The Pigalle Story

Pigalle is Paris' Red Light District. It's in Montmartre, just down the street from the hostel where I was staying.

The other night, around midnight-ish, I was on a stroll. Just winding down a bit before heading off to bed. My wanderings took me to Pigalle. It really is a sight to see...a carnival of lights and neon signs. This way prostitutes wink and beckon. That way seedy men stand in the doorways of clubs, hawking their venue as the only "authentic" club of its kind in Paris.

I like red light districts, to be perfectly honest. I think that they're practical. In any city you go to, there are going to be drugs, illicit sex, strippers and prostitutes. Why bother trying to hide it? You might as well put it all in one place so that people who want it know where to go, and people that don't know to avoid it.

Plus, interesting people tend to hang out in them. Pigalle, for example, was a favorite haunt of some of the greatest artists who ever lived. It was a favorite haunt of Picasso and van Gogh. We all know Toulouse-Lautrec hung out there. We've handed Oscars to Liza Minelli and Nicole Kidman for their roles in Cabaret and Moulin Rouge, respectively...So why be squeamish?

I decided to pop into one of the clubs, have a beer, and call it an experience.

Let me pause, for a moment, and explain how I feel about strip joints. I don't like them. This is not a morality thing...it's just a personal choice. Even when I turned 18 years old (the legal age to go to strip clubs in Manitoba) and was completely soaked in hormones, I didn't really enjoy watching strippers very much.

To be honest, I think they're sad. The men who sit in sniffers' row (ew) seem very, very lonely. The friends at stag parties, throwing money around and buying lap dances just seem to be going through the motions. The dancer's themselves always look like they'd rather be anywhere but on the stage, gyrating to Def Leppard.

The language of stip clubs is money. If you have it, you are popular. If you don't, you are not. The idea of passion just doesn't exist in a strip club. It's just lust, desolation, and commerce.

So what's the point?

That being said, I felt good about my decision to see a stripper in Pigalle. Why not? If it's good enough for Picasso, it's good enough for me. I marched up to the largest, best lit, loudest club on the street. A charming establishment known as "The Sex-o-Drome".



No dice. The bouncer must have read "cheapskate" all over my face, because he didn't even open the door. As I was walking away, however, I felt a large series of thumps on my shoulders. I turned my head and spotted a giant finger. Attached to the finger was a massive hand. Attached to the hand was, what looked to be, a shaved Yeti wearing a touque.

"You like the girls?" The Yeti rumbled.

I answered in the affirmative. The Yeti crooked his giant finger and pointed to a club across the street. I shuffled behind him, trying not to fall into his footprints and twist an ankle. He opened the door and shoved me inside.

It was empty.

Behind the bar a female yeti was wiping glasses. I thought it polite to order a beer. A tepid glass of lager was placed before me. As I held it up to the light to examine it, a short, squarish woman approached and squatted in the stool beside me.

"I am Jasmine". She breathed.

I made up a name and shook her hand. We had a brief discussion about the weather. Then she grabbed my crotch.

I don't take well to strangers grabbing my crotch. This wasn't the first time it's happened. The first time was in New York, where a gay homeless man had taken a liking to me. This current crotch-grabbing was not much more pleasant. I politely took her hand away and explained I only wanted to see dancing, and since there was no dancing here, I would like to finish my beer and leave. She pouted.

"Will you at least buy me a drink" she asked?

Without waiting for an answer, the she-yeti behind the bar pulled out a bottle of Dom Perignon, brought it over and started peeling off the foil.

"Fuck this!" I thought. "Time to go!".

I stood up and started to leave, when the she-yeti demanded I pay for my beer.

"20 Euros!" She demanded.

This was extortion! I refused to pay such highway robbery for a drink I never even sipped! I was in the midst of explaining this to the bartender, when a massive palm rested on my shoulder. This palm was attached to an arm the size of a tree. The arm was attached to the Bouncer?

"A problem?" He inquired.

"No problem." I answered. "Just paying for my beer."

And 20 Euro's lighter, I was on my way.

Let this story serve as a warning to those who go to Pigalle. It seems that Toulouse-Lautrec has left the neighborhood. The intrigue, the charm, and the romance of this district no longer exists.

All that's left is the lust, desolation, and commerce.


Jim out.