A story about how we failed to attend a life-changing party

During my first week in France, Gaël told me about a party that was to be held in the Catacombs in June. My initial thought was that he was inviting me to hit the sauce with a bunch of skulls, but it turns out the ossuary only makes up a tiny portion of the underground mines. The rest of the network runs like veins underneath the south of Paris, and is a hot spot for parties of the secret variety.

Last Monday he threw in a few extra fun facts, like how I'd need to wear clothes I didn't care about because the trek to the party room, in addition to being illegal, would be through knee high water and pitch black god awful darkness.

It probably sounds like I'm complaining, but when you're 25 and someone tells you to that you're going to have to dress your worst so you can clamber blindly through a system of underground tunnels that will eventually spit you out into a Parisian rave, it's kind of really fucking awesome. So when Gaël showed up on Friday afternoon with a bag full of galoshes and headlamps, Angela and I were like, This is really happening! Suh-weeeeeeeeeeeet!

We started the night off by meeting up the rest of the party at an apartment near the entrance. The place was packed, but the host made sure Angela and I had wine while Gaël's friend from Guadeloupe took care of the music.

Here's the part where I go on a diatribe about how it never ceases to amaze me how far a reach American culture has. Every time I heard some forgotten rap song come on in a restaurant or shop in Japan (or that one time when Usher was playing in the background of a monkey show), I couldn't help but smile. Amidst the batshit insane fashion sense and the ridiculous obsession with Disney, a sprinkle of good ol' American hip-hop was like a head nod from the homeland.

I expected something along the same lines to happen here in Paris, but it threw me for a loop a couple of weeks ago when Angela's co-worker put on a Boney M track I hadn't heard in ages. And okay, they're German, so it doesn't really count, but seriously? Since when do 21-year-old Parisians that allegedly *just* lost their virginity a month ago listen to old Boney M tracks? Oh, and let's not forget to mention how the same dude kept mixing up The Beach Boys with The Who, which is so mother fucking ludicrous it's adorable and I love him forever until I die.

Anyway. At the pre-party for our Catacombs adventure (an event Angela kept referring to as The Party That Will Change Our Lives) Gaël's Guadeloupe friend put on some old staples: Ice Cube, Snoop Dogg and Biggie. He knew every song by heart. He had the gangster lean down perfectly. He grabbed his chin like a pro. And then, like a juicy cherry on a notorious cake, he started throwing up the infamous West Side hand sign.

No, I'm not joking.

(Meanwhile, a large-ish poster of James Dean hung on the wall behind the couch.)

Angela and I hung around the apartment for a couple of hours, shooting the shit while Gaël continued to vanish, each time reappearing with a new friend. Turns out we were waiting for our Catacombs guide -- some mousy dude that smelled of latex -- and didn't start making our way to the secret entry until sometime between 11:00 and midnight.

Angela and I stomped alongside the herd in our green galoshes while all the other girls walked lightly in their stockings and flats. I smiled to myself when I imagined how they'd shriek once they realized we'd be walking through water, but our guide never got us there. The people that tried to go into the entrance were chased out by the cops, and by the time we realized all hope was lost for entering in that particular neighborhood we were all too sweaty and tired to find another door.

Disappointed, we walked into the metro station without paying (we'd rebel somehow, dammit!) and the guy that lived in the pre-party apartment plugged his iPod into the speaker he'd brought and started blasting music and singing. We all followed, a line of 30 or so rejected Catacombs goers, and I just had to laugh. No, we didn't get to rave underground, but here we all were, heavy with liquor, tired, and making a scene in the middle of the metro station like proper youth.

By the time we got off the train we'd lost most of the party. Angela and I sat against a metal fence while Gaël and friends figured out what they wanted to do, when a group of 50 or so people dressed in orange shirts and rollberblades suddenly skated by. I told Angela how amazing and nonsensical all these sights were, and she shook her head and laughed at me.

We all finally fell into bed around 3am, and slept in the next day until after 12. I woke up sick, which is the second time I've come down with something in the last month. This worries me. I told Angela I felt like dying, but she just responded with, "You always feel like that in Paris."

Considering everything I saw during our Catacombs adventure, our day in Disneyland Paris, all the tiny cafes and shops we've been to... I'm going to have to happily disagree.