"La nuit dernière un DJ m'a sauvé la vie" or The Night A DJ Saved My Life in Paris

Joanna is playing James Brown.

I tell her it makes me homesick for New York. She passes me a bowl of olives sprinkeled with parmesean and a glass of wine that she has made herself. It is white with a preche. Peche is a red cream sauce that makes it sweet like dessert. They call it Kir. I could sit outside and people watch. But after lunch with Trista, I realize how hungry I am for human interation. It makes Paris much more fun. “Say it Loud, I'm Black & I'm proud!” I sing along. The Kir has already hit me, so I know I can't stand more than 1 glass. But its just right. It makes me feel pretty and Parisian.



Joanna smiles – “I'll be right back” before she runs back from the bouncer a Black man dressed in all black, so its safe to presume – he's the bouncer. “I am now the DJ” she exclaims. Before she runs toward the DJ booth. Away from my Kir blur. I am sad. We were beginning to talk and she supplied me with some bomb olives. But then she plays Issac Hayes “Shaft” and all is forgiven. I snap my fingers loudly and laugh at the off beat couple nearby.
The fellas that take her place call me “Mademoiselle.” Then cuddle with each other before laughing hysterically. I don't know if its a frat joke gone awry but I pop away at the olives and smile graciously. They called me “Mademoiselle.” Hell. I'm good with that. Besides, Joanna just played “I'm Still in Love” and I yell for Joanna in approval. I don't know how to say “Good Shit” in French – but I jump up and dance and she gets the point. Just then, the bartender strikes a Saturday Night Fever disco pose before bringing me another bowl of olives.


This is the only city that I would ever appreciate the acoustic version of Britney Spears' “Womanizer”. I think its Lily Allen. I like it very much. I sing along, almost angry that I know the words – but more angry because I've never heard this soulful version. I like it. I promise myself to look it up on iTunes tomorrow.

Just then – Joanna disappoints me. She starts rocking all these versions of musAX. Blahh. Like elevator music meets electro! Weird. After the third song – I think maybe I should bar hop – isn't that what the kids do these days? Or go outside and get some air. But then Bartender #1 starts screaming loudly over the even louder bad music in French. And then there a smell that permeates the small lounge. It smells like burnt hair. I peek around the bar corner and realize the screams from Bar Dude and the smell are both a result of some blonde chick's hair catching on fire. They wet her down. And for the next 10 minutes she fluffs and pats her mane in an adjacent mirror. The smell of burnt soaks the air. Her friends check her out from the corner of their eyes as she tugs at her assaulted locks. Funny enough. Everything goes back to normal. No big dude from the door to check on the flames. The music hasn't stopped. And if anything – the laughter only gets more rowdy as patrons reinact the frenzy. They are too French to be bothered.



Moments later, full on disco is plated and a brunette jumps off her barstool and sways nonstop. I am officially stupedified. I couldn't make myself move if I wanted to! And I try. I try very hard. But no dice. I become a beligrent tourist. Bad music is unacceptable during my Paris trip. Word. “I've got some magic girl, do you wanna see/if you're a nasty girl come have sex with me” is Joanna's song reply to my “WHAT THE HELL?” stance. The words trip me out. Literally. I'm nervous. I hope I didn't do this part wrong. I just want a song – not a French lesbian affair. And its a house beat – entirely too seductive for my own good. So I swing my hips in the opposite direction. Appreciative of the song change. Befuddled by what it all means. But still, quite thirsty. Bar Dude gets me some tap water – but grabs the ice with his hands – and I try not to let my mouth drop totally open. That would be rude...In the same motion – he grabs to drum sticks and begins drumming on the cymbal styled light fixtures above my head. I am less shocked about this than the ice fishing he did with them nasty hands.


At the stroke of Midnight, 10 minutes til to be exact, all of the bar stools are ransacked. And those of us that once perched serenely at the bar are forced to shift from foot to foot nervously. Especially me. Without the chair – my trip to the lounge looks to be shorter than planned. Art, food, music and sex – it's so much like New York. And “Suavemente” plzys. The Bar Dude starts smacking on the cymbals and a woman with long hair swirs herself around, her balloon dress a cloud of color. That's when Bar Dude turns on the disco lights and starts to point his fog machine at anyone near the bar. The French language curves around their tongues, I am in love with this sound. This spirit. But it is lonely too. The dancing in a circle. The flick of my hair. My new black dress firm against my breastplate. I can feel my soul stirring. The parts that always confuse itself for a heart. For love. For security. For serenity. I am tea leaves floating to the bottom of a cup. Boiled and boiled over again. Filtering into this space. I am moving like liquid. My bones are creaking with every step – but I am alive. It becomes that simple.

That utterly foolish feeling that births fear into us at a young age, the one that makes us regret our skin and hair and teeth and eyes and size... The one that seldom leaves us at peace, even in our older age. It is that simple. This pulse is perfect. We are perfect. In all our flaws. And insecurities. And shortcomings. We deserved to be loved. Just as we are. We deserve to love others. To learn to grow in our comprimising. To become a better person. The idea of changing who I am – even the most worrisome parts – becomes the most baffling idea I've ever had.
“Oye Como Ve” begins to play, the house version, and everything settles like it should. Who would've known, Joanna, a French bartender turned DJ could save a Black girl's life in Paris.

les petites choses - Black Girl Walks Paris

The belly full of grilled
chicken & cafe le crème.
Brown. The genuine smile
and fair english by Olivia,
the waitress. The walk,
instead of run, after an hour
and a half of refuge in a
corner bistro. The new map.
The worn octavia butler book.
The 10Euro skirt. The stairs
that almost claimed my last
breath. The sun that welcomed
my smile. The walk about Paris.
The bends and breaks in the
streets. The knowing that feels
almost like home. The water.
The Seine. The posters for 3Euro.
The bins reminsiscent of West
Village. The books. The water.
The silence of sand. The people.
Brown. The bend of an elbow.
The laughter. The clown twirling
balloons. The children surrounding
him. The surprise rain. The kiss.
The unadulterated kiss. The silly
innocence of skin lingering.The
gut wrench. The wet. The cafe le
crème. Still perfect in its warmth.
The sidewalk cafe. The fountain.
The stairs. Black Venus. The Metro.
Voltaire. The bed. The bed. The bed.

Ne Me Touche Pas! or How to Run from Stalkers in Fuschia Nikes

Today I will visit the area surrounding Arts et Metiers. Friend, Jean Pierre suggested I check out the Chateau Rogue and his suggestions have all proven to be excellent...and cost efficient if not free. So I wake early. Hop the train. And ride 15 minutes in search of the phenomenal coffee digs: Cafe Charlot. Upon my exit or sortie - I notice a slim black man leaning against the Metro stairs. He is interested in everyone that exits – I pay him no more mind. Instead I begin looping around the area like a lost puppy. If there were sharks to see the blood – I'd be done. I literally walk 5 minutes realize, I'm lost. Walk back to the Metro station. Go the opposite (slightly) direction for 5 minutes, realize I'm lost. And this is when Slim catches me: Bonjour! He greets. I don't trust it. Anybody that has watched me work my way from lost to more lost has the upper hand. And if you know me – you know I'm a control freak. Bonjour! I reply “Ehhhhhhh Ru de Charlot?” I stammer. I almost add por favor then remember where the hell I am. “Ahh.” he sighs excitedly. He snatches my map and points to an area on the smudged paper before lifting his finger into the air and pointing dramatically ahead. My defenses almost begin to swirl to my ankles as I reply “Merci! Merci!” I grab my map back and start walking ahead. But Slim is not hearing the walk away Merci. He starts speaking fast French. Dumb fast. I blink and trip over my imaginary shoe string.
“Sorry” I offer. “Au Revoir” I add.
He is quick, this Slim. He strides along with me. Now stuck at the traffic light, he pauses “You, ehhhh AH MER REE KA??”
I nod “Oui.”
He continues. “No francios?”
I see where this is going. “Nope! Sorry.”
The light changes and I turn in the direction of his previous finger point. But now, Slim is walking next to me. “Where are you from?” I ask. He's not going away. And if this turns out to be some sneak attack – I'll need all the information possible.
“Senegal” he smiled.
“Ahh.” I nodded. My feet couldn't move quick enough. And it obviously caught Slim off guard.
“Whew!” he exhaled. “Hot!” he fanned himself hurriedly.
I pretended it was perfect running weather, nevermind the pool of sweat that now straddled my forehead. I looked ridculous. Like I was in a sauna or something. And Slim, just ran beside me. Squirming out American and pushing back his shoulders. I didn't know what the hell he was trying to say – but I presume it was a compliment because he rubbed around his arms and grinned American. I looked down. Did I have too much arm showing? I thought it was cool to get my Michelle Obama on...

Slim stopped arupbtly and asked a passing couple in French “where is Rue Du Charlot.” I know that because I heard Charlot and then their faces drop. “OOOOOH!” they pointed in the opposite direction of us. More French that I couldn't understand, then Slim says, “this way.” I sigh heavily. Turn on my heel and head back up the hill. I can't be mad at Slim. Though I want to be. Hell. He was trying to help – right? This is when we pass a fight occurring on an off street. The black and Chinese man are yelling loud French. The car trying to pass them is waiting semi-silently. The black man pushes the Chinese man onto the ground. His shirt now removed and lying in the curb. He begins to pull up his pants leg. Both of them. I am stunned into stillness. “Ahhh. Come, come.” Slim says. I roll my eyes at him. First he gets me lost – then he gets in my way of free UFC style entertainment. We walk away, slowly back towards the Metro station. This is when I decide to take matters into my own hands. But I need my map. And a coffee. I left the bed and breakfast with nothing to eat or drink, in hopes that I'd get my fill @ Cafe Charlot. At the Metro station is a neighborhood map. I stand in front of it and wait for Slim to get the hint.


“I got this homie – back away from the Black girl.”
He walks away to ask someone else for directions. The start pointing further north and I walk away completely. I settle on the sidewalk cafe Les Arts et Metiers to get myself together. Check out my map in comparison to the neighborhood map and sip on something before racing the sun. I'm greeted at the entrance and nod at the waitress accompanied by perfectly good broken French, “un” fingers splayed “1” seat. “Merci!” she nods then looks again as she notices Slim following me to the table. She shrugs and walks away to get menus. My jaws drop open. Slim is not leaving. Slim is not leaving. Slim is not leaving. My eyes must bug out because I search for my english to french dictionary hoping to find something that tells Slim to go away. I find, thanks you. See you later. And goodbye. I try them all at the same time. The waitress comes back for drink orders. I swoon “cafe le creme” and Slim replies “le coco.”



Now one thing I've learned in Paris is – Coco Cola (le coco) is more expensive than coffee! Sometimes by 2 Euros. And then I think Slim is gonna leave me with a bill! Holy crap. I didn't bring a lot of money. Do I have my credit cards – everything is flying thru my head at once. I flip the pages of the book point to “Can we split the bill?” and Slim nods before snatching the book and reading to me pages of French saying with English translation. He says “Tank Ooo?”
“Thank You” I enuciate. He repeats it twice. And then turns the page and continues. I figure, if I give him an English lesson, we're even. “What is your name?” I ask. He begins to speak in French, fast. I shake my head. He spells it slowly: “Jeoull.”
Ahh, I nod.
He continues saying something about Cafe Charlot. I say, “eh?” The heat has taken its toll and the coffee is still not kicked in. He looks in my book for the word meaning: meeting. I get his drift.
“Le petit ami.”
His eyebrows raise and he is not smiling anymore. I repeat.
“Le petit ami.” and pull out my phone to pretend I am now texting my boyfriend about why I'm late.
With eyes bore into me he says “Homme y Femme?”
“Homme!” I say. Then begin puffing up my chest like a caveman. “Homme!”
He understands. The check comes and he takes the tab and runs to the bar. Jeoull returns putting Euros into his wallet and I grab my purse and walk out. He follows, seemingly not fazed about my boyfriend. So I grab my phone and pull up a picture of J. I show Jeoull. He loses a bit of his speed.
I say slowly “Le petit ami est Cafe Charlot..”
Jeoull nods. But he continues walking beside me. Now. I am the one that is defeated. Another uphill semi-silent walk and 10 minutes later, I am afraid I looked at the map incorrectly. A young woman walks by and Jeoull asks her “Rue de Charlot?” Her answers are long winded. He looks confused. I show her my phone with the intersection names. “Do you speak English?” She asks me.
Yes!
“Well then,” she begins. And gives me step by step directions.
“Thank you!” I whine. “Can you do me one more favor?” She nods.
“Please tell this man, thank you – I don't need his help anymore.”
She looks surprised then repeats it for me. Her hands chop at the air. Her hair bun flops with authority.
Jeoull nods and smiles. “De Rien.”
I wave to her and turn to walk away, but Jeoull turns with me. My head drops. I have no idea what to do next. So I walk using the latest directions and ignoring Jeoull. He tries to ask me questions and I shrug. He says words I almost think I know and I shrug. He points me to cross the street and I refuse. I am not doing anything remotely like him anymore. This is ridiculous. I'm so infuriated with myself for not speaking the native's language that I find myself stumbling along – yet again. Not quite sure I turned when I should have. I am about to cry. Jeoull stops another couple and asks them for directions. But I dont stop walking. I actually speed up. Less than 20 feet is a corner and I decide i'm going to make a run for it. Its broad daylight. He'll look like a fool chasing me. And if he does. Then I've got bigger problems. As soon as my pink nike touches the other side of the corner, I break into full speed. I peep another short block to the right and this will allow me to zig zag, if Jeoull is indeed behind me. I take the chance. Cross the street looking back for cars and the man that can't catch a clue and see the latter. His hands are high in the air waving me down. He is screaming something. I dont even pretend to care. I hit the first zig and realize it leads into an immediate zag. I duck behind the car and continue scurrying like a New York City rat. I have no idea where I am. This is when I start looking around bewildered. I dont see a sign but I see another intersection and Im assured there will be a sign there. I hurry to the intersection and pass a table of people talking and laughing. Paris really is lovely. Their food looks good. And they aren't sweating like a hog running from a man in a blue shirt. I look behind me almost afraid and see nothing. Not even a car. I stand in the intersection. Completely winded. And look at the sign on the brick building. In perfect script it reads: Rue de Charlot. I almost wail out loud. Instead I turn completely around and see the entrance to Cafe Charlot.

I hurry inside, not fully sure Jeoull isn't behind me. And greet them “Bonjour!”
Bonjour! They reply. Im too winded to find other words and just hold my rib and wheez “can I sit anywhere?”
The waitress encourages me “Anywhere you like!”
“L'eau du robinet.” (pronounced Low due row-bee-nay) I beg, before I tuck myself into a plush corner seat. It is hidden from the world outisde with a perfect view of anyone that decides to walk down the street or into the cafe's doors.

Seine, Sacre Coeur & Black Girl Jacking up the French Language Show

The smell of baked bread in the morning is sinful. I don't know how people walk around with straggling pieces of baguettes in their paws and still fit into such slim fitting jeans. I buy a baguette and am such a wuss. Its so big, I think before grunting “merci” and hand chop signals until the baker snatches it back (bare hands, no less!) and cuts it in half for me before dropping it into a plastic bag and shoving it my way. Au revoir!


9am in the morning and the people of Paris are indeed still holding hands. It really is like the movies. Plan for the day: Eiffel Tower, Cruise The Seine & more sights. I put on my red and white sundress. It makes me feel pretty. And so early in the morning in the City of Light, I need to feel pretty.

Metro stop: Trocadéro. The site from yesterday is still breathtaking. There are no breakdancers this morning. But the sun is blazing. The waterfall is empty this morning. Only a couple of us taking pictures on our way to the Paris' symbol.

The Eiffel Tower lines are already swarming with a massive amount of people. I take pics rather than get in the hour long ride for a peek @ Paris from its top. Instead, I sit and people watch. Glaces stands litter the crowd and even though its still early (in my American head) I reckon – the rasberry looks good. I opt out. My bag is full of baguettes and Ah EM Porte (phonetically it says: to go) sliced meat. Before boarding, I peruse la boutique for trinkets. I can't get the cashiers attention so I grunt “Merci”. Crap! Under pressure I can't function. “It's ok” she smiles. Her english is just as good as her French. “I'm sorry” I cringe. “I meant Bonjour!” I'm pitiful. Really. She is stays smiling. Her dark eyes blinking a forgiveness as her mouth speaks quickly in French. It feels like a “don't worry.”
But I'm too done with myself to continue the Black Girl Jacking up the French Language Show. I hurry away. Soon the cruise will board. And I want a good seat.

The cruise is beautiful. Slow. By 11am its already baking my skin into a double dark chocolate. I find the Paris Plage, a man made beach sitting on the steps of The Seine. I take pictures of everything. The bridges. Le Petit Bont. The naked crab colored sunbathers. The 175 museums. The cathedral of Notre Dame. It is over in an hour.

I am drunk on the sun.

I cross the bridge for the above ground line, 6 Train, and make my way to Chaeteau Rogue.

After 3 stops – its almost like Harlem. I exit and the energy around me is a wasp nest. Like a block party.
Without free food. I find myself at Cafe Drasilia. Bonjour! I call to anyone willing to listen and point to the outdoor seating. The waiter is flying around both the outdoor, indoor seating and the bar. He offers me a Bonjour and shoos me to open seats. I crawl out the window and seat in a garden like area. From here I can see everyone walking down the hill and rest my attention to the young Black French teenagers. They are wearing man purses and a laugh escapes me. A loud one. They have the same bravado as an American teen. Their shoulders push against the wind. Loud brazen laughter fill their lungs. They slap hands in greeting. Same as Brooklyn. They own the world with those arms.

After people watching for an hour and sipping eau de robinet and cafe le crème, I pay the tab and trek toward what I think is the butte of Montmartre. Its set on a hill 130 meters high and my legs feel the entire climb.
I ask in more poor French where to “find Sacré-Cœur” (French to English book blaring loudly from my hands) the woman smiles sweetly. “Do you speak English?” I almost cry “YES!” Instead. I nod, ferociously. She leads me in the right direction and warns "Take your time. It is too hot and the walk is steep. But it is beautiful." Its as if she's advising me on love. I thank her, a lot and head towards the sun, again.



After a quick stop a le bodega (ok i made that one up - so what? chill) for a bottled water,
and ten minutes of (hottest day in Paris, like word!) uphill walking, I find the steps of Montmartre and lose myself in the shade for awhile. Pulling apart the warm and soft baguette wrapping it in pieces of sliced meat. And smiling at the view.

Berthillion on St. Michel

I cannot pronounce some English, most Spanish & almost ALL of the French language. Shay Youngblood's (Black Girl in Paris) book didn't offer a very good tutorial for those in search of her book in real time. Monmarte in my head sounds like MONA MAR TEE. Nelson (crazy dope photographer of Penmanship's de-con-struct images) thought this was pretty friggin funny. So funny he asked me to repeat it for the duration of the day. He says Mademoiselle like the movies. Orders the food from "le menu" like the movies. But adds his own Harlem flair "The French be doing it." As in Swag on The Seine (watch ya grubby paws. That's the title of the new book...Chill copyright infringers). He speaks eloquently about American superiority and world travels, his Morrocan Tour Goddess and his paintings. We sit in front of the St. Michel station, atop the Latin Quarters and blocks away from the Cathedral of Notre Dame, debating the creation of peach champagne and 9 Euro (that's almost 16 CLAMS for us Americans) worth of ice cream!

His name is Herve (pic coming soon) he is the host of the outdoor cafe which sold Nelson (those pics coming soon too) and I a couple of bowls of the amazing (& expensive) berthillion ice cream...

He is a jokester, this Herve (pronounced Hervie). He laughs at the idea of women not talking (an inside joke about my mispronounciation of all things French & my promise to remain quiet until I can speak English). He then adds he visited New York with his love. He drove across the Brooklyn Bridge then up to Harlem for good measure.


"It was nice" he offered before adding, "I also lost my girlfriend in your city." I say "lost like mislocated?" He laughs - again just as jovial as the mute moment "No. We broke up." I blink. Nelson's smile is frozen. And Herve is bubbling over with promise.

"It is ok" he shrugs. "I will go back and get another one, eh!"

Something about the way the French love so passionately and then not at all.

Over 70% of the people walking the streets of Paris, right now, are holding hands. Those that aren't – are enroute to meet someone to hold hands with. And the other small percentage is filled with people like me. Looking longingly at the fingers of strangers. The stroke of a lover's back. The rub of her neck. The pinch against his cheek before kissing the spot that reddened with love. Its so syrupy thick, one might think it was a conspiracy to make the solo runners feel like they were in a rat race for the shiny prize of a lonely nothing. And then there is Herve.

The man with the grey suit and squinty blue eyes. The man that spoke English with a hint of French (nothing like all the Z's portrayed in the movie Green Card)and a personality of quick wit. The single Frenchman that was prepared to holiday in the City that never sleeps, so that he could teach her body of concrete kisses how to hold a lover's hand properly.



The idea of forgetting about love was too foreign for words.

I wonder when the French taught their citizens that trick...

Lady @ The Louvre

i lucked up and had friend and photographer play tour guide before his flight 12 hours after. we visited the louvre, cathedral of notre dame, eiffel tower, a taste of the french quarters and a lot of breakdancers. he took some amazing pics that i'll post when i get. i felt very Lady Day, indeed.

Day One:

the streets here are broken and beautiful. full of lovers - hand holding and kissing
public displays teasing and triumphant.


its so saccharine sweet it can make you hate to walk the streets alone. hate how your feet look too big with a matching pair on your left. hate how your waist looks so empty. your smile is almost pasted onto your face. almost. the city of paris is too inviting for the sadness to last long.

the smell of fresh baguettes and the sun pounding against the concrete like a frustrated lover. it is a dance you would miss if you were caught up in the heavy petting. even if it happens everywhere you are. the subway. the grassy hill. the corner. the water pond at the louvre. so you lose yourself in a berthillion.


it is as sweet as a lover's kiss must be. you fall into the fashion stalking the sidewalks. and you breathe. this is Paris. they warned you it was for lovers. there are still steps of Sacre-Coeur to walk. there is the climb of the eiffel tower. and the water of seine to slip yourself between.

Mahogany L. Browne in Paris

this is my daily findings and parisian persuals.

after reading Ms. Youngblood's book Black Girl in Paris
my life was changed forever. I promised myself I would
visit this city of love and sweet surrender. I hoped I
would go with the man who held my heart in his hands.

Instead, I bought the ticket for myself as a birthday present.
There is still a man with my heart. I hope he holds it
tight. I will return soon.

I am simply going to reintroduce the air to the pretty parts
of myself, again.

join me