Paris non smoking

Finally, the (no) smoking law is here. The day that I dreaded arrived on the 1st of the year. And typical of the French, this was declared the day of ‘tolerance.’ Forget about tolerance as we know it among people of different creeds and colors (France despite its apparent multiculturalism still has a hard time thinking that it is a multicultural society), tolerance here means that on that day, we could still puff away in cafes and bars and restaurants. After that, it’s some seven hundred euros fine for the restaurant or bar or café owner and 68 euros for the person smoking.

The first non tolerance day actually went quite well which really surprised me. The French think that rules and laws are there to be broken (you can observer motorcyclists on sidewalks, drivers who do not respect traffic lights or going to the wrong way of a one way street!). Yet the smoking law actually got respected despite complaints that I hear from everyone all around me.
As for me, never had I felt so deprived. Gone are the days when I will bring work to a café, find my favourite table from where I can watch people go by when work becomes too boring, get served good strong coffee and smoke many cigarettes.

The familiar sight in Melbourne where people (office workers) are huddled against building trying to protect themselves from rain and wind whist smoking a cigarette, can now be seen here. And given that cafes often are found on the ground floor of residential buildings, I am sure those living just above the cafes have much to complain about as smokers talk loudly just below their windows. There are also stories where restaurant clients under the guise of smoking a cigarette went outside and never came back and leaving their bill unpaid.

What I have noticed in my circle is that our time in restaurants has really been shortened. Whereas before, we would smoke a cigarette between courses, now that this is not possible, we would speed through the courses and clear out to smoke a cigarette. This is a sin in a place where food really is part of the cultural activities that is supposed to be enjoyed leisurely…
In neighbourhood cafes where generally we whiled away the hours discussing nothing passionately, people now just come drink their coffee and go. How I missed those times when you can really bond with people you normally don’t cross in your everyday lives.

Luckily there are terraces and now that the weather is improving somewhat (but yes, I have sat outside in freezing weather to drink my coffee with a cigarette, as do many Parisians). But this is not the same as standing at the bar and chatting away with whoever is there. I supposed that’s another aspect of Parisian life that is gone now.
I remember with a pang the complaints Americans always had arriving at Charles de Gaulle airport: people (you bet they were French) smoking under the no smoking signs and the smoky terminal building despite it being a smoke free building. Well, now the air is clean and life is just, how will I put it, a little bit less French?

Hints for smokers visiting Paris: At CDG airport, you have to get out of the terminal to smoke. In the city, many terraces now has outside heaters where you can take your coffee or meals and have the right to smoke. A packet of cigarettes cost about 5 euros 30 cents in France.

Paris frogs and prince charming

They say that you’ve got to kiss a lot of frogs before finally finding your prince charming. Well, I don’t know if the person who uttered this wise thought was referring to the French (=frogs) or not. But certainly kissing lots of frogs in search of the one big love is much more enjoyable in France. To begin with, most of them are quite charming, at least when they are feeling sexy. Being charming or being brilliant indeed is a characteristic that seems necessary for survival in France. Whereas in the US and Australia being nice seems to smooth a lot of social interaction (and get you lots of goodies), here charm and wit seem to be more important. Being charming includes a lot of things like appearance (you look at someone and you can say Mmmm he looks just charming), behavior and body language (such as smile and how you move) or verbal behaviour (how you speak). Last but by no means not least, the content of what you say is important too. Related to this last, you just have to be smart, or have the conviction that you ARE smart (no matter what the reality is).

My French friends all consider themselves a bit of smart (if not charming) politicians and seriously take themselves as somewhat experts (or at least no less expert than others) on the subject. This makes for interesting if somewhat a bit tense for my taste dinner parties. In Australia and in the US, at dinner parties we attempt to get to know other guests. In Parisian soirée, people indeed would introduce themselves to everyone present (and kisses are exchanged between men and women…and handshakes between men), but after that it’s all fair game to impose your convictions on diverse subjects and to quash the opinion you don't agree with. I try to figure this out, in my American and Australian dinners, we get interested in new people and attempt to get to know them and expect the same interest in return. There is a law of reciprocity there and the norm guiding our behaviour is to maintain involvement of everyone (I bet you have tried, in one of your dinner parties, to change the subject of conversation so that everyone will be included). The norm that guides dinner parties here seems more self-affirmation against a public that one supposes by default is ready to say that you are not who you think you are, mate. In both cases I guess we strive for confirmation of who we are, by nicely affirming the self image conveyed by others (that I am a nice guy, and you show me that you find me nice) or by imposing on others to acknowledge who we are even if begrudgingly.

I have to admit though, that on average I think the French are more informed about the political situation, domestic or international, compared to the more insular American friends that I have. Still, I do miss dinners where we just get along and forget “performance” for a while…I remember a dinner party in Melbourne where practically everyone there had a doctoral degree or equivalent and all night long we talked about sex from A to Z…At 3 am, someone piped out saying : Gee, I wonder what the uneducated people talk about at dinner parties?

So, to get your prince charming, getting on your knees when he enters the room and speak only when spoken to is not going to do it...you have to bedazzle him with your charm and wit and knowledge. If that sounds like a tall order, don"t despair, if you stay with the frogs long enough, you will find them charming in the end too. Familiarity breeds liking remember ?

Hints: Tha major newspapers in Paris (France) are Le Monde (center), La Liberation (left) and le Figaro (rightist). English newspapers such as the International Herald Tribue are often available in newsagents (kiosks presse). When invited, best not to come early or on time, there is the quarter of an hour rule of lateness that hosts or hostesses could use to tackle last minute rushes. A bottle of wine is always welcome when invited for dinner.

Paris ccccchhhhhanges

Having finally found an apartment, I moved bit by bit my belongings from the old to the new apartment. Compared to the US, moving in Paris is a big production that can totally occupy one’s existence.
First, finding an apartment is already so time consuming and the process of applying for the apartment extremely nerve-wrecking. Having a permanent job (or what they call Contrat à Durée Indéterminé) does not do it anymore; indeed, you need everyone under the sun to be your guarantors! Parents or siblings or other family members are best, and friends do not really count. This presents a problem for me who rely on friends since all my family is outside France (and to be a guarantor you need to pay taxes in France!). That definitely limits the apartments that I can apply for from the first go. Then, all the money that you have to dish out: The agent’s fee (which when you add the other fees you may not know about can be significantly more than one month’s rent), the two months security deposit that they ask and of course the first month’s rent. Despite a reasonable salary, my application for a couple apartments got refused. This made me lose several nights of sleep (Hey, I had to move out of my apartment by a certain date, and the space under the beautiful Paris bridges are generally occupied already)
Then, when you find an apartment, the next worry is moving. Now, many streets in Paris are narrow and you cannot always park your car right in front of your building without blocking the traffic entirely (fine for 5 minutes but do it longer and you have the crazy French drivers honking and insulting you for sure). And if you lived on the upper floors without elevator (as many old buildings in Paris are), well, 5 minutes is just to negotiate from your floor to the one below your rather big objects via the narrow stairway. Add to that the task of finding friends who could help you. In order to avoid traffic and mad drivers (because your car would be blocking the street even for a short time), most people move either very early in the morning or late at night. In my case, the weekend is hell as well as that is when everyone in Paris and their relations seem to decide to come to the quartier where I was living. So, it was very early in the morning that we had to do it, under the unsympathetic eyes of awakened neighbors. It is no wonder that most Parisians stay in their rented apartment a lot longer than what I am used to in Melbourne or San Francisco for example.
Now in my new apartment, my new quartier could not be more different than the old one. Right in Montmartre at the foot of the basilic Sacré Coeur (ok, in both quartiers you still find lots of tourists, but different kinds of tourists…now I bump into many more bussed tourists in groups), my new quartier is probably more true Parisian with its mixed population from the bourgeois to young professionals to musicians to artists to immigrants. Life here feels more real than it did in my old quartier (Le Marais) where everything and everyone is beautiful even early in the morning but especially late at night. And not being exactly snow white, I must say that I feel less of an intruder in this colourful neighbourhood.
And the bonus, a gay bar with a backroom is only a street away!

Hints for those who wish to rent an apartment in Paris, furnished and short term: There are now real estate agents who specialize in renting short term furnished apartments. They may be more expensive than the market price but practical, consultable via their English language websites and can take care of the administrative rules nightmare that might be unfamiliar to non residents.
The gaybar I am talking about in my new neighborhood is MecZone (Metro Anvers), a bar with backroom frequented by locals and a few tourists.

Paris Grand Amour

Le grand amour, or the real true love in one’s life , of mine (at least until now. Have no idea how many grand amours one can actually have in life) was intimately linked to Paris. OK, he was not Parisian (but from the province not far from Paris. Anything outside Paris by the way is called the province), but our love blossomed in Paris (as I guess would say all lovers who come to Paris) and many of my memories with him took place in Paris. Like the time we walked late at night on the Pont des Arts: The lampposts simmering in the fog and rain, the river Seine reflecting the lights of the city, and his warm hand holding mine. I thought that if this was not love, I would still die a happy man! Then there was the time we met after a month separation at the Gare du Nord. Among the crowd I spotted him and everyone else ceased to exist and I felt such happiness rose from my stomach to my chest and eventually all over. I looked at his face and could not believe how much I loved him and, as the cliché says, could have sworn that I heard La Vie en Rose playing at the station. ha ha.
I also remeber the night we were at the terrace of the Banana Café when he came out to his best friend and introduced me as his Grand Amour de sa vie (the love of his life)! He was happy as a lark having for the first time ever blurted out his non heterosexuality to his stunned best friend who sat there jaws practically on his lap. And then, of course, there were walks in le Marais and long kisses at a corner table at l’Amnesia café.

We lived on the fifth floor walk up apartment in Goncourt (which explained I guess why i had adorable behind at that time) where in the mornings I used to wake him up with a steaming cup of hot coffee and fresh wet kisses. For the first time in my life, I had no desire to have sex with other men. This must be love, I told myself; that must be love, everyone around me told me. In the cocoon of our apartment, we lived in our own world as if the morning sun was there to whisper Bonjour just for us.

But the real world reared its head and broke us apart from the inside (and not exactly knocking on the door as I anticipated or knocking us apart from the outside). He was soon torn between his family who wanted a heterosexual son and a lover that could look like RuPaul on a bad hair day (or even no hair day!). We would be together in Paris and he would be feeling guiltier by the minute, resenting me by the second and finally running to take the train to his hometown, only to call me not long after he arrived to say he missed me and did not know what in hell he was doing there away from me. He shuttled between Paris and his hometown like a crazy pingpong ball being bounced and pulled by different parts of himself that just never seemed to find its rightful place wherever he was. It was no wonder he cracked: He left Paris (in fact, France), married the first girl that looked presentable, and got fat.

So there we are: A happy family in the province that could be proud of his son, an unhappy man with a presentable wife a long way from France, and a lost person wondering the streets of Paris late at night wondering if the Grand Amour will say Hello out of the blue foggy night.

Paris weather, the homeless, birthday & lovers

Weather and the homeless
Today is the 14th of dec. 2007. Paris experiences one of its coldest days. In the afternoon, I looked at the t displayed on a building and saw it was only 3 (Ok, people from Hamilton NY will probably laugh saying that 3 degrees Celsius is cold). Tomorrow morning, they expect -3 ! Though nothing compared to what we could have in New York or NJ or Massachusetts (or Canada), Paris does not really see itself as a cold weather city which means that heating system is not as effective as one might find in North America. My first apartment, for instance, did not have any heaters (I had to buy portable ones. The law has since changed though, specifying that heaters are to be present in rented apartments). But even heating professionals would look at you as if you had just spoken to them in Chinese if you talk about central heating. Snow is even rarer. My first year in Paris, everyone was up in arms with traffic jams and accidents on autoroutes around Paris because of an inch of snow! Never mind the kind of snow we get in upstate NY.
During this cold time, metro stations might be left open (they usually close just after midnight) to be used as shelters for homeless people. The number of homeless people in Paris has increase exponentially since I arrived here 9 years ago. Many new ones I notice in my neighbourhood (they still look very well kept and have few possessions, whereas the longtime homeless people may look unkempt and carry many things from boxes to supermarket caddy). This is a rather shocking situation in a society that is very social(ist, with socialized medical system) and concerned with human issues. Though housing problem has been discussed often on tv, little news concerns the homeless (unless the weather gets very cold like these days). In a true French tendency to render unpleasant things less unpleasant, these homeless people are called SDF or sans domicile fixe or, literally, without fixed address as if they change address everyday! Actually, more accurately they should be called simply sans domicile or without home!

Birthday and lovers
Tomorrow is my birthday. As the (self-made) tradition calls every year, I celebrate it by making love. Last year, I had to wait till the day after my birthday for the love making with my married lover. This year I start early, so, thank you to Michel and to Mario who have made my day and my evening. Both had to come from outside Paris to help me celebrate the day that most gay men beyond a certain age would rather forget! Malik came just before midnight to lessen the pain of the symbolic passage of the age on the midnight hour. These men helped me forget aging, aging and aging. Memorable past birthdays include Marc, my lover who with his youth managed to make me feel younger (assimilation) or, sigh, older (contrast). Marc is gone from my neighbourhood (and from my life) now. But I still remember his likes and dislikes that are not always conventional (like finding a secluded park on a cold night when my apartment is all nice, warm and cosy, to make love in). But hey, to each his own and if that makes him happy I am not averse to a spot of love among trees (nature lover that I am) on a beautiful park in a small island where Paris first came into being, stranded by the river Seine on both sides (hint: Ile de st louis).
With birthdays, one cannot help but count the time until one finally reaches one’s goal of finding Mr. Right instead of Mr Right There. But for now again, Mr. Right There is better than no one right?

Paris Los Angeles

Having spent some of my formative years in Los Angles, it is no wonder that I miss LA from time to time. There is this feeling that I get as soon as the plane touches down in LAX that could only be described as a feeling that one may have upon arriving ‘home’ after a long and tortuous journey or day.
No other two cities can be more different to each other than LA and Paris.
Whereas LA does not really have a city center and is spread out, Paris is compact and almost all of Paris can be considered the center (at least the first 8 arrondissements, which only leave us 12 that are not properly speaking center of Paris). Whereas LA downtown (if we insist on having a center in LA this is the most likely candidate, at least theoretically) is deserted and actively avoided once the sun goes down, Paris center becomes even more lively later in the night. The perception of city center and suburbs and where the rich and the poor live also could not be more different. Talking to a friend in LA about social problems, he talked about the inner city whereas I talked about the banlieus or the suburbs!

So, once in a while I would scrape a few dollars or euros from my miserable salary to get myself an airticket to LA. Bizarrely, it is not that easy to get a non stop direct flight between the two cities. So, one may have to stop in Chicago, New York, Detroit (yes, Detroit! Go figure) or Washington. Arriving in LAX, my first stop would be to the outside walkways to the right and the left of the Tom Bradley international terminal: Here, I had spent many hours watching airlines from all over the world parked at their gates and dreaming of far away places that someday I might visit (I have done most of them now).
Next is the city bus that would take me along Century boulevard towards Hawthorne boulevard. This will take me past the X book store I used to go to (and cruised) when I was young in Inglewood. And the bus will take me to my old hood Hawthorne.

Now, you may get advised not to go anywhere near Hawthorne or Inglewood because of gang problems etc. But I can walk there feeling free as a bird as I recognize every corner that had stayed the same or remember it as it used to be: Like the bleachers at Hawthorne HS athletic tracks where we all used to do naughty stuff whilst the HS athletes are huffing and puffing on the track chased by the coach or the bus stops where I probably spent most of my non driving years and wasted my youth waiting or missing buses, or the mall where I used to hang out and whiled away the time.

LA vs Paris: public transport and superficial friendship
Whereas public transport is the norm in Paris (as in many other large cities such as NY and London), in LA public transport used to be pronounced with so much spite it was no wonder I was floored when I finally realized public transport could be efficient and useful, as when I moved to NYC. In LA, cars are necessary and even though everyone would have spent hours on 12 lane freeways turned into a veritable parking lot during rush hours, the idea of a public transport would give Angelinos a mini heart attack or nervous breakdown. The day I got my driving licence (after a hair raising road test) I felt like a new person. I was able to go to West Hollywood wherever I wanted without having to spend hours waiting for buses and missing the connections. I was able to go to the beach and walked on the sand (about the only place where one can walk in LA actually). Walking is a common everyday activity in Paris and, indeed, one has to walk and just wonder if one wants to discover Paris. Walking in LA can be dangerous to your health (try to cross a boulevard in one go, or as Parisians are apt to do, to cross when the little man is red….).

Whereas LA is colourful, Paris is more sedate. Just look at the Los Angelinos, they tend to wear bright colors (or in the case of little old ladies in my old neighbourhood, pale green and cotton candy pink hair!). In Paris, better not go out with green fluorescent shorts and yellow t shirt or people will look at you curiously (and a tad of disdain for ruining the harmony in Paris) or simply tag you as tourist from outre atlantique (the other side of the Atlantic) with amusement. Los Angelinos are optimists by nature, whereas the smiley and happy people you see in Paris may very well be the tourists. Whereas Angelinos suffer from the reputation of being superficial (rightly or wrongly), no one will ever (dare) say Parisians are such. In fact, the most often heard criticism of Parisians concerning Americans concerns their supposed superficiality. How many times have I heard Parisians say Sure it is easy to start friendship in the US, but it is sooo (with the lift of the shoulder that indicates once and for all that they are so right) superficielle. In Paris, they continue, it takes time to build friendship but it goes much deeper and last forever. Hm ok. Well, that explains why everyone seems to have kept their friends from childhood and how difficult it is to break into existing friendship. There are always friends and FRIENDS!

Paris vs LA: Muscle men
LA men cannot be more different than their counterparts in Paris. You go to any gay bars in West Hollywood or walk around Santa Monica or Venice beach, you probably see muscle men all over the place. In Paris, men tend to be less muscled and skinny. I guess culture does have a lot to do with the idea of sexiness and beauty. If bulging muscles are what’s important in underwear nights in an LA bar, the elegance of the underwear you wear (if it’s classe or not) is what is important in a Paris bar. In Paris, though the cute guy may at first be the centre of attention, at the end, it’s the guy who can hold his own in conversation that will probably be invited again! Conversation is an important part of French life and the French appreciate those who stick to their own even if they don’t agree. So, forget the dream guy who gets on his knees when you walk into the room and speaks only when spoken too. The ideal guy here would not only be able to talk to you about Sartre but also wears D&G underwear.

Tired in Paris

Finally things have calmed down a lot. I am so tired of working, searching for an apartment and life in general. The new French president talks about working more and earning more, with all the law reforms that supposedly will take place. Yes, brilliant as an idea, but already I am working day and night and cannot fathom the idea of working even more (and cannot, even if I want to!).
The thing that really ticks me off is that I don’t remember ever having worked so hard in my life. What’s more, I don’t even think that I am more productive and sometimes think that I am even less productive than when I worked less. Many of our time indeed is spent negotiating how to do our work (calming down colleagues who get nuts thinking we were up to some no good or something that could have negative impact on them in comparison which seems to lead to the idea better make sure others do as little as me), leaving not much time to do the work itself (and too tired).

Working environment cannot be more different between Australia or the US and France. If the default assumption among my American colleagues was trust (for example, I cannot make it to the meeting, and I don’t expect that I will be fucked over just because I was not there), here the assumption is distrust and méfiance. Meetings become extremely important because everyone expects to get the worst end if not present. But of course the important decisions have been discussed outside among cliques. But this does not prevent everyone to have their say in very long discourse that goes right, left, up and down until everyone including the speaker often forget what is being talked about. This explains why meetings tend to drag on and on. And what’s surprising is that often whilst someone is talking the others would discuss loudly among themselves!
As is the rule in French conversation, people don’t wait for a gap to jump in verbally. No, they just speak louder and drown the other speaker (who in turn would turn up the volume too). This will take some time to master for Anglophones who tend to wait for a gap (and of course, among Anglophones, they say that in conversation, the opposite of "speaking" is really "waiting", and not "listening"!).

Back to my complaint, now I work much more for less of a salary than what I had when I was more junior in other countries that seem to pay their workers more. But, I tell myself, I am in Paris (and I look longingly at all the lovely apartments that those moneyed or well connected seem to have). And Paris is Paris is Paris!

That’s probably what you’re thinking too, complaining when one lives in Paris? Actually, these are the moments when I remember fondly being a tourist in Paris. Then, Paris was indeed the romantic city that holds a lot of mysteries, the Parisians did not bug me because you project onto them your ideas formed from films and novels (charming, secretive, daring, impulsive, but always romantic). Well, the more you know them the less you rely on these images and, frankly, like everywhere else, the reality often lags behind the ideas…Indeed sometimes I see a person that would activate the image I used to have of Parisians, but the person has to really fit this image...otherwise, it's just other people like me doing boulot, métro, dodo (translation: work, subway, sleep).

Aging in Paris

Sitting in a Paris café and watching people go by or the other clients, one cannot help but think about things and be a bit reflective (like, when is the arrogant waiter going to ever notice me?). One day, at Place de la Marie in the 4th arrondissement, I watched a group of old ladies sitting on a bench in front of the café, talking, laughing and just passing the time in each other’s company. Everyday after that day, I saw them on the same bench at the same time. I started thinking about growing old. Yes, something that gay men fear most of all. How do you expect to land Mr. Right with wrinkled skin, sagging ass and soft erection? Worse yet, with failing vision, you would probably have a hard time spotting Mr. Right even if he was a mere meter from you.
What getting old means
I wished now that people had told me more about getting old. So many things that I did not anticipate or expect that their sudden appearance can put anybody in a light depression. I noticed my sight was going when I had a bit of trouble reading the small map of Paris métro. I used to love this little map that fits into my wallet. Now, I need a map the size of Manhattan to easily read the names of the station or buy a magnifying glass and keep the little map in my wallet.
Gay men, like adolescents, are avid sms users too which are practical to set up sex RDVs. But now I am obliged to buy the high tech and rather large cell phone because the little cute ones (yes, size does matter, though for once, the smaller the better) that we like so much are becoming too difficult to read!
To top it off, how many evenings have I spent at dinner table without my glasses (thinking I look cuter without them) blind as a bat conversing with someone that looked cute only to find out he was far from it when I took a peek with my glasses whilst he was asleep next to me in my bed?
Being old was something that scared me and of which I tried to think as little as possible. I could not imagine being 30 when I turned 21, let alone turning 40. In subways and buses I would look at old men thinking that I would NEVER get that age. This is an interesting phenomenon as I often imagined myself being rich (unlikely to happen), yet never imagined being old (sure to happen). What does that say about how we think of ourselves in the future? I looked at older gay men in bars thinking that at their age I would probably be at home watching tv with Mr. Right with whom I would have bought a house, a car and raised a dog together. Wrong. I still frequent gay bars looking for Mr. Right and often end up with Mr. Available, still don’t own a house and what’s more I am getting kicked out of my miniscule apartment in Paris. Life can be so cruel!
Being old, being wise?
I don’t know about wise, but certainly old means you know more than you care or ever want to know. The day I finally FELT I perfectly understood the phrase Youth is wasted on the young I knew I did not belong to this group any more. Worse, I very nearly physically felt the saying Now I get up with a stiff back and a soft dick (instead of the other way around!). So, we know more with age, but this is the knowledge that I can do without really.
In most gay circles, being old means you’re finished, done, out. That’s probably why many gay men act young despite their wrinkled skin and sagging behind. They still wear tight jeans (at least in Paris) with t shirt that is at least 2 sizes too small. They shaved their head. They wear the latest Converse on their feet (Hey, it’s like looking in the mirror, writing this).
However, being older does have its advantages. We don’t get all worked out thinking about what other people think of us. We know who we are. Having been there and done that, there’s always something in our past to which we can turn to deal with any situation. We get out of uncomfortable situations more easily and by being nice! A concrete example, after making love and needing my beauty sleep though the guy I was with seemed to still be keen on playing, I probably would not have known what to do when I was young. Now, I can say in my most Blanche (from the Golden Girls, for you who are not of age to know this wonderful series) voice if I could call a taxi for him…Hey, service with a smile! And I assure you that I did not learn that in Paris!

Paris capital of love: Outdoor cruising and (sex) clubs

Older gay men always talk about the “good old days.” Same in Paris. Conversing with these men, I got the impression that Paris city was a veritable gigantic cruising area full of beautiful buildings and parks. They talked about different corners of Paris where one, having made eye contact with another, could consume their (momentary) love right there and then. I imagine Paris then as full of happy smiley gays prancing about without a care in the world, waving and giggling at handsome policemen who smiled in return and saluted the flamboyant mass.
Bizarrely, I also start thinking about the good old days in Paris and having only been here for not even 10 years, my good old days are not that old. So things must have changed pretty fast then. Here, I attempt to list changes that I thought are significant ….
What it used to be
Outdoors, for a number of years already, the trend seems to be to light up sombre corners of Paris like a stage, and cut down any bush above half a meter tall. This means that outdoor sex is becoming nigh impossible. And this I have observed throughout Paris. The canal Saint Martin (Métro Jaurés) used to be one of these dark places where men come to meet other men, allowing them to imagine the other to be whoever they wanted him to be. This is not possible anymore with bright lights flooding every furthest corners and nooks and crannies. This place used to be teeming with men from all corners of Paris (and whose origins are from all corners of the world). The square Narvik also used to be one of the cruisy spots, but now they have cut down all the bushes leaving no possibilities for anyone to find an intimate spot out of the public view. Gone are the brushes (or bushes depending where you come from) that could tell many stories about quick love or sex that nonetheless I am sure had brought happiness to some.
Another by the river spot known to many and is still somewhat ‘doable’ is the quay along Jardin de Tuileries near Concorde. Known as Tata beach, you may feast on sights of delicious masculine bodies during the summer months here. There used to be an underground pedestrian tunnel here that at sundown turned into a veritable meat market. A gay artist friend of mine introduced this place to me. So, there I was in his beautiful apartment full of classic paintings, eating dinner in the most civilized way one can imagine (he sat on one side of a 5 m long table and I opposite him), and half hour after coffee, we were in the tunnel brushing against men leaning against the walls breathing the stale air heavy with the odor of sex (and the bourgeois queen that earlier sipped his coffee daintily turned out to be a very hungry animal indeed. Miauuuuu).
Now I walk around Paris with a sense of nostalgia of these places of nature where a bit of love might have been expressed even if only for a few minutes: Along the river Seine from Gare d’Austerlitz to Place de la Concorde, the park in the extremity of Ile St. Louis, Canal St Martin and Place de Stalingrad, the little park on the Canal going from Jaures to Republique, the curvy bridges that dotted the canal Quai Jemmapes, and many many more.
And sex clubs
It’s not surprising thus that sex clubs do great business these last years. Nonetheless, many of these places have also disappeared. In my neighbourhood le Marais and just one street from my apartment there is now a supermarket. Well, this supermarket used to be a gay sauna. Granted I never actually went there to use the sauna but only to visit the shop where one could buy edible undies, condoms, and sex toys, it is still a bit disconcerting that I now go there to buy bananas and wine. I thought there was something very weird when yet another supermarket appeared and replaced a cinema frequented by gays. The cinema used to show porn, with a small non alcoholic bar in the lobby. Aside from the rows of seats that you usually find in cinemas, to the side there were cubicles some of which could be sort of private as they had a door. Visiting the supermarket, I fondly remember the nameless strangers (that is, they did not even bother to give me a fake name) that I had met in what is now the frozen food area. Is this a cruel joke?
Back to existing clubs: the Depot has flourished and, I must admit, rather fun. They used to have a tea dance with gogo boys performing on a small stage. And on the basement, the labirynth still holds possible mysteries for unexpected encounters. Other sex clubs abound though they tend to be too ‘thematic’ for my taste. Often they have nude nights, leather night, shorts night, underwear night, fist night…oh well, me, I just like the good old fashioned roll in the hay that does not necessitate costumes nor a bucketful of lubricant.
Aside from the usual Marais area, there are clubs near Anvers or Pigalle. I like these places as they tend to be frequented not by stereotypical Parisian gays, but more like your neighbourhood kind of guys (remember the heterosexual neighbor you fantasized about? Or your sister's boyfriend?)! At MZ near Anvers, it seems that the word timid does not exist. You walk down that curvy stairway and you will be faced with men bearing it all as the day they were born (except for the obvious sign of their being excited). Nonetheless, people are friendly if a tad drunk, but good ambiance is sure to be had.

Hints for gay visitors: Check out the small format free gay weekly magazines and guides that you can find in gay bars to explore gay life in Paris (listing bars, sex clubs etc. or, of course, web sites). The bookstore Les mots à la bouche may be a wise first stop in Paris...this bookstore located in the 4th arrondissement at the corner of Rue Vieille du Temple and Rue St. Croix de la Bretonnerie, Metro Hôtel de Ville (Guides, english and french books, and free magazines by the entrance near the cashier). The bar Central (the oldest gay bar in Paris is just next door).

Paris: Strike, Irritated people and apartment search

Paris strike and irritated people
Today, the 16th of November, is the third consecutive day of transportation strike that is plaguing Paris. The first day, the strike was the worst but I think many Parisians were ready and either cancelled appointments, took RTT (since now we work 35 hour week, we have extra days to take in the month) or made alternative transport arrangements. But the second day of strike, as it is renewable strike that was indeed renewed since the discussion between the unions and government did not advance, nerves are starting to be frayed and many express their ‘ras le bol’ (fed up, have it up to here etc.). Today, the third day, was the worst that I have experienced on Paris streets. Traffic jams everywhere, sidewalk full of people (as many people simply decide to walk to work), bikes, rollers, scooters etc etc. Riding on the bikelanes we had to avoid people on foot, scooters who decide to join us and even a car with its tires hugging the raised edge of the bikelane on one side and the sidewalk on the other. Intersections were completely blocked with cars facing every which way, pedestrians weaving their way among cars and cyclists doing the same. People were honking like crazy and added to that the sound of whistles from traffic police trying to manage the traffic and sirens from firetrucks and polica cars. Verbal fights ensued when a cyclist bumped another, when a pedestrian walked and blocked cyclists on bikelanes, when cars prevented people to cross streets etc. A young woman was shouting pédé (from pederast which is a derogatory name for gays) to a male cyclist who bumped her (I wanted to shout bitch at her for using this word, why not called him un connard or a stupid fuck or a bastard ?). Don’t even talk about metro. On the news, we could see that people were prevented from going to the platforms they were that full. Trains ranged from not running at all, to one every hour, to the best line (line 1) that runs every 10 to 15 minutes. People are on edge and this is expected to last through the weekend. We will wait what Monday brings.
The french are in general understanding and accept without question the right to strike. This time, transport workers wish to keep the special conditions they have for retirement (accorded to works that involve physical effort and unusual working conditions such as long hours, night time and weekends workdays) that the government is attempting to take away. But on the third day, patience is starting to run thin.
Add to the general situation, the students movement that in some universities included blocking off the university so courses could not take place.
I think we are at an explosive time here at the moment. Wait and see.

Apartment search
In the mean time, I have been doing a lot of visits of apartments to rent which is no mean feat when there is no reliable means of transport due to the strike. These visits range from group to, if I am lucky, individual visits. The group visits are interesting as people deal with potential competitors for the apartment differently. They can be friendly as one guy that I met on a visit with whom I ended up having coffee. Though in the end, I did understand his strategy: telling me a sad story that would make me cry a river so I won’t apply for the same apartment! And that worked too, because he was so cute and adorable. There are those who right away make you think if look could kill…and these are those who would make themselves first in line, dominate the conversation with the agent showing the apartment and attempt to weasel their way to the agent’s heart (if indeed he or she has one). Agents are something else, too. One behaved as if she was the owner of the apartment (though indeed she has the power to decide whose application gets through to the owner) and treated you like shits in need who made her lose her precious time. I am not one to talk about racism, but boy, this time I cannot help but think that if you speak with an accent and your skin is not exactly snow white, don't expect a royal treatement. I think that as soon as they see me come in, they form the image that I am an immigrant with a small salary that will probably put the whole village in a small studio. Of course, they would ask for a garant (guarantor) who is in principle a person who would pay for you if you don’t pay your rent. The problem is that they may ask that the garant earns 4X the rent (whereas the renter has to earn 3X the rent). My specific problem: most of my friends who could be garant actually earn less than me (in fact almost all earn less than me). So here is a funny situation, I who earn more than everyone else needs these others to guarantee the agent that my rents would be paid. Sometimes, these people just want to follow the rule or the accepted practice (that there is a garant) and forgetting the logic of the situation and the individual cases where this might not make sense…

Paris strike continues (today 20 nov)
I am beginning to have had it up to here with the transport strike. I have pedalled to the north of paris on a bicycle which was no easy task for anybody because it goes uphill in a very steep incline; I have fought people in metro where we were squashed in like sardines with aggressive and complaining people, have waited for buses, trams and metro forever and ever, and have spent way too much time in transport jumping from a bus stuck in the horrendous traffic jams (everyone who has a car of course decides to take their car) to walk a long time to find a metro line that runs. I have spent the night nourishing my tired legs. A few days of strike I can take, but this is getting ridiculous. How long will this last ?
The president just said that for the retirement plan, given the actives, reform has to take place...hey, I have an idea, what about immigration?