The Mating Rituals of Exotic Birds
503
The place to be on this particular night is
Glaz’Art, a hop, skip, and a jump away from the rather desolate metro
zone of Porte de la Villette. It’s 2 A.M. and people continue to stream
into the club. Music’s thumping, the lights are dashing about, and most
of Paris’ young and hip are taking part in the Saturday-night ritual
that will mark much of their 20-something existence: the mating call.
Emanating
the perfect combination of cigarette smoke and detachment, the boys
move their bodies in time with the music, scanning the groups of girls
clustered about the floor. Despite the fast beat of the music, everyone
is careful to avoid dancing too vigorously. Why? 1) Wild arm movements
and head banging obscures your face from the site of others. 2) Nine
times out of ten, a wild body shaker simply looks like an imitator of
the Chicken Dance.
But after a
half hour of careful observation, I realize that no progress is being
made. As intricate and universal as the Dancefloor Seduction may be, it
doesn’t seem to be working for any of these guys tonight. In fact,
despite the expat’s romantic vision of fleur-bearing French men, it
would appear that these Parisian guys aren’t any better at courtship
than their American counterparts.
I
turn my gaze away from the dance floor and towards my friends. To my
left are Greg and Mark, two Americans constantly engaged in a
one-upsmanship game over Bands No One Has Heard Of. To my right are the
Irish Joyceans, busily arguing about (surprise) Joyce.
“Finnegan’s
Wake is a mess, I tell you, a mess!” screams Joycean I to Joycean II.
Joycean II inhales deeply—you do not insult The Master in his presence.
He turns away from his friend and looks off into the void.
Just
then, two pouty French girls approach and sit down at the empty chairs
next to our table. They scan the dance floor, widen their pouts, and
then turn their gaze to my friends. Seeing the scowling, bespectacled
Joycean, one of them has an epiphany. She pulls out a book and begins
to read, acting as though this were a completely normal thing to do in
a crowded club on a Saturday night. Is she crazy? Does she have a test
on the book the next day? No, no, no, dear reader, this is no ordinary
book! This is yet another version of the mating call! This is
Baudelaire’s Fleurs du Mal!
The
two girls pore over the prose with wide eyes, lips trembling at the
power of the poet’s opium-laced lines. What tragic, romantic girls! I
roll my eyes, looking back at the boys to see if they’re witnessing
this ridiculous book club. And so they are, although not with the same
reaction:
“May I take a look at
that book? There’s a passage I’d like to verify,” says Joycean I,
leaning over to stare into the deep, soulful eyes of one of the pouty
girls.
She nods her head slowly,
solemnly handing him the book as though it were their newborn child.
The Joycean reads the passage, nods his head, sneaks a look at the
girl. Reads it again, nods more vigorously, and then hands it back to
her, pointing to his favorite poem. Two hours later and the two of them
are–
“Wait, wait, wait. That
actually worked?” interrupts my French friend Sébastien, as I tell him
this story the next day. “Does he really leave the club with her? It
must be because he’s a foreigner. I mean, French girls are so difficult
to hit on. You can’t pull any of those ridiculous American come-on
lines with them.”
“So what do you do then?” I ask, thinking I’m about to hit on a key difference between American and French courtship strategies.
“Well,
I ask for a cigarette…though they usually tell you they don’t have any.
Or sometimes I stare until the girl looks back, though that doesn’t
really work, either.”
“But a
book—I wonder if that could work for me?” he muses, stroking his
goatee. “Though you might need something less moody than Baudelaire,
and even then a book will only attract certain types of girls. And I
guess my question is: do I really care whether or not the girl can
read?”
Ah, well at least one
thing is comforting: the mating call may rest forever inexplicable, but
the priorities of the average 25-year old man appear clear and
universal.
—by Jessica Powell
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The place to be on this particular night is
Glaz’Art, a hop, skip, and a jump away from the rather desolate metro
zone of Porte de la Villette. It’s 2 A.M. and people continue to stream
into the club. Music’s thumping, the lights are dashing about, and most
of Paris’ young and hip are taking part in the Saturday-night ritual
that will mark much of their 20-something existence: the mating call.
Glaz’Art, a hop, skip, and a jump away from the rather desolate metro
zone of Porte de la Villette. It’s 2 A.M. and people continue to stream
into the club. Music’s thumping, the lights are dashing about, and most
of Paris’ young and hip are taking part in the Saturday-night ritual
that will mark much of their 20-something existence: the mating call.
Emanating
the perfect combination of cigarette smoke and detachment, the boys
move their bodies in time with the music, scanning the groups of girls
clustered about the floor. Despite the fast beat of the music, everyone
is careful to avoid dancing too vigorously. Why? 1) Wild arm movements
and head banging obscures your face from the site of others. 2) Nine
times out of ten, a wild body shaker simply looks like an imitator of
the Chicken Dance.
the perfect combination of cigarette smoke and detachment, the boys
move their bodies in time with the music, scanning the groups of girls
clustered about the floor. Despite the fast beat of the music, everyone
is careful to avoid dancing too vigorously. Why? 1) Wild arm movements
and head banging obscures your face from the site of others. 2) Nine
times out of ten, a wild body shaker simply looks like an imitator of
the Chicken Dance.
But after a
half hour of careful observation, I realize that no progress is being
made. As intricate and universal as the Dancefloor Seduction may be, it
doesn’t seem to be working for any of these guys tonight. In fact,
despite the expat’s romantic vision of fleur-bearing French men, it
would appear that these Parisian guys aren’t any better at courtship
than their American counterparts.
half hour of careful observation, I realize that no progress is being
made. As intricate and universal as the Dancefloor Seduction may be, it
doesn’t seem to be working for any of these guys tonight. In fact,
despite the expat’s romantic vision of fleur-bearing French men, it
would appear that these Parisian guys aren’t any better at courtship
than their American counterparts.
I
turn my gaze away from the dance floor and towards my friends. To my
left are Greg and Mark, two Americans constantly engaged in a
one-upsmanship game over Bands No One Has Heard Of. To my right are the
Irish Joyceans, busily arguing about (surprise) Joyce.
turn my gaze away from the dance floor and towards my friends. To my
left are Greg and Mark, two Americans constantly engaged in a
one-upsmanship game over Bands No One Has Heard Of. To my right are the
Irish Joyceans, busily arguing about (surprise) Joyce.
“Finnegan’s
Wake is a mess, I tell you, a mess!” screams Joycean I to Joycean II.
Joycean II inhales deeply—you do not insult The Master in his presence.
He turns away from his friend and looks off into the void.
Wake is a mess, I tell you, a mess!” screams Joycean I to Joycean II.
Joycean II inhales deeply—you do not insult The Master in his presence.
He turns away from his friend and looks off into the void.
Just
then, two pouty French girls approach and sit down at the empty chairs
next to our table. They scan the dance floor, widen their pouts, and
then turn their gaze to my friends. Seeing the scowling, bespectacled
Joycean, one of them has an epiphany. She pulls out a book and begins
to read, acting as though this were a completely normal thing to do in
a crowded club on a Saturday night. Is she crazy? Does she have a test
on the book the next day? No, no, no, dear reader, this is no ordinary
book! This is yet another version of the mating call! This is
Baudelaire’s Fleurs du Mal!
then, two pouty French girls approach and sit down at the empty chairs
next to our table. They scan the dance floor, widen their pouts, and
then turn their gaze to my friends. Seeing the scowling, bespectacled
Joycean, one of them has an epiphany. She pulls out a book and begins
to read, acting as though this were a completely normal thing to do in
a crowded club on a Saturday night. Is she crazy? Does she have a test
on the book the next day? No, no, no, dear reader, this is no ordinary
book! This is yet another version of the mating call! This is
Baudelaire’s Fleurs du Mal!
The
two girls pore over the prose with wide eyes, lips trembling at the
power of the poet’s opium-laced lines. What tragic, romantic girls! I
roll my eyes, looking back at the boys to see if they’re witnessing
this ridiculous book club. And so they are, although not with the same
reaction:
two girls pore over the prose with wide eyes, lips trembling at the
power of the poet’s opium-laced lines. What tragic, romantic girls! I
roll my eyes, looking back at the boys to see if they’re witnessing
this ridiculous book club. And so they are, although not with the same
reaction:
“May I take a look at
that book? There’s a passage I’d like to verify,” says Joycean I,
leaning over to stare into the deep, soulful eyes of one of the pouty
girls.
that book? There’s a passage I’d like to verify,” says Joycean I,
leaning over to stare into the deep, soulful eyes of one of the pouty
girls.
She nods her head slowly,
solemnly handing him the book as though it were their newborn child.
The Joycean reads the passage, nods his head, sneaks a look at the
girl. Reads it again, nods more vigorously, and then hands it back to
her, pointing to his favorite poem. Two hours later and the two of them
are–
solemnly handing him the book as though it were their newborn child.
The Joycean reads the passage, nods his head, sneaks a look at the
girl. Reads it again, nods more vigorously, and then hands it back to
her, pointing to his favorite poem. Two hours later and the two of them
are–
“Wait, wait, wait. That
actually worked?” interrupts my French friend Sébastien, as I tell him
this story the next day. “Does he really leave the club with her? It
must be because he’s a foreigner. I mean, French girls are so difficult
to hit on. You can’t pull any of those ridiculous American come-on
lines with them.”
actually worked?” interrupts my French friend Sébastien, as I tell him
this story the next day. “Does he really leave the club with her? It
must be because he’s a foreigner. I mean, French girls are so difficult
to hit on. You can’t pull any of those ridiculous American come-on
lines with them.”
“So what do you do then?” I ask, thinking I’m about to hit on a key difference between American and French courtship strategies.
“Well,
I ask for a cigarette…though they usually tell you they don’t have any.
Or sometimes I stare until the girl looks back, though that doesn’t
really work, either.”
I ask for a cigarette…though they usually tell you they don’t have any.
Or sometimes I stare until the girl looks back, though that doesn’t
really work, either.”
“But a
book—I wonder if that could work for me?” he muses, stroking his
goatee. “Though you might need something less moody than Baudelaire,
and even then a book will only attract certain types of girls. And I
guess my question is: do I really care whether or not the girl can
read?”
book—I wonder if that could work for me?” he muses, stroking his
goatee. “Though you might need something less moody than Baudelaire,
and even then a book will only attract certain types of girls. And I
guess my question is: do I really care whether or not the girl can
read?”
Ah, well at least one
thing is comforting: the mating call may rest forever inexplicable, but
the priorities of the average 25-year old man appear clear and
universal.
thing is comforting: the mating call may rest forever inexplicable, but
the priorities of the average 25-year old man appear clear and
universal.
—
by Jessica Powell
by Jessica Powell
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