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finding my way away from home

My first day of French class in sixth grade, my teacher, Mrs. Cesar, asked if anyone had visited France before. I, an eager sixth grader who had indeed visited France before, hesitated to raise my hand. My first visit to Paris was a four day blur of bus tours and scrambling to find entrances for my toddler sister’s stroller. I raised my hand anyway, which was quite possibly one of the biggest mistakes of my life. Apparently when you tell a French teacher you’ve visited Paris before and happen to be the only one in the class who has done such a thing, you get interrogated. In front of everyone. Every single day. It turns out that in between mini photo shoots and seeking out Indian restaurants for every meal, there is no time to even look in the direction of a croissant. And when you tell your French teacher you haven’t even tried a proper croissant, her eyes will widen to the size of the moon and you will be terrified.

That first day in French class was enough to make myself vow to never be a tourist again. Every family vacation after that, I would scoff at the camera and turn my head at keychains and postcards.

When I got the opportunity to study in France, I promised myself I would do everything the “French way.” I wanted a full immersion experience. 

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While my friends sent me off to Paris laughing at my sweatshirt and calling me a croissant (which, after experiencing Parisian croissants, is the most humbling compliment since it can only mean that I instantly brighten days), I was terrified. Unfortunately, my sweatshirt was neither a fashion statement nor an attempt at humor: it was a sincere apology. Please for thE LOVE OF GOD excuse my French.

I thought that despite the two year break I took from French classes, my six years of middle and high school French would magically appear as soon as I was within range of a French-speaking country.

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The deadliest combination during an American's first night out in France: alcohol and no way of properly ordering more. After a night of drinking questionable shots and testing the limits of food allergies, one thing was clear: the French club scene is uncomfortable for fresh Americans, complete with French guys and the few sexual phrases they keep in their mental arsenal. "Non merci," soon became a part of mine.

Probably the most surprising part of the night, however, was that the French club playlist algorithm seemed eerily familiar to that of the American college fraternity.

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With the culture shock came another shock, one of the “adult” variety. After living with my parents and then in a dorm, I had no experience truly fending for myself, especially with a raging hangover. My pounding headache and battle scars (read: mystery bruises) left me wanting one thing that I just could not seem to find---some French (<---apparently not??) toast. It was through this predicament that I found my new hangover cure: jam and croissants. At the time, it was the closest thing to comfort that I could find. I ate it for breakfast almost every day after that. 

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Il faut casser le noyau pour avoir l'amande

French proverb

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reality shock

While I came to France vowing to reject anything American, I soon found myself seeking out comfort in everything. I started getting excited about the McDonald’s sign I would see every day as I got off the metro stop even though I hadn’t been to a McDonald’s in America in over a year. I would feel my heart skip a beat if I heard a stranger speaking English at a museum or restaurant. 

As I worked through the culture shock and adult shock, I realized that France is everything I had hoped it would be. It turned out that despite the almost 10 years of mentally preparing myself for a trip to Paris, the problem was me. 

Somehow, in the middle of Paris, I was subconsciously trying to recreate the life I had back home. 

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More than halfway through the trip, after over two weeks of sleepless nights and croissant breakfasts, I finally found something that resonated with me. As I exited the Musèe d’Orsay, I heard jazz. I spent my spring semester spending way too much time studying jazz for my History of Jazz class. What had started as a simple gen-ed class soon took over my life. My boyfriend and I would stay up all night listening to jazz, talking about my readings for the class, and planning trips to jazz clubs for when I finally turn 21 in two years. 

It suddenly occurred to me that jazz in Paris would be more accessible to me than it was in Pittsburgh. For one, there was a show going on right in front of me.

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Jazz was brought to France during World War I and was a significant part of les années folles that followed. This interest in the exotic and new forms of art allowed jazz to take France by storm. The upbeat, African American style was rejuvenating for a population tired out by the war. 

American authors in Paris observed these years from cafes and the American people they surrounded themselves with. Jazz in Paris, however, represents an art that survived through World War II and the challenges it brought to a music form that was, at the time, largely American. Unlike many American authors in Paris, jazz did not flee the country when the political and social climate became rough. Instead, it became even more rooted in Parisian culture.

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Louis Armstrong was elected Honorary President of the Hot Club de France, an organization founded by young Parisians in the 1930s to pioneer the jazz movement in Paris. While the club just served as a listening group, it was important in maintaining jazz’s presence in the Parisian music scene. 

While the music they listened to was American, the club strived to seek out French artists as well. Guitarist Django Reinhardt and violinist Stéphane Grappelli were among these new French jazz artists and were founding members of the first all French jazz band--the Hot Club Quintet.

During World War II, Louis Armstrong was known as Jean Sablon. It was his French alias that was necessary during the Nazi regime when anything “American” was outlawed. 

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The biggest hit to the European jazz scene came with World War II. The Nazis banned “degenerate” African American music and “American swing.” In order to continue this still new music trend, the Hot Club asserted that their music was actually “traditional French music,” even going as far as publishing books with bible verses and attributing the style to Debussy, a 19th and 20th century French composer. The style, which at the time was referred to as “swing,” was soon uniformly referred to as “jazz” to move as far away from American roots as possible. 

Even song titles were changed to sound more French: 

“St. Louis Blues” became “Tristesse de St. Louis”

“I Got Rhythm” became “Agate Rhythm”

With the Nazi occupation of Paris came a need for underground jazz clubs, most of which popped up in St. Germain-des-Pres and the Latin Quarter.

Le Caveau de la Huchette, located in the Latin Quarter, is one of the most notable of these underground jazz clubs.

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When you first walk into Le Caveau de la Huchette, all you see is a bar and some seating. The above-ground portion of the club is quiet and uneventful enough to make you question whether your €10 have gone to waste. 

After following a crowd down some treacherous stairs (that are definitely not high heel friendly), you’re exposed to a whole new world. The place is packed with people of all ages, gathered around a stage and dance floor. The music is loud, the people are loud, and there is absolutely room to move. Anyone hoping for some space must travel to the dance floor or back upstairs.

These underground jazz clubs thrived during World War II. Since Americans had fled Paris, the French jazz scene was rooted in emulation. French youths listened and played along to the records they already had. Sidney Bechet, Jelly Roll Morton, Cab Calloway, and Louis Armstrong provided the sounds that kept the French jazz scene afloat.

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Everything about Le Caveau de la Huchette transported you back into another decade. The music, the dancing, the way people dressed. It was exactly what I imagined a Parisian jazz club would be.

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It seems that after a certain time, usually after 2 a.m., regardless of where you are or who you are, jazz makes an appearance. At a rock bar that had been playing Van Morrison all night, the transition into Louis Prima’s classic hits is sudden but unquestioned. As the bartender switches from his 63 hour rock playlist to the mellow tunes that are unwaveringly familiar, the question, “Where have I heard this before?” serves as a testament to the universality of jazz. Even halfway across the world, jazz reeks of nostalgia.

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My last Sunday in Paris, I discovered Le Réservoir. And by discovered, I mean found on Yelp. What was advertised as a jazz club that served brunch turned out to be more than that. 

The club itself was hard to find. Sandwiched between stores and residences, the only indication of its existence was a small wooden sign that hung on the door. Unlike other clubs, including Le Caveau de la Huchette, that had bright neon signs, Le Réservoir was more reserved.

The exterior suggests a small and quaint club. The inside, however, was large and eclectic. Music, usually jazzy renditions of American songs, resonated through the club. The walls were covered in gold-gilded mirrors and the chairs were draped with velvet. Once again, the club was everything I imagined it would be. 

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The unlimited brunch buffet, combined with the decor and music was oddly familiar to me. While I listened to a jazz rendition of “Crazy” by Gnarls Barkley, I realized that since I studied French culture for so long, I noticed its influences in America pretty easily. Since I have lived an American life, it took a while for me to acknowledge that American culture can also be an influencer. 

While people around me kept commenting on how very “French” this venue was, I finally saw exactly how American it was as well.

What I had seen the entire trip as an appeal to tourists finally registered as a simple expression of American-influenced French culture.