Twilight tourist

Of course it's the city of love. But if you want a little something on the side, Paris can serve that too

The drum roll did me a Pavlov. The way the scientist's bell made his puppies salivate with the thought of food, I knew what must follow those familiar opening bars of the Can-Can. My hand tightened around the bulbous bottom of my wine glass to almost cracking pressure when with whoops and yells the dancers burst onto the stage.

Dressed in their frilly blue white and red costumes, their high-kicking, fluid moves matched the fast paced Can-Can theme that the entire brass-band clashing their cymbals, blowing hard on their trumpets, trombones and tubas, and pounding their drums was belting out with fervour. Of course the excitement flowed from the stage to the audience like a sharp crack of electricity and it was helped along by fleeting views of frilly clothing accessories thanks to all the energetic flapping of the voluminous skirts and frequent high kicks.



In the cavernous inside of the Moulin Rouge Cabaret, tables were closely packed like canapu00e9s on a tray and were sized likewise too, which is why I noticed a little ripple in the glass of the English gent sitting by my table as a little quiver ran through his hand. He looked ancient enough to have first visited France on D-Day and he tore his eyes off the visual treat of fine forms and long legs long enough to wink at me and whisper "Just what the doctor ordered for me dicky-ticker". He then took a strong pull at his gin to hold it all together and went back to the show.

Moulin Rouge is more refinement than raunchiness, and while there is quite a show of skin in the various dances and acts, they are executed with such finesse and fluidity that it seems to fit into the natural scheme of things. In fact, the cabaret welcomes children from ages 12 and above. And a large part of the smiles and exuberance that the girls show on the stage are not staged. From talking to Brianna and Katherine, the two lovely ladies I met backstage, I realised that they love what they do.

At Crazy Horse I didn't meet any of the stunning performers but there was no doubt that the men in the audience love what the dancers do. Here the champagne flutes are a tad thicker because fists definitely tighten around them a lot thanks to the scintillating strip teases, bold ballets and costumes that can allow you to check in your imagination with your hat and coat. Smaller, more intimate (red sofas with a champagne bucket in front of each) than Moulin Rouge and definitely in-your-face, Crazy Horse is like the cursor on a slide rule with bawdy and beautiful at either end. Where the cursor lies depends on individual perception.

Paris which most relate to romance wears its shades of rude and lewd with consummate comfort. Which is why at the Sunday market, just a stone's throw away from the Porte de Clignancourt metro station, amongst 'I love Paris' and rock band T-shirts there were T-shirts showing how women can be compared to shapely fruits. This market is in North Paris, an area that is a far cry from central Paris with its beautiful bridges and articulate arches. But here you can pick up good bargains on trinkets, tools and furniture. Just don't get into roadside dice games which look easy they are con jobs meant to separate the tourist from his Euro.

We'd arrived in Paris on Saturday, checked into the Hotel Sezz, six minutes away from the Eiffel Tower and walked along the Seine during the morning and afternoon fighting jet lag and weariness. But that evening both were effectively dissipated by Crazy Horse and street side cafu00e9 au lait (coffee with milk). In Paris a Pierre is as proud of his coffee as a Murugan from Matunga of his medhu wada. So every thimble size shot of the stuff we had in Paris was an aromatic delight.



Crazy Horse is just off Avenue des Champs-Elysees where old Bonny's magnificent monument to his triumphant victories stands at the head of one of the most famous streets in the world. And even though it was well past midnight the cafu00e9s had not yet powered down their espresso machines. The Champs de Elysees with its wide pavements was a pulsating mix of window shoppers, cinema goers, diners, buskers and artists. I found it an olfactory delight too as waiters rushed past in a plate laden blur from cafe kitchens to pavement gazebos leaving a wake of mouth-watering aromas.

There is something about the Montmartre district that draws people to it as the sun starts to sink. I like to think that it is the way the orange sky reflects in the white dome of the Basilique du Sacru00e9-Cu0153ur, the perfect sight to take in while having a relaxing drink at one of the many cafu00e9s at the bottom of the hill on which it stands.

We'd seen the market by morning and walked the sights during the afternoon and now were enjoying a colourful Kir Royal, a very French drink made by adding champagne to a dram of cru00e8me de cassis (blackcurrant liqueur). The street side saxophonist was doing a beautiful rendition the Girl from Ipanema along with Astrud Gilberto who was singing out of his iPod.

After that we walked into the Moulin Rouge to the pleasurable aural combination of the popping of corks, the tinkling of champagne flutes.

Step out of the Moulin Rouge and turn left and you're in the Pigalle district (the old red light area) where subtlety is tossed away like a concealing garment and things around gets a few notches more basic. Tourists are beckoned by bawdy billboards and a conspiratorial "psst" to step into peep shows and strip bars.

Then there is the Folies Pigalle Discotheque and Night Club at 11 Place Pigalle, with a racy programme that is very popular and definitely adult.

We had just two nights in Paris, a city where crawling into bed before dawn starts to break is considered chaste because there is so much to do after dark. There are jazz clubs, cabarets, cafu00e9s and the cinema and so it was no wonder that I snored all the way on the five hour TGV journey from Paris to Provence on Monday morning.