his dismay, we were not alone. My rush of adrenaline and hastiness had begun to wear off, and I realized I was standing in a room with three men in a foreign country. I decided that it was time for my respective company to take me home. He suggested that we smoke a cigarette first, to be polite. To be polite, what the hell.
We stood leaning through the only window in the skinny apartment hallway, him rolling the cigarette on the ledge and me attempting to take a picture in my mind. The Eiffel Tower was barely visible in the far distance, gleaming like a beacon calling me home. It became apparent that the boy was taking his sweet time rolling the goddamn cigarette, and I had had enough. I demanded he take me home, and he said he just had to run inside to grab his keys. I never saw him again.
As I came to terms with my misfortune, his brother emerged from the front door leading into the hallway. He asked me, in disbelief, if his brother had left me out there alone, and I responded that it had appeared so. He offered to call me a cab home, and I was relieved. He seemed perplexed that I had made it this far into my rendezvous without something terrible happening, and I was beginning to think the same. I did my best to keep my panic at bay while we waited for the car to arrive.
Eventually, a male driver pulled up right in front of our feet. I was almost home safe. I wished my companion goodbye and got into the backseat of the car, more acutely aware of my surroundings than ever. At this point, the sun had begun to rise, and I heard birds chirping outside the window. As light poured in between the cracks of the buildings we passed, I almost laughed at the sheer but beautiful absurdity of the moment. I had made several mistakes and yet, not a single one.
We arrived at my hostel, and I felt a wave of relief wash over me as I began to exit. The driver made eye contact with me through the rearview mirror and asked me, in broken English, if I had had a wild night. I smiled at him and walked up to my room, crashing into my bed as others started their mornings. When I think back on that night, I am dumbfounded that I so recklessly agreed to run off with a stranger. But honestly, I still know exactly why I did it. It was exhilarating. It was dangerous. It was pure freedom. And it made for one hell of a story.