Friday, 6:35 p.m.: The fatigue from the workweek has just dissipated with the first call of evening. No, the suggestion is not to shut ourselves away in the cinema. Rather, we shall set out to conquer Paris, and only return home to bed once victory has been declared. The office rapidly disappears in the rear-view mirror of my ŠKODA KODIAQ as my playlist pumps out clubbing tunes. Kanye West, The Weekend. The bass reverberates through the comfortable interior. First stop: the 9th arrondissement. Specifically, La rue des Martyrs – always lively, always flashing like a call for the first drink. Paris is on parade, the city wants to go out this evening.
On La rue Blanche, I pass the theatres. Tickets in hand, play enthusiasts queue in front of the Le théâtre de Paris. I have a quick glance at the posters. This evening, one can laugh with the great Daniel Auteuil in Envers du décor, or applaud the actors of Husbands and Wives, written by the master of commotion Woody Allen. Tempting, but not for now. I move about the quarter a little. I'm obviously not the only one having had the thought to start in this area. Once parked, all the lively terraces of La rue des Martyrs are already packed. Alternative: Il Professore, a couple of steps away, on La rue Choron. Passing by the tables set up with colourful Tuscan plates, I meet up with friends already wedged into club chairs hidden behind the curtains of the speakeasy-style Bar-Bilbiothèque. Kisses all around, a furtive exchange of news, and the cocktails quickly arrive at the table. To start, I want something cold, easy… I take an Aperol Spritz, attempting to make the summer last just a little longer. The topic of conversation quickly changes to the plan for the evening. I love this excitement, this compulsion to move from one place to another, not staying put for any length of time. One single place is never enough, and the evening is only just beginning.