“Is this the place?” I asked.
“Yeah, this is it,” D—— replied.
A crowd of young people sat at tables in front of the nondescript building. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves—drinking, smoking, laughing, sharing stories.
We entered the building. People were coming and going. We passed through a doorway in a graffiti covered wall, and then another door, and then finally into wonderland.
I did not know what to expect, but I was told that we were going to listen to some jazz music. Before arriving, I had imagined a dark, cramped, smoky venue with a small stage. Instead, I walked into a room full of at least a couple hundred people. I had to wonder—were all these people here for a jazz show? A chaotic, intoxicating cacophony of drums, guitar, bass, and piano filled the room, with hundreds of notes bouncing off the walls. People swayed, bobbed their heads, and even danced to the music. Dozens of people crowded around the bar, which was placed in the back right corner of the venue.
So this is Paris?
A few things immediately caught my attention. Firstly, the crowd was evenly split between male and female. I was pleasantly surprised not only by the sheer number of people who came to this venue for jazz but also by the balanced mix of attendees, since jazz can sometimes be dominated by male-leaning audiences.
The second thing I noticed was that nobody, not one person, had their phone out. Everyone was attentively listening to the music, absorbing the moment instead of attempting to capture it.
The third thing I noticed was that the show was completely free. People were buying drinks, which I assume is how the venue makes money and pays the performers. And, at the end of the set, a man walked around the venue with a basket, collecting tips for the band. A contribution of a few euros was expected.
At some point, D—— and I ran into a group of his friends, some of whom also happened to be musicians. Altogether, our motley crew included two Frenchmen, two half-French-half-Italians, two Swedes, and two Americans—myself included. A few of them lived in Paris, but some were only visiting. Nonetheless, everyone was exceedingly friendly and welcomed me into the group. We took our drinks and gathered around a table outside so that we could get a break from the stuffy venue air and so that they could smoke their cigarettes.
As the evening drew past midnight and the jazz performers finished their set, the venue opened the basement, which turned into a techno club. We moved back into the jazz room of the venue, which had now become considerably quieter, and talked for hours. They asked the basic get-to-know-you questions: why I was in Paris, what I did for a living, and my impressions of Europe. But then as the drinks started taking effect and everyone became more comfortable, the conversation shifted to more philosophical topics.
One of the Swedes leaned in and asked, “So, have you ever been in love? What is love to you?”
In a way, this is exactly how I imagined Paris. Creative people, musicians, sitting around into the early morning twilight, sharing conversations in an emptying jazz venue, discussing love and what it means to them, all while the steady bass of techno music booms underneath. I could not imagine a world in which I could recreate an experience like this in Philadelphia.
I did not see the Eiffel Tower or the Louvre Museum on my birthday. Instead, I received a gift that was much purer and authentic. For the rest of the group, it was probably just another Saturday night out.
But for me, it was an escape, one that I will remember forever.
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“Is this the place?” I asked.
“Yeah, this is it,” D—— replied.
A crowd of young people sat at tables in front of the nondescript building. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves—drinking, smoking, laughing, sharing stories.
We entered the building. People were coming and going. We passed through a doorway in a graffiti covered wall, and then another door, and then finally into wonderland.
I did not know what to expect, but I was told that we were going to listen to some jazz music. Before arriving, I had imagined a dark, cramped, smoky venue with a small stage. Instead, I walked into a room full of at least a couple hundred people. I had to wonder—were all these people here for a jazz show? A chaotic, intoxicating cacophony of drums, guitar, bass, and piano filled the room, with hundreds of notes bouncing off the walls. People swayed, bobbed their heads, and even danced to the music. Dozens of people crowded around the bar, which was placed in the back right corner of the venue.
So this is Paris?
A few things immediately caught my attention. Firstly, the crowd was evenly split between male and female. I was pleasantly surprised not only by the sheer number of people who came to this venue for jazz but also by the balanced mix of attendees, since jazz can sometimes be dominated by male-leaning audiences.
The second thing I noticed was that nobody, not one person, had their phone out. Everyone was attentively listening to the music, absorbing the moment instead of attempting to capture it.
The third thing I noticed was that the show was completely free. People were buying drinks, which I assume is how the venue makes money and pays the performers. And, at the end of the set, a man walked around the venue with a basket, collecting tips for the band. A contribution of a few euros was expected.
At some point, D—— and I ran into a group of his friends, some of whom also happened to be musicians. Altogether, our motley crew included two Frenchmen, two half-French-half-Italians, two Swedes, and two Americans—myself included. A few of them lived in Paris, but some were only visiting. Nonetheless, everyone was exceedingly friendly and welcomed me into the group. We took our drinks and gathered around a table outside so that we could get a break from the stuffy venue air and so that they could smoke their cigarettes.
As the evening drew past midnight and the jazz performers finished their set, the venue opened the basement, which turned into a techno club. We moved back into the jazz room of the venue, which had now become considerably quieter, and talked for hours. They asked the basic get-to-know-you questions: why I was in Paris, what I did for a living, and my impressions of Europe. But then as the drinks started taking effect and everyone became more comfortable, the conversation shifted to more philosophical topics.
One of the Swedes leaned in and asked, “So, have you ever been in love? What is love to you?”
In a way, this is exactly how I imagined Paris. Creative people, musicians, sitting around into the early morning twilight, sharing conversations in an emptying jazz venue, discussing love and what it means to them, all while the steady bass of techno music booms underneath. I could not imagine a world in which I could recreate an experience like this in Philadelphia.
I did not see the Eiffel Tower or the Louvre Museum on my birthday. Instead, I received a gift that was much purer and authentic. For the rest of the group, it was probably just another Saturday night out.
But for me, it was an escape, one that I will remember forever.
