The Garden Party

Yesterday was an event Jacques had been reminding me about for the last two weeks, his sister's garden party out in the suburbs. Since I've been here, he's been unsuccessfully trying to convince me to bike around the Parisian streets on his rickety second bike, and I've refused up until now (factor in that he considers helmets "ugly" and never wears/owns them).

As we approached Sunday, he wouldn't stop talking about the beautiful bike path we were going to take, as I noticed his gradual increases in admitted distance into what was going to become a 28km round-trip bike ride. So, as Sunday came around, I woke up groggily after a long Saturday night to see Jacques impatiently waiting downstairs in a tie and blazer. Throwing on some khakis, a tie, a blazer, and some polka-dot socks because, hell, it's a garden party, we headed out. I don't know if I can adequately describe how ridiculous we looked. Two incredibly white guys biking through Pigalle and over towards Stalingrad, Jacques with a wicker basket on his bike with the host's present, large tortoiseshell 50's-era Ray-Bans, and I with my right polka-dot sock tucked into my khakis - both of us in our Sunday best.

We made good time at first, dodging the traffic in Pigalle, and enduring the stares of quite literally hundreds of people. Unfortunately, even the clearly-labeled bike path was more of an abstract, nebulous concept for the Parisian drivers, and I had to avoid getting nicked a few times, which would've been disastrous without a helmet. After going all the way West, we turned Northeast and went past Parc de la Villette, past the baby strollers, and up the canal for another solid 8-9 kilometers.

Getting there, I soon realized Jacques and I were definitely the most dressed up people there. It was more of a family barbeque, with all of the husband's secret service and secret society (think French Masons) there - I'm not kidding. But, these were liquored-up secret servicemen dancing to "YMCA" and "Dancing Queen" with their kids, all wearing designer t-shirts. The worst part was that I couldn't cut loose too much - more than a bit of wine and I'd have trouble on the 14km return trip... (not to mention all the laughs I got when I asked for water from the bartender).

The party turned out well, despite the fact there was really nobody within ten years of my age on either side of my 22 years. I made buddies with one of the older secret society guys, who was clearly important by the way he held court around a plastic table. He liked my Camper shoes though, so we got along well.

The return bike trip was another story. We got off on another good start, racing back into the city for a dinner party we had over at La Muette. Despite a small bit of shame for enduring jokes from passing racailles, we made it into the city in one piece, and headed down towards Place de Clichy. This is when the tempest hit. It was already windy, and we'd had some tough going on the canal, but we ran full into a storm 3 kilometers from home. We're talking one of those bone-drenching, sheets of water storms where you can't do anything but cower for shelter. Finally, I made it back, a much wetter version of myself than when I left, but still in one piece.