Firemen, balls and 4.30am espressos

Today, Paris puts on her good high heels, her sunglasses and a fabulous summer dress. Today, it's well and truly summer in the city. I say 'Hallelujah' for the second time since I've been in France. It's shorts and shirts weather, and a bottle of Evian
instead of a cup of espresso. And today, I am apartment-bound. You win some, you lose some. I like to think that I am 'preparing' for this evening.

Greg (from the Glasgow conference) finally calls. Looks like I'm going to the Firemen's Ball after all. Bring on the dancing firefighting boys!

11.30pm-1.30am: Myself, Greg and Greg's bald-headed, book-carrying friend wait in line for 7 rue de Sevigne near St. Pauls. It's in the Marais area - queer capital of gay(est) Paree. Did I mention my middle name is Jesus?

1.30am: We enter the firestation for the Firemen's Ball (Brigade de Sapeurs-Pompiers de Paris), hereon in referred to as Firemen's Balls. A Copacabana/Hawaiian theme is happening, and the boys in blue are mannng the bars, entrances and the DJ podium. The music is an ecclectic mix of top 40s, French favourites and the Village People. Toto - we're not in Glasgow anymore.

I make a beeline for the stage where I stay for the next 3 hours. Greg and his bald-headed, book-carrying comrade disappear as soon as we enter (I am going to start some sordid rumours about all the dirty deeds they are doing in some backroom), and I don't see them again until about an hour later when they are waving goodbye. This girl is flying solo.

By some good fortune (and my moneymaker moves), I befriend an American guy called Brian from LA. Gay, of
course. Fabulous, of course. We get to talking and I tell him to get his ass up on the stage. He's my Firemen's Balls Buddy. He is also extremely useful in keeping the old guy (who has spilt beer all over my back) off my back, and mysterious hands from reaching for my derriere. How I end up in a 'Firemen's sandwich' (more like a club sandwich) is beyond me.


Then, the moment we've all been waiting for.


The Striptease. Hello boys. Or hello biceps. Or hello down below. Or hello buns of steel. All the sweaty, sinewy bodies confuse me. I'm not sure where I should be looking. I wish I had 12 eyes, or a photographic memory. I am front of stage - the perfect position to be sprayed with champagne. My middle name is Jesus! Hallelujah! This is about as spiritual as buying LV shoes! Hedonism is under-rated.

At the end of the night/early morning, Brian and I stop at Pause Cafe for espressos and frites (after shaking off an annoying New Yorker who seems to think Asian women with Australian accents are exotic and an oddity as I'm the first he's met: I think he should read more). It's just after 4.30am. We talk love, life and moving forwards and not backwards or staying stagnant. When we say au revoir at the Bastille Metro,
my advice is: "Whatever you leave behind, if it wants you it has to catch up to you". He likes the sound of that. I like the sound of him. The most unlikely, unexpected and serendipitous encounters happen when we do not seek them out.

We part company as the sun rises at 5.30am. To new beginnings and a new day.