Last Saturday evening, I attended a Bon Voyage party for a friend of mine who is leaving Seattle to pursue his graduate degree at London Business School. This won't be his first time on the other side of The Pond; he's a Frenchman. My bon ami and I met while volunteering for the GSBA (Greater Seattle Business Association,) and would quite often run into one another at various parties around town. I most recently saw him and his beau at the birthday party I had at Bottlehouse a few weeks back. Of course, I had to see him one last time before his journey abroad.
Upon arriving I made my way to the bar and chose to begin the evening with a glass of Crémant. Looking like quite the flâneur, I carried my flute of bubbles and sidled over to where the man of honor was seated and settled in, right beside him. We embraced and he introduced me to a circle of fellow bon vivants. I must say, it was quite the mélange: in addition to French émigrés, there were Québécois, a Lebanese, an Eqyptian, a Tunisian, and even a Japonais. I was one of the few, if not the only, native born Emerald City citizen, which seemed to intrigue everyone present.
Across the softly lit room, a particular gentleman kept glancing my way and eventually got up enough nerve to approach me. He pulled up a chair, turned it around and straddled it before he introduced himself en français, to which I replied, "Je m'appelle Tino; enchanté." My smiling friend, seated next to me, then chimed in and boasted in his accented English, "Tino knows how to speak French," giving me far too much credit in regards to my proficiency in the Romance languages.
"How is it that you can speak French?" I was asked by the somewhat surprised gentleman. I explained to him a number of my friends speak French regularly and I've been able to pick up bits and pieces along the way, not just in French but numerous other languages, Romance and otherwise. We then explored the various languages we were familiar with and between the two of us covered quite a bit of the Northern Hemisphere. The gentlemen knew my friend through a French chorus that used to meet prior to its conductor leaving the Emerald City in pursuit of professional advancements. While we were chatting I could hear Lady Gaga's Just Dance playing in the background, followed by T.I & Rihanna's Live Your Life, whereupon he excused himself to go hit the dance floor, but not before he leaned in, with Limoncello soaked lips, and kissed me, on my neck. "It was just meant to be kissed," he explained with an apologetic smile.
I made my way back to the bar, ordered a glass of crisp Viognier and returned to my seat. Sipping on my white wine, I let my ears and eyes wander. While sifting through all the tongues being spoken I shifted my gaze around the room. The soigné room consisted of clean, cream-colored walls with minimal slate gray fixtures and a dark gray floor. Unadorned, elongated tungsten light bulbs dropped down from the ceiling on slender wires, casting the space in a warm wash. Across from me on a narrow ledge was an over-sized glass jar that held three massive King Sago Palm fronds, beside it lay a long, slender piece of bleached driftwood. Scattered around the room were a few more vases, all of which each held no more than four pieces of assorted tropical foliage, which suited the simplicity of the place quite well.
While observing my surroundings, I couldn't help but feel I was being observed as well. It appeared that I had caught the eye of a Québécoi. He came over to me, sat at my table and complimented me on the shirt I was wearing (I guess I did wear the right outfit, after all,) asking me where I had found it, then he introduced himself to me, in English, and we continued our conversation; where we were from, how long we've been in Seattle, where we've been, what we've seen and such. All the while, I couldn't help but think to myself: My goodness, these boys sure know how to make someone feel like the center of attention. We both smiled at one another exquisitely with our eyes as we sought to find more topics of conversation, at a loss for words, he excused himself and bashfully disappeared into the crowd.
Was it me? Or was it hot in there? All to soon, I found my wine glass empty and returned to the bar, this time trying the Cava Rosé. Warm and flushed I opted for a seat near the over-sized windows that had been pivoted open, and began chatting with a woman I was introduced to earlier in the evening. It turned out that we both had a penchant for history and we began to divulged to one another the particular periods of humankind we were passionate for. Furthering our rapport, we also discovered we both shared extensive experience volunteering in a variety of fields, and, (surprise, surprise,) she was also multi-lingual. She eventually was pulled away by her adoring husband and I found myself with yet another empty glass and resolved to remedy the situation.
For glass number four, I completed my Mediterranean tour with a serving of Prosecco. By this time, the dance party was in full swing, with songs alternating between English and French and spanning across four decades. And then, the clarion sound of a familiar anthem filled the room, "...No fighting, no fighting... Shakira, Shakira." It was Hips Don't Lie and in the tight jeans I was wearing, I made sure my hips spoke the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God. "All the attraction, the attention/ Don't you see baby, this is perfection." You can imagine what ensued.
Not only was it a going-away party, it turns out it was also someone's birthday, the Lebanese fellow (yummm...,) also a polyglot (surprise, surprise,) and somehow a dark chocolate cake with lit candles arose, seemingly, out of nowhere and we all enthusiastically sang "Happy Birthday." I marveled at the joie de vivre clearly exhibited on everyone's face. I felt surreal, as if I were in a scene out of a movie or in a magazine spread, but we weren't transfixed and frozen in a moment in time, or even contrived; we, collectively, together, were organic, real and fluid within a moment in time.
At the close of the night, after one more glass of Crémant, I crawled through the open window to join what was left of our party on the sidewalk, most of whom were casually smoking by then. As the Belltown bars began letting out, my French-speaking friends burst out in song in a show of marvelous camaraderie. They caught the attention of more than just inebriated passer-byers, a man appearing of little means, made his way to us and began to sing an improvised doo-wop style tune, while beating an upside-down plastic water jug. We explained, that it was one of our friend's birthday and the busker modified his lyrics to fit the occasion. We all joined him in his rhyming, rhythmic cadence, clapping and stomping, serenading our friend with yet more birthday praises. Again, surreal, I felt like I was in an incredible movie scene.
The last thing I remember of that sweet, balmy night, is embracing my friend, one last time, to say goodbye and hearing: "Je t'aime bien, I love you, Tino." Quite the perfect, Hollywood ending to a such a sublime night.
"J'adore mon ami, j'adore."
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