Thrifting

With the euro being as low as it is, everyone wants to go shopping. I started out at Les Halles, thinking that the mall would be a good place to see some French fashion. However, I don’t see the point in buying something from H&M here, even for just a couple dollars more, if I can just get something similar in the States. And they had ugly stuff anyway. I ran and hid in the Marais.

Thrift stores in the Marais are an all-day, all-night phenomenon. Filled with young people, it’s a tight squeeze making your way down the cramped aisles of these tiny stores. I’m sure there are good finds, but unfortunately I woke up late, missing the chance to buy that oh-so-perfectly bizarre cocktail dress at Free P Star. There were some promising looking cowboy boots at Vintage Design, but I decided to hold out for my glass slipper.

It’s tiring work, but luckily I found Café Finkelstajn where I had an amazing sandwich on a poppy-seed roll: corned beef, onions, pickles, red pepper and tomato. And a magic sauce that made my stomach smile. I followed it with a raspberry tart that had almonds in its cakey crust. I went from zero to
ten in the three bites it took me to finish the whole thing.

Afterwards, I met friends Paul, Morgan, and Ethan, who were in the mood for hot jazz. Or any kind of jazz. The concert near the Bastille they had originally planned on was cancelled, so we hopped on a random bus which decided to take us to a different concert in the 20th at a place called the Jawad Kfé. It was empty when we arrived 5 minutes before the 9:00 set. We sat around drinking leffes until about 10, after the band had all arrived. There were 6 more people in the audience and us. Basically a private show. It featured the pianist, a youngish guy who was very expressive, putting his whole body into playing. Plus a bassist, and a drummer who had played with Dizzy Gillespie. For the last song of the first set, the pianist asked if anyone in the audience could sing, and a bald man volunteered; he scatted, belting it out, turning red in the face and pacing around the room to the beat. Afterwards, we talked to him, and he spoke about his theory of the world and of improvisation. It was a little abstract, to say the least. He talked about throat-singing in Africa, and even gave us a little sample.

Looking back on the evening, these people truly provided us with a one of a kind experience. They might be crazy, drugged out broken musicians, half-mental, half-genius. Still capable of turning out some seriously decent jazz. Whatever I saw last night was genuine.