Men I Met in Paris

When I was Twenty-Eight

In 2008, when I was 28 years old, I took a trip to Europe with my lover at the time. He was about ten years older than me, and he was probably the closest thing I have ever had to a serious boyfriend. But we were neither serious, nor was he my boyfriend. He already had a long-term, serious relationship, and I was the side piece. Though, at the time, I believed I was more. I was wrong, and this relationship took a fiery crash soon after our return from Europe. We did not travel well together, and we got into a several arguments, culminating in a big one on the Greek island of Santorini. We decided to spend the last half of our European trip apart, traveling in different countries, and to meet back up in London and fly home together. He went to Sweden, and I went to Paris.

I didn’t speak French, but I had learned a few basic lines to get me through. “Excusez-moi monsieur. Mon français n'est pas très bon. Parles-tu anglais?” It worked pretty well, for the most part, although there were those who ignored me entirely. I was a backpacker kid from the USA — obviously queer — and I wasn’t of much interest to most Parisians. In those days, I looked like this:

When I arrived in Paris, I went to the hostel I had booked in Montmartre, near the Moulin Rouge, because I had romanticized the place in my head from various references in movies and books. But I barely saw Moulin Rouge. I didn’t even spend a single night at this hostel, though it was nice to know that I had booked a place to stay, should I need it.

The same afternoon I landed at the hostel, I decided that I needed to find my tribe, so I looked for the gayest place I could find — OPEN Café, which I am sad to see has since been permanently closed. It was an institution in the Marais for the LGBTQ+ community. Of course, Montmartre and OPEN were not close to each other, and the Paris Metro was not simple. I made my way, nonetheless. Although, I do remember having a couple of scary moments in Paris late-night, when the Metro had stopped running and cabs were not readily available. I remember thinking this was an odd problem for such a big city to have.

That afternoon, I sat down at OPEN Café and started drinking a beer, surrounded by ridiculously handsome and fashionable Parisian gay men who seemed to want to have nothing to do with me. I didn’t speak French, after all, and I was obviously a traveler. I probably looked pretty disheveled from my backpack and hostel journey. I was beginning to get disheartened when a middle-aged Frenchman, who looked intellectual and aristocratic (but not particularly handsome), came to greet me. “May I buy you a beer,” he said in perfect English. I had barely spoken to anyone since arriving in France, so the conversation alone was welcome. The answer was yes.