My Millennium

mmm. I so desperately love reading people's comments that I'm totally not going to give away the answer, yet. Maybe tomorrow. Tee hee.

Today I will tell you the story of crashing a B- celebrity party in France for the millennium, which is also a good story, but I couldn't condense enough to fit into yesterday's list of mostly-not-lies.

It is the year 1999. (And oh, how we partied. Like it was 1999. All seven and we'll watch them fall. Anyone? Anyone? echo...echo...echo) So I decide to study abroad, and with a little detour, (Denver to Washington D.C. to L.A. [ooops, turns out I'll need a visa for this trip] back to Washington D.C. to Paris in the span of 4 days) I head to Paris early to stay with some friends and bring in the millennium Euro-style, hoping that Y2K does not blow up the Eiffel Tower or cause the Seine to implode.

Quite the contrary, December 1999 was the Year of the Many Floods. The Seine did not implode so much as runneth over. And our swanky party, complete with champagne fountain, scheduled to occur on a large boat on the Seine, was moved into a hall in downtown Paris.

So we got ourselves dressed and make-up upped, and got on the metro (with the rest of the population of France and part of Germany, it seemed) and made our way downtown to the hall. Where, it turned out, they had combined several parties. And there was a mob (a MOB, I tell you!) outside of the entry way, and some Very Large Bouncers were not letting anyone in. We tried screaming that we had tickets, but it was no use, we couldn't get anywhere near the door. So we spent over an hour in the impromptu mosh pit in front of the door, trying to jar our way forward without having our ribs crushed by the mob or high heels crushed by the cobblestones. Until the police showed up in full-on riot gear, marching in a line with shields, waving gas.

That's when we decided to leave.

So we ran around the corner and watched the crowd scatter as the police blocked off the road to where we had been. Looking up at about the sixth floor, I saw a happy bunch of people out on a balcony dancing and waving. Since it was another side of the same building, and our party was supposed to be in a large ballroom, I assumed it was our party that I was seeing. My friend and I wandered across the street and up to the building. There was a door, but it was to the apartments, which appeared to be on the first couple of floors. We hung out for a little while, and eventually a woman showed up with a key to get in to her apartment. She wasn't thrilled about letting us in, but I imagine we didn't look too dangerous, both of us being fairly petite and pasty and all dressed up in backless dresses and heels.

We raced up the stairs to where we heard the music, and banged on the door. It swung open, and we were greeted by a tall, stunningly beautiful woman who ushered us in to the small room full of people dancing to a really intense rhythm. I assumed this was a back room to the main party, so we raced to the back to find the main room, and the champagne fountain.

Dead end.

It suddenly dawned on me that we were in a private apartment.

We turned around to asses the situation. Good-looking people were dancing and grinding around us. Two people were on the couch doing a lot less dancing and a lot more grinding. I turned to look at my friend, with her long, corn silk blond hair. She looks at me with my pale, haven't-seen-the-sun-in-months exposed back and jet-lagged eyes. We look at the room full of beautiful black people who are starting to notice that, um, two of these things are not like the others....

We do a little white girl bop and start to inch our way back to the door from whence we came, when a large white guy with a girl under each arm emerges from the bedroom and intercepts us. My friend is unable to utter more than, "le squeak."

I start explaining that we got lost in my very broken French, and my friend (who IS French) finally picks up and explains what we've been through, that night. The guy laughs, and tells us to stay, and to help ourselves to the spread of delicious food in the living room, as long as we don't steal his very expensive, very large stereo equipment. We promise we won't. Everyone goes back to dancing, and some are even generous enough to incorporate us into their circle and attempt to teach us how to dance. (Ha. Futile, but I do not tell them so.) At one point my friend leans over excitedly to tell me something, but between the music, the jet-lag, and the excitement, I don't really get more than, "I recognize her!" and all I think is, "Oh PHEW. There must be somebody here from her university, or something."

We finally leave around 5:00 in the morning, only to find the metros shut down, but the lights still on, so Y2K has not ended the world as we know it, and we buy ourselves a celebratory crepe filled with Nutella (read: mouthly-orgasm) and begin the long journey home. Part by foot. Part by bus. Part by I-have-no-idea-how-we-made-it-but-we-did.

We slept the whole day, and woke up in time for dinner with the family. As we're sitting around eating hors d'oeuvres and sipping something tasty, my friend flips through the channels, and finds a show called "Le Big Dil." (As in, "deal" spelled very incorrectly. I couldn't make this up if I tried.) It's basically a game show that was very popular in the late 90s, partly due to the fact that they had In Living Color-type fly girls who came out and did dances between the games and doling out prizes. My friend motioned for me to watch, and I almost choke on my champagne as half of our party from the night before file onto stage and start gyrating.

We had crashed the French fly girl party.

And that's why my millennium rocked.