By telling us your country of residence we are able to provide you with the most relevant travel insurance information.
Please note that not all content is translated or available to residents of all countries. Contact us for full details.
Shares
The train jolts to a halt. ‘Bastille’, the intercom states in a familiar monotone. Hoisting my handbag over my shoulder, I skip out of the carriage sliding doors, adrenaline pumping through my veins. The humid heat of the underground platform strikes me in the face. Loosening my fur jacket slightly, I follow the crowds rushing for the exit staircase. Blaring car horns become deafeningly loud as I ascend the metro’s staircase. I crane my neck back and gaze at the midnight sky. Not a star in sight, all hidden under the city’s smog. Leaning on the rusted pole of a streetlamp, I hastily pull a crumpled leaflet from my pocket. ‘1KM WALK STRAIGHT ALONG THE SEINE FROM BASTILLE STATION’ the first line instructs. Nervous excitement comes bubbling up again in anticipation for my first taste of Parisian nightlife. The unmistakable fetid stench of a city river fills my nose. Seeing the Seine glimmering under the lamp lights to my left, I jog towards the riverbank. I frown in annoyance, as my high heeled boots catch slightly in the gaps between the cobblestones underfoot. As I begin my journey, I marvel at the urban landscape that encapsulates me. A cornucopia of late night restaurants line the street, each wafting aromatic scents of various cuisines into the night air. Steel bunkers lined with books and prints dot the riverside. An elderly lady peers at me over a glowing cigarette from her bunker and gestures at her postcard selection. ‘Cinquante cent, ils sont cinquante cent’, she croaks. My shoes clack loudly against the concrete pavement, disrupting the quiet as I stride along. An ornate bridge appears in the distance. I wonder whether my roommates Lucy and Jen, have arrived at the venue yet. Realizing how far I have walked, I unfold the nightclub’s leaflet again. ‘TURN RIGHT DOWN 21IÈME ROUE’, I read. Squinting at the signs on each corner I pass, I search for the twenty first road. The edges of the neon leaflet have curled and worn from my fidgeting fingers. I come to a halt as I notice my turn. Bin bags are piled at the corner and graffiti marks the building at the corner. Derelict apartment blocks loom overhead, windows boarded up with rotting wooden planks. I continue my journey, ignoring the foreboding sense sitting in my stomach. Loud music and the sound of laughter echoes faraway. I look over my shoulder, my instincts to run screaming at me, the unknown territory leeching any feeling of excitement. I hurriedly scan the nightclub leaflet, convinced I have made a mistake. ‘LOCATE CAFÉ LE PIERROT AT END OF STREET AND TELL THE WAITER THE CODE WORD - RADIO LONDRES’. Swiveling my head, I scan the street in search of the familiar red and white striped canopies that hang above the french café’s doorways. The bleak street seems to have no sense of life - no lit windows, not a single person in sight. Walking on, panic wells up in my throat as I realize I am entirely lost. I quicken my pace, praying Lucy and Jen will find me. Suddenly, a glimpse of light catches the corner of my eye. Retracing a few steps, I search for the light. A small golden beam shines out from the corner of a boarded up window. ‘Café La Pierrot’, reads the peeling sign above a battered green door, cockroaches scuttling out from the illuminated aperture beneath the door frame. Creaking open the entryway, a gust of stale smoke blows out in my face. Holding my breath, I step inside. Rows of greasy tables fill the squalid café, completely inhabited. ‘Salut?’ I tentatively call, squinting to find a figure in the dimly-lit room. Footsteps approach and a tall, narrow man in a creased white shirt enters from a dark corridor wiping his hands with a stained towel. ‘Radio Londres?”, I add confusedly. With a sigh he beckons for me to follow him and briskly walks back down the shadowy corridor. Giddy with excitement again, I eagerly follow. At the end of the hallway, he heaves open a steel hatch and gesticulates for me to walk inside. Flashing technicolour lights and heavy bass emanate from within. With a deep breath, I step in and let the strobe lighting envelope me.