A Night Out

My hair was curled, my black sequined dressed was zipped, and I just buckled my new black Vince Camuto pumps around my ankles. My roommate cut the music and in the same motion hollered, “the Uber is here!”

            “Coming!” I replied, reluctantly, not wanting to go out on a Tuesday night.

Yes, a Tuesday. I couldn’t believe I was starting my week with a night out, but I also could not believe I was in Paris so, the awkwardness was fitting. I took a final swig of the Merlot I was sipping, closed the door, and listened to the click-clomp sound my heels made as I walked down our apartment’s spiral staircase. Once I finally caught up to my friends, I slid into the Uber, and we were off.

Ten minutes later, we made it to our destination of the night. Considering the day of the week, the line to get inside was relatively long and it was only growing as we walked the short distance from the curb to the back of the line. Within minutes, we made it inside and were immersed into a world with loud music, deep bass, glaring neon lights, and sparkling champagne bottles. The atmosphere was alive and despite my earlier longer to stay in, hang out in my pajamas, watch some Bravo TV show, and go to bed early… I was happy that I went out.

The night continued with dancing, singing, and drinking as well as the addition of a few more elements of glitz and glitter compared to any other club back in the States. The French culture is already so glamourous and, unsurprisingly so, they even carry it into their nightlife. I was standing on top of a huge cube overlooking the crowd below me when I turned around and met the eyes of a college-aged looking guy. The immediate recollection of the safety meeting at orientation flooded my mind. I thought about the presenter strongly emphasizing, “LADIES, DO NOT MAKE EYE CONTACT WITH ANY MAN” due to the unwarranted favor we would most likely be expected to repay.  

My stomach sank as he walked over and effortlessly slid between the abundance of club-goers on the floor. I felt my skin became flush. There was no avoiding this encounter. He put his hand up towards me, gesturing for me to come down and use it as a bolster. In all honesty, I preferred being atop an elevated surface rather than in the crowd, so in response I waved my hand towards me and singled for him to join me on top of the cube. He hopped on and again stuck his hand out. “Pleasure to meet you,” he said, “My name is Ryan*.” American. I thought. An immediate rush of anxiety left my body.

Now that I think about it, his appearance screams “American.” I mean, from my experience here, French guys are generally tall, on the leaner side, no facial hair, and more often than not, have a funky haircut. Ryan, although quite tall (about 6 feet tall) he is, on the other hand, built, has blue eyes, longer hair, and a full, yet groomed, beard. For lack of a better word, his appearance is very rugged than the men here who are typically clean-shaven and well-maintained.

After talking with him for a decent amount of time about school, our majors, where we are from, why we are here, and even American college football (our favorite teams are rivals), we learned that we are attending the same university this semester and even have a class together!

Although it is nearly impossible to gauge someone’s personality based entirely on a conversation in a club, I have been lucky to keep in touch with him since then. We talk daily and have even seen each other around campus and grabbed lunch and dinner a few times. After getting to know him more, it is obvious that Ryan has a very laid-back personality. He is the type of person that has his priorities in order, yet is always willing to go out or to explore, but will be content with only grabbing a coffee. I could not have been happier meeting him abroad. Our personalities immediately clicked, we even share the same type of humor. It is nice knowing that although I am across the pond, I have someone here who cares about me and vice versa.

*Names have been changed to protect anonymity