If there’s anything I’ve learned in France so far, it’s that I shouldn’t expect any night that I leave my room to be the same. Whether it’s getting followed around by a drunken 17-year-old, unintentionally coming across a cool band at a bar or dancing in front of the opera house, my time here has been an adventure to say the least.
In the six weeks since I arrived in Normandy, while I’m certainly no local, I’m proud to say I know enough to pick out a nice hangout (and avoid the exorbitant covers). I’ve learned that the local drink of choice is Embuscade, which translates to “ambush” and does just that by disguising as a benevolent beer but actually is a concoction of white wine, brandy, beer and syrup. I’ve learned to avoid the port on Thursday nights since it’s full of underage high school students and the dance clubs since they’re full of self-tanner and overpowering cologne.
I’ve also seen enough to say that, yes; people here certainly enjoy a good time out. In that sense, France still has a lot in common with its former colony.
Some aspects of French nightlife are exactly like I’d imagined. There are cafés everywhere that seamlessly make the transition from a nice to place to get an afternoon coffee to somewhere to get a beer or a glass of wine after work to a quasi-bar that serves hard liquor until closing time. And, just like I’d pictured, they’re full of well-dressed people, smoking cigarettes and looking way cooler than I could ever hope to be.
However, I’ve also been kind of surprised by what I’ve discovered. In the first few weeks, before I knew better, I got to experience a whole range of nightlife in a French college town.
During that time, I learned the hard way that I don’t go to bars and clubs with well-dressed bouncers for a reason. My friends and I were eyed from head to toe and interrogated about our ages and clothing choices. With the way that things went, you would think we were trying to get into Studio 54, not some hole-in-the-wall bar in Caen, Normandy. Despite successfully maneuvering through an American high school, I’d never felt so judged in my life.
It was one of those moments when I realized I wasn’t back home. No one ever kicks you out of a bar for wearing the wrong shade of denim. I once even self-consciously walked into the Columns Hotel with a pair of cutoff shorts on, only to realize that no one really noticed or cared. Yet in France, one slip-up and forget it—no dancing to Lady GaGa for you.
I’ve also learned that I will hear the Black Eyed Peas’ “I’ve Got A Feeling” at least once on any given night, no matter where I am. A good friend back home once left a bar because, as she put it, she couldn’t handle dancing one more time to M.I.A.’s “Paper Planes.” While I haven’t been fortunate enough to make that little cash register gesture once since arriving, I have come to the conclusion that everyone here knows all the words to “I’ve Got A Feeling,” and I’ll admit—I love every moment of it.
But through all of this, I’ve been lucky enough to find a niche—a handful of bars and cafés where I see reoccurring faces and have gotten to know the bartenders, much like my favorite places in New Orleans. Those kinds of places where everyone knows your name, or at least knows you as that American girl they can practice their English on or to whom they can yell out, “Obama!”
It’s in those moments at these bars, when I find myself playing cards with some random people or discussing the acting abilities of Justin Timberlake that I forget that I’m in France, attempting to speak a foreign language and make new friends.
But then, when I’m kicked out of the bar at “closing time” and forced to walk in the rain to the kebab stand—and not to my neighborhood IHOP—I’m given a friendly reminder of where exactly I am. And I’m pretty content with it.
