I have never gotten so little sleep before in my life.
... well not in Paris anyways. Though I certainly have not done so much dancing non-stop.
Last night I celebrated Nuit Blanche. Which means "white night". Basically, the way it was explained to me, is that everything is open late like museum and exhibits and there is live music. It is a kind of celebration of the arts. We had heard from a Parisian that it was not any fun at all, however, all the advertisements beg to differ and we are American, we live in country of advertising. We believe what is shown to us... So, we got all dressed up and we made our way to the museums.
Which, I promise you I would later regret. We would all regret. My roommate, company, and I made it through the Renoir Art exhibit (which was very interesting). We soon realized that this night was not as spectacular as we thought it was going to be. However, when it came time to call it a night, I was completely reluctant to go home. So I hitched a free ticket from a little lady in our program one who was equally as ready as I to party all through the night.
We got in VIP style and we danced. I mean we really danced. I danced for about 3 hours straight, no sitting whatsoever. To be quite honest I was slightly impressed by my stamina. I mean especially after all the pastry eating I had been doing.
The people in the club were considerably different dancers then what I was used to, and were not much for grinding. It was nice not to have worry about a guy just grabbing you and trying to make you dance with him. The French seem to dance more to themselves in a club atmosphere. If anyone tried to place their hand just a little bit lower then necessary, I grab it, and firmly placed it back where it needed to be, to which, they would look at me a bit shocked, laugh, and then continue dancing, not making it an issue.
Sadly, though, the French that surround me, could not really dance and I mean they really could not dance. They made me look like the best dancer in the world and for those who have seen me try to get down in Atlanta (or any place for that matter) you know how hard it is to make me look good dancing.
The music was a Techno 90s/80s flashback, with Michael Jackson everywhere up in the mix, and old, old, school hip hop towards the early part of the morning.
Yes, I was that American girl. The one who is dancing and singing every word to every song that came on just because I could, even ones I would never sing to at home. You know what though? It was a good time. I don't drink and I was having fun, so I can only imagine how much fun it must of been for everybody else in that tiny room to watch me flailing my arms and shaking my non existence butt all around.
I left at six in the morning, caught the Metro, and was escorted home by a man way to concerned for my safety. Little did I know he was soon to be my new French friend.
Don't worry I made a French friend, but no French kisses.