Thursday night, walking along the shiny wet streets of the city near Hotel De Ville, we pause to witness the large ice skating rink in front of the historical building. It must be "gangsta" skate night, as roughly a dozen young, minority males skate aggressively around the rink, bobbing and weaving in defense and attack gestures at super speed in a high-risk game of tag. Spectators look on, but no one dares to enter the rink with them. They own it tonight.
We stroll across the Seine, past Notre Dame in its melancholic slumber and wander into the winding cobblestone streets of San Michelle. From outside the window of an ancient tavern, we hear operatic singing and glance into a foggy window to view a warm and cozy scene aglow inside. We duck inside, away from the chilly drizzle and find a seat close to the piano and the singers. The young, Asian, high soprano stands facing us, grandly singing out ballads in Italian and French. Jean- Francois and I choose mint tea over warm red wine and as I look around the cavernous room, the characters come alive...as though we have suddenly entered a timeless scene...around midnight in Paris...
All throughout the following sequence, the singer passionately gestures through her arias as the hurried wait staff nearly trample her at intervals, as they maneuver past with glasses and plates of food to and from the bar...
The steamy room is pleasantly crowded with a multi-generational variety of characters, fit for any good piece of theater...it could not have been more entertaining or perfect had it all been rehearsed before our arrival...
Across from us is a table of 4 middle aged women, some in woolen hats, having dinner together. They chat amongst themselves, looking up at the singer at intervals with soulful eyes... as though they have lived through the very sufferings of love that she sings of...
In the far corner, a young couple sit gazing at one another. The girl has silken, straight, curtain-like blonde hair, reminiscent of Rapunzel. She absent-mindedly plays with it while her suitor softly whispers romantic overtures to her with longing in his eyes. She twists her golden hair into a long rope over her shoulder, as though she might let him climb up to her tower...her admirer can resist no longer...he takes the luxurious locks into his own fingertips, professing his admiration for her beauty, wooing her as she listens intently, basking in his attentions through the melodic night. At a tender moment, he takes her hand and gently kisses it. She nimbly takes advantage of the pause to swiftly open her purse with her other hand and check her make-up in a pocket mirror. Satisfied once again that she still looks perfect, she tucks the mirror away and turns back to continue absorbing her lover's flattering devotion.
To the right, another couple enter...not quite so young...but still youthful enough, though a bit more hardened by time. The stoic, robust Italian-looking man orders champagne upon entry and sits dominantly straight-backed in his chair, facing the music. The woman by his side is classically beautiful in an understated way, with dark brown hair, arched eyebrows, pale skin, and hazel eyes, looking far-off in the distance. She appears almost achingly bored beside her companion, as he continues throughout the evening to make fervent gestures to gain her affection.
Next, a thin, dark, curlied- haired Italian second soprano steps forth in a gypsy-like red dress. She embodies Carmen of Seville, flirting flamboyantly with the crowd, expounding on the perils of love with a firm hand on the hip. The waiters speed past her, barely missing her with handfuls of empty -or full- glasses of wine as she sings on, undaunted. At a poignant moment of her song, a waiter obliviously folds a towel over his arm and pops open the champagne bottle with a grand gesture but without a sound...as though choreographed in an elaborate pantomime.
Meanwhile, the woman with the lonely gaze looks off in the distance with stony eyes, seemingly not registering the champagne, the passionate music, the warm glow of the room...
At the table beside me, a very young American girl with long chestnut hair and flawless skin sits opposite her cute, but slightly-too-old French date. She dialogues with him in French at an unauthentically loud volume and an awkward, Anglo accent as she flirts seductively, if subtly. He is trying to listen to the music. She doesn't seem to like having to share his attention...
Sprinkled throughout the room are local old-timers enjoying a glass of wine or a meal as they reminisce with one another...as the musicians play on...
Next, the high soprano begins another heart-wrenching Italian ballad. At the climax of the song, she gives a classic operatic hand gesture emphatically toward the audience...just then, a waiter swoops through the door with a flurry of wine glasses and just barely dodges a tragic collision with her hand as he hurries past to the bar, unphased.
The opera singers conclude their sultry segment and, with no detectable segue, another singer jumps in, belting out American and French jazz covers in flashy Vaudeville fashion. The contrast is harsh, but the wine-induced crowd eats it up and are singing along in no time. Even the stony-eyed beauty with her long, forlorn expression seems to finally melt into the scene, looking around as though suddenly waking up to her surroundings. Her gaze softens and she snuggles contently into her lover once more...
