Saturday soir begun with a train into town to try and find the Australian Bar which I had been told was a good place to go (I'm guessing the person who told was joking cos it's Australian but we though we'd go and tell them kiwi's were better than kangaroo's or something, rouse them before our kiwi's cane their wallabies, that actually sounds like a bad children's book). However, my direction and navigation skills seemed to be dwindling a little (insinuating that yes of course, they're normally perfect) and I ended up leading everyone around unfamiliar streets and accidentally arriving at the Louvre 40 minutes later. Oops. Luckily it was a beautiful warm night and no one seemed to mind (either that of they're good liars, I'm fine with it either way) but I'm thinking next time knowing the name of the street the bar is on or even bringing a map would be a good starting point. Lesson learned. But in my defence, we eventually found Cafe Oz (notice 'we', not 'i', even saying 'we' is generous because I really had nothing to do with finding it) but found out that it had a pricey cover charge.
We decided to try and found somewhere else cool to go and walked down a street to find a bar that had considerably cheaper drinks and no cover charge. Perfect, we thought. We joined some tables together, ordered some drinks (they actually take your order like at a restaurant, no rowdy, pushy, violent bar queues here. All sophistication) and began to chat away. Although not mentioning it to each other, we all began to notice a serious lack of females coming to the club. There was also the realisation that the large amount of males (by this I mean my group was the only with females in it) were all quite friendly with each other, kissing each other hello and goodbye (which we all told ourselves was just part of the custom and perfectly acceptable). As the night wore on we became increasingly aware of these little facts until the milestone dropped when one person exclaimed that they had just seen two guys hook up at the bar. We fled.
Looking back at the bar as we hurriedly left, we noticed a rainbow flag hanging front and centre but which we had all been oblivious to. Then while scoping out other bars to go to on the street, we realized they ALL had a rainbow flag hanging outside their clubs and along with these little facts (and the titles of some of the clubs which I will censor from here) we made the awkward realization that not only had our first club experience been at that of a gay club, but it had been on a gay street and, we would soon find, a gay neighbourhood. Awkward. I had just thought that there were far more male club enthusiasts than females and assumed it was a french thing.
Moral of the story: don't go to a bar where the male bartenders have tops tighter than yours.
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