Last night, after a full day of wannabe-interning and tending to my ready-made family, I headed out to a quintessentially French named hotspot called Le Tribal Bar. After doing a quick search on my phone at where it was located, I found out that it was actually pretty close to my apartment and so I got off at my normal metro and planned to follow my feet towards Cour de Petites Écuries, a small wee inlet that jutts off a street.
I was about two blocks to the left of my street and I literally thought I'd stepped into a scene from one of those retro films set in Harlem, New York's notoriously Black suburb. Think of that scene from New York Minute, where MK and A come out of the sewer through the manhole and head for the closest shop, a hairdresser, complete with ghetto beats, bling and a whole lotta afro. The street I was walking down was like this, replicated. One such hairdresser, aptly named Haut Afro (Top Afro), was lined outside with youths in baggy jeans and inside was like an explosion of corn rows, weaves and, of course, afro's. If the area wasn't getting increasingly dodgy for a SWF it would have been hilarious. As often happens at night, the street was deserted of cars and people were spilling across the street, their espresso cups filled with a murky substance that was fooling no one. There were boom boxes filling the windowsills and hishhash permeating the air. Walking home, I thought for sure that I was going to get sprung.
I guess you have to expect that in an area with a bar that gives you free moules frites ou cous cous avec your drink.
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