Last summer I was in Paris. My friend and I had a night we’ll never forget.
The bar in Pigalle
had dark blue walls dotted with small silver sequins.
For a second it made me feel I was at the planetarium but
then I remembered we were at a bar.
Jess and I were the only ones in there, apart from the bartender-
a Mr.Tumnus looking geezer, who maintained a strict:
“No! No drinks aohht-seed!”
policy with us, which was especially jarring considering it was a cruel 34c.
“This has to be the wrong address.”
Look down at google, then back up at the place.
No, it is right.
LE PALACE CLUB
We’re outside an old theatre, with three weird men outside,
who all look like ex cons.
Reluctantly we enter the hallway,
which looks like it’s seen no action since the 1920s.
Go down some steps and open two heavy black doors to find…
Pull up to Masons yard.
Hop out Uber.
On your right you pass The White Cube and think
Cor, London really does have it all, doesn’t it?
Carry on straight for 1.5 minutes and reach your destination.
We’re on a cobbled, narrow street in the 6th arrondissement, and either he’s trying to race me, or lose me.
In any case, he looks like a fucking show off.
He finally clocks I’m not beside him and turns around, only to locate me four feet behind, wedged between a pram and a man with a walking stick.