Au Lapin Agile

This blog was written in late October, but in the spirit of NEVER FORGETTING (9/11 too soon) I have decided to post it nonetheless. ouais.


I sat with my French “negative expressions” exercises sitting in front of me. “Phffff,” I thought to myself, “Je n’ai pas besoin de PLUS exercises simples.” My professor had put together a list of questions that we needed to respond to in one negative form or another, “No, I’ve never eaten cow brains” “No, I didn’t finish the whole box of cookies.” Mindlessly I filled through the blanks until I came upon, “Es-tu déjà allé au Lapin Agile?” Here it was almost November and I found myself staring at this question, knowing I couldn’t answer affirmatively, though wishing I could. “Pas encore” I scrawled down.

Pas encore….it seems the list of “Not Yet’s” is growing too large for the number of days I have left here. It’ weird to think about the end of things, but what do humans do if not look at what’s coming up, or what’s about to end? it sometimes seems that we really weren’t built to n’inquiete pas, and just take in the present. TANGENT: I find this to be true about 98.7 percent of the time, with the following three exceptions: (1) when I am running, (2)when I am making / seeing art, and (3)when I am ivre (pronounced “eve-rah” French for drunk, but classier because it’s in French). Though one could argue, those are all the same thing.

Let’s face it, if you’re running and not slightly absorbed in the present, then you will FALL AND BREAK YOUR FACE. And this even happens to those of us who try to be pretty aware, but still fail miserably. So, beyond making sure feet hit pavement, running—especially in a city like Paris—is one of those great experiences where you see SO MUCH, hear so much, become a little part of so much for an instant and then leave it. It’s fleeting, it’s exciting, it’s constantly changing and if you’re not paying attention you’ll miss it—the grandpa chasing his grandson who’s tiny laughs sound like big gasps of air, the crowd of people that gleefully throws rice as the married couple dressed in business semi-formal steps out of city hall, the little boy too old to be sucking his thumb but not too old to have a yellow BABAR backpack, It’s all so immediate and quick that the seconds you spend thinking on the future will be interrupted by something more interesting happening right in front of you. Everything is faster but in a way this concise taking in of the world creates more distinct impressions…

And then there’s making and seeing art, also slightly obvious absorption in the present. If I am standing in the Louvre charcoaling down a not-so-famous “Venus and Satyr” compelling all those walking by to give what they might have considered a mediocre Renaissance painting an extra nod with that raised eyebrow frowned mouth confused but intrigued expression. I’m engulfed in the moment—eyes on the canvas, eyes on my notebook, canvas, notebook, back of some guy’s head (GET OUT OF THE WAY), canvas. It is a fun play where opposite to running, time slows down, it lulls, yawns, meanders over every surface of the painting picking out those little details, unnoticed at first glance, as they surface like tiny bubbles. AH yes, that shading is quite strong, ok that’s how the leg twists—see, draw, edit, see. In a way, this connects to just seeing art.

Par exemple, on Friday, from the tippy-top poor man seats of the theater I sat gazing down at the heads and laps of wealthier theater goers who had also decided to spend a night at “La Cage aux Folles.” It was exciting to sit knowing for a few hours I would be absorbed in watching the comedy unfold onstage, but just as much watching the people around me—a forty something woman who’s laugh sounded like “oooh! Oooh!” Her husband who would slap his knee and close his eyes with his below-breath chuckle, then of course the actors who were AMAZING, except when they talked just too fast for me to catch up. (maybe I should go to a children’s production…). Sitting in that audience was like being stimulated by countless little electrodes all of them trying to grab my attention (er…in a good way…Bell Jar, too soon)

So finally being intoxicated (with life, art, love, or alcohol) is one of those wonderful moments where future and past don’t take center-stage and individual moments take the spotlight. Last weekend I hit up this place called “La Vinia” an out-of-this world wine shop encompassing three stories with crates after crates, displays upon displays of wine. Selling everything from a modest 5euro Bordeaux to the 50,000euro bottle of SOMETHING REDICULOUS THAT PROBABLY TASTES LIKE LIQUID GOLD there seemed to be nothing this place did not have. However, the true beauty is that a poor but dignified student like myself can go in, pick out a bottle, and take it up to the third story restaurant (très chic) where waiters in formal attire will serve it to you at retail price – no tip, no service fee, hell they even throw in a basket of bread without batting an eye. It beats sitting on some church’s steps swigging down a 2euro monoprix wine from the bottle and wiping your mouth with your sleeve. No, here you get lost in thought, conversation, and contentedness as gradual inebriation washes over you as the amount remaining in the bottle disappears.

So. As I was saying, Lapin Agile. Maybe you’ve heard of it, maybe you haven’t. It’s this cute little cabaret on the hill of Montmartre, that’s been there forever (well 1850s). Picasso hung out there, Modigliani frequented it (he painted girls with long faces), Edith Piaf croaked her some of her first wavery tunes there—basically, walking by and NOT seeing a fannypack toting tourist snap a photo of it is a rarity. I finally went, not knowing what to expect, worried I would be utterly disappointed BUT happy to say the contrary. It was like I’d just taken a Delorean to 1905, was hangin’ out during Paris’ Belle Epoque, and I should be saying to my friends, in French, “Look y’all we live in the best effing country in the world, we built that new Eiffel tower, we got like, art and sh*t, yeah, life is GREAT” (I will feign ignorance of WWI and WWII looming in the not-so-distant future as I will return back to the present before either of them break out, time travel, hell yeah) Then I would give Picasso a good fist-pump, swig down my absinthe, and lean back—I mean sit straight (no chairbacks, forgot)—and let the cabaret music wash over me.

I’m going to miss you Paris, It’s been real.