Back when my wife Nancy and I were looking for our first apartment to buy in Paris, our real estate agent called one day and said that he had a wonderful place to show us.
He was right: it was in Montmartre, our first-choice part of town, spacious, nicely laid out, in good condition and priced well within our budget β in fact it was a real bargain.
There was only one thing wrong: it was right above a sex shop. And that sex shop was next door to a sex shop. And next door to that sex shop was a strip club that was next door to, of all things, a sex shop. As readers who know Paris, or saw the title of this article, have already surmised, this was in Pigalle. And the fleshly pleasure spills, or sometimes spurts, over for a couple of blocks into the streets on either side of the boulevard. Today Pigalle is still a hotbed of hotchacha, just as it was 26 years ago.
And they still charge the same prices! It breaks down like this:. For some reason, most of the scantily dressed, remarkably sociable women in this zone are, when you get right down to it, men. Customers who are sticklers for anatomical authenticity have to go to Rue Saint Denis, 2 kilometers to the southeast. Again, zoning. But not just any bars: hostess bars. As the name implies, they are very welcoming and accommodating. You will be shown to a seat at the bar, behind which stands a gentleman who looks like he used to be a bodyguard for Hulk Hogan, but actually worked for Snoop Dogg.
He will promptly take your order. Then, at least one but more likely two or three young women will emerge, both literally and metaphorically, from the shadows and sit next to you. They will order champagne, which, when the bartender pours it out of a fancy vintage bottle, will look, smell and test in the lab very much like ginger ale. They might or might not exchange words with you, let alone eye contact. Yes, those women were the hostesses. They were there to provide you company, they did, and now you have to pay for it.
