carrying on in paris.

clubs, coworking, and cramped hotel rooms.

paris, france.

“Hey Siri, search Google for ‘Paris bars Black people’”

That’s how I found myself at Twenty One Sound Bar, body rolling in the middle of a cramped dance floor saturated with sugary-sweet spilled drinks and sweat.

This is, apparently, the place to be on a weekday in Paris. The bar is nondescript, so much so that I almost passed by the entrance on the way inside.

If you’ve been to Cafe Erzulie in Brooklyn, you’ll like the vibe here. It’s homey and familiar — vinyls on the walls and a big-ass Jamaican flag behind the DJ booth give me the first indication of the music choices.

Mon français est horrible — so much so that I’ve found myself switching to Spanish (which I understand) to get around. It’s all good, though. The language of Afrobeats, Amapiano, and New York drill is universal, and everybody knows how to make a rum punch. Plus, my distinctly Southern American accent will betray me every time.

I’m learning to be more present with who I am and with what is—asking more, taking up space, not giving a damn whether my accent makes me seem uncultured or trying to follow an arbitrary rulebook in a life where rules change by the day.

I’ve been in France this week for work, but I extended my trip to stay a few more days in one of my favorite cities.

It’s been years since I’ve been to Paris. The first time I visited, I was broke and stayed in a hostel. The second, in a garish hotel far out of my price range to flex for a Snapchat audience that no longer exists.

This time, my hotel is in Paris's 9th, in the neighborhood of Pigalle. It’s a seedy neighborhood—that’s by choice—with a charm that straddles the line between pure and obscene. It’s neither a hostel nor a 5-star; instead, it meets somewhere in the middle where the lines blur between luxury and frugality.

A proper Paris boutique hotel, the rooms are tiny and unremarkable—plus the AC is broken—but there’s a nice view from the big windows, and the room faces away from the street where the neon signs of “XXX GIRLS” can jar the senses.

The hotel underwent restorations a few years ago and joined Marriott Bonvoy, but it’s certainly not the average Bonvoy property. You won’t find slippers or an extra robe in the closet, but you will find condoms. (This got a roaring laugh from me when I opened the package, thinking it was hand sanitizer.)

Nude women adorn the bathroom walls in hanging, lopsided portraits. The hotel is playful and unserious, perfectly juxtaposing Paris's severity and austerity.

I’m coworking for a few hours today to make up for a busy week on the road. I’ve ducked into a hybrid coffee shop/coworking space that feels like Soho House but without the pretentiousness.

It’s very Paris, with its aroma of espresso wafting through the air and books lining the staircase. I’m ducked off in a quiet corner to write and handle business at home. I feel at peace and relaxed after a week that, while enjoyable, pushed my limits of sociability.

This evening will entail a typical French dinner outside, on a patio, but without the cigarettes. And tonight, another Google search for community.