Boogie Woogie (Pas Des Boogie Woogie)

One of the biggest (yet,hard-won) rewards of picking up and starting a completely new life from scratch is you are forced to go outside of your comfort zone on a regular basis. Dealing with banks, French administration, a salesclerk when you're trying to exchange a purchase or even asking someone what time it is can feel overwhelming. Three years on, my heart still races a little when I have to pick up the telephone to make a phone call and I still get a little sensory overload when in a group of kilometer-a-minute French speakers and I'm trying to keep up and/or jump into a situation requiring some random new vocabulary.

Recently, I found an organization in France called On Va Sortir (translation: "We are going out"). Similar to MeetUp in the U.S. it's just individuals who organize outings like the theater, cinema, going to a restaurant, hiking, etc. and you can join in on anything. Having a developed a new-found love for doing karaoke - albeit rather badly - I decided to join a karaoke event at the L'Iguane Café, just outside of Chartres. (On a side note, their website is everything that is oh-so-wrong, yet oh-so-right about French websites. Lots of pages providing very little practical information. But don't even get me started on that...).

As the registration for this event grew from 20 to 30 to 40, suddenly my nerves were getting the best of me. Showing up to a strange place to meet a bunch of people I didn't know was leaving me a little panicky. It's hard enough when it's in your own language but knowing I might spend an evening making French smalltalk in a noisy bar seemed a skooch overwhelming, so much so I almost canceled. But I said "Self, you gotta get out and do it". So I did.

When I arrived, I was really surprised to see how crowded it was in the garden area in front of the bar. There must have been 50 or more people and having never met anyone, I (mistakenly, it tuns out) assumed they were all the same group. There were brochettes on the BBQ, a table with a punch bowl, and groups of people standing around. I stood at the periphery at first, then walked to place in the center, next to a post, and was greeted by a couple of women asking if I was with OVS.

After standing awkwardly for a few more minutes, I eyed the punch bowl table with a group of people standing around. I figured I've got to just jump in and say hello, so I went over, served myself a cup of punch and stood with the group. There was kind of a murmur amongst a few of them and then one of them said hello. Of course, when I open my mouth and they realize I am not French (going down the list of suspected nationalities in the usual order: English? Irish? Australian?), we have a little to talk about. There is some mention that they are a karate club, and I nod in interest. Then it slowly dawns on me in a Homer-esque "doh! moment... you're not my group and I have just crashed your party and stolen your punch! I was mortified. Needless to say, it was not a problem and they even invited me to eat with them, which I politely declined.

I eventually meandered inside to scope out the seating and saw a nice corner booth (anyone who knows me well knows j'adore the corner booths) and there were two friendly-looking women sitting there, so I asked if I could join them. AGAIN thinking they were with my group - as they're all strangers to me - and I didn't even find out they weren't until the end of the evening. Super-nice ladies named Isabelle, who is my age and Joliya, who is 20. They could not have been more welcoming to this complete stranger who has (inadvertently) crashed their evening as well. When we went to order cocktails, Isabelle offered to buy my drink, which I thought was really sweet.

She said her father was 14 when D-Day happened and was living in the countryside outside of Normandy. It was there, hanging out with the cows in the field, that he encountered American soldiers for the first time. On top of that, he had never seen a black person before so, as she explained, here come these big, strong black and white American soldiers with chewing gum and Camel cigarettes in their helmets and it just blew her dad away. The soldiers gave him his first cigarette (and, unfortunately, probably a nice nicotine habit as a souvenir) but she said that her dad would cry tears of joy when recounting that story. She said it was her pleasure to offer me a drink because of her dad's happy experience.

The karaoke was really fun - a lot more crowded and rowdy than my usual spot in Cloyes (although the Vatican is probably a lot more crowded and rowdy that my usual spot in Cloyes). The English-language selection was pretty sparse, but after an hour, I put in my request for Nancy Sinatra's "These Boots are Made For Walking", which I figured I remembered well enough do. (The only other choices seemed pretty risky for my limited range - My Heart Will Go On, Wake Me Up Before You Go Go, Love Me Tender, New York New York - well you get the drift.)

I really enjoyed watching everyone sing but frankly, didn't know many of the songs. A lot of them were really popular "drunken French bar songs" (ok, that's my take) - like this little Claude Francois ditty above - and, man, whole room was singing and moving exactly like Claude and his Claude-ettes! I kind of wish I could share in this collective French moment, but alas, I think it will forever be just outside my grasp of the realm of French-ness. Regardless, it was a great evening.

Around midnight, I headed out for "les Sticks" and despite my GPS having me drive through a cornfield (thinking Holy Crap, I'm going to be one of those people you hear about on the news who drove off a cliff because their GPS told them to), I was home safe and sound and tucked into bed by 1:30 am. What a great evening - new friends and new experiences.