Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Downstairs, I see a minivan stopped near the curb. I can hear the music bumping from here, and the vehicle’s rocking from left to right, not from people having a lovestruck passionate encounter but because Molly is sitting in the passenger seat, dancing wildly. The door slides open mechanically, filling the street with deep bass beats, and Beatrice lifts one perfectly arched brow. “Is she always this . . . way?”
I laugh and warn, “This is her sober and serious. You should see her when she’s drunk and wild.”
“A une bonne nuit!”
Oh! I know that one . . . “To a good night,” I repeat in English. Thanks, DuoLingo!
Pulling up in our taxi outside Les Chatons Fous, which Beatrice told us means ‘The Crazy Kittens,’ our taxi driver pauses and says something to Beatrice, who answers back. The resultant conversation sounds like it’s bordering on an argument, with the driver throwing his hands up at the end but of course still accepting our euros.
We climb out, and as we do, Yori turns to Beatrice. “Was there a problem?”
Beatrice laughs. “He was telling me this place caters to tourists and kept insisting that we let him take us to another nightclub that is more authentic.” Though she doesn’t move her hands, I can hear the attitude-filled air quotes when she says authentic. “When I insisted, he was saying Niçoise are ignorant of Paris. I had to correct him.”
“He knew you were from Nice?” Molly asks, and Beatrice nods. “How?”
“My accent. You wouldn’t notice, but to natives, there are nuances from the various regions. Like you would know a Texan cowboy from a Californian surfer, no matter that they are both American.”
I wonder if those are the only American references she knows. They are stereotypical, but I understand what she means given that I was instantly identifiable as from the Boston area when I first arrived in New York City. It took a while for the variety of the city to change my ear and my tongue.
“Come.”
We follow Beatrice to the gold and red painted double doors of the club, and I note that she slips some money to the bouncer as she passes. Inside, I have to pause to let my eyes adjust in the weathered brick foyer. It’s clearly darker than outside, but as we go through the inner doors, a whole new world is revealed.
Everything is swanky, with dark oaks, red leather, and brass touches that give the club a sense of understated luxury. It’s the sort of club I could imagine the Curies sitting in, sipping wine and discussing science and art with Cousteau or Renoir. It has the aura of age and the feeling of immortality.
On one side of the club is a beautiful bar with a brass rail and multi-colored bottles all contained in their own little cubbyholes, some of them labeled, some of them not. Filling the other three walls is a collection of booths and tables, intimate and lit by a candle in the center of each. The center of the space is a wooden dance floor that’s already filled with people moving and shaking to a song I’ve never heard, probably because it’s in French. In the far corner is a dark hallway with a velvet rope stretched across it leading, I suspect, to a VIP section that I can’t see.
It's gorgeous and magical and full of inspiration, from the people to the room itself. “You know who’d hang out here?” I ask Molly, who lifts an eyebrow. “Bellatrix Lestrange.”
“You’re into Harry Potter?” Yori asks. “I went to the Harry Potter part of Universal Studios Osaka. It was amazing.”
We’re seated at a booth about halfway down the one wall, and Beatrice looks over the menu. “Like the driver said, this is a tourist place so the offerings are bilingual,” she says, passing the leather-bound page around. “I recommend a cocktail. Something light. Keep your wits in this den of vipers,” she says before grinning knowingly. “Like your Slytherin?”
“Hell yeah! We totally need to do a movie marathon this month.” The suggestion falls on deaf ears because a waitress in all black comes up, asking for our orders. I order a Cosmo and sit back, people watching.
Molly slams her palm on the table with a wide grin. “Alright, people, it’s probably not the best idea for us to talk about fashion on day zero of a competition, so I propose something much more exciting.”
“More exciting than design?” Yori asks with a furrowed brow.
I groan quietly, sure Molly will have come up with something outlandish.
“Let’s play Top That, men edition! Or women, I’m not judging.” She looks around the table questioningly. “We each talk about the dating scene at home, we’ll vote on them, and whoever has the worst story drinks free all night. Game?”
We excitedly chat, laughing about how atrocious the dating pool can be, until Katarina raises a point.