I’ve never subscribed to the notion of being on “the list”. 

Wait-lists in particular were never my forte, namely because I don’t have the patience for them and prefer not to succumb to the agonizing demoralization of following up to see if I’d finally made it; only to be dejected.  At my age, there’s only so much my frail and delicate ego can withstand. 

Plus, if I were to be honest, I’ve never really needed them. 

Being part of the inner scene in Beirut during my 30’s with an ardent connection to the club scene (on account of my husband’s DJ days, back when we were relevant and stayed up till 3am on a weeknight), getting into hard to access parties or clubs was never an issue. Backstage passes, VIP sections, guest lists, roadie access et al, were part of the repertoire, not that I took much notice. 

That kind of cache, I soon learnt, did not translate to international waters, let alone Paris – a city steeped in the intoxicating selectivity and exclusivity of beautiful people with throaty accents and dismissive glares. A whole new caste system, though no one would deign to admit it.

It must have been some sort of fashion week, Couture I think, what with the splattering of bored models slouching louchely around the city; lanky legs akimbo obscured in micro clouds of cigarette smoke (this was pre-vaping where cigarettes were still the epitome of street style cool).  All of which made the stakes of attempting entrance at haut clubs very high, odds very low.  For those of you ill-versed in gambling, the chances did not look good.

In any case here I was waiting in line at the altar of “Le Montana”, an ultra exclusive club, chiding myself on my sartorial choices which looked chic back in my hotel, but were far too colorful for the all-black crowd – a telltale sign of my provincial provenance..

“Talk with an American accent and pretend you’re from New Orkhhhk! Parisians looooove New ‘Orkers” my insider Franco-Lebanese guide advised.  And as she spun a notoriously awful attempt at something that resembled anything but an American accent, I watched in awe and stupefied shock as we, miraculously, were let in.  Still elated from our triumph, we stumbled our way into the small, dark, and inconspicuous space, finding our way to the makeshift dance floor in the middle of a vaulted cellar with a dodgy 80’s style flashing neon lights. Vaguely reminiscent of the village discotheques frequented during my disparate youth in the suburbs of Beirut (read; kinda shitty).  But this was Paris, obviously intended to be this way; what natives refer to as “branché”, right Brenda?

As our eyes adjusted to the dimmed ambience, and the adrenaline rush wore off, we took stock of our surroundings, starting to make out the crowd. Lots of tall, gangly figures looming around.  Good. Those were models…right?  Slightly clunkier.  Not as well dressed as their “off-duty” compatriots waiting in line outside…accents skewing more glutaral Eastern bloc than glamorously gallic.  Models, perhaps. But B-rated ones.  Catalogue. For Burda magazine.

Moving onto a distinguished - or disgruntled (hard to tell in the dark) older man in what looked like a sailor cap chatting to a gawky Asian computer nerd, or maybe the CEO of a unicorn start up?  A pretty blonde dressed in what could be best described as a substitute schoolteacher, though not in an ironic way.  At the bar, a cherubic, rotund petite girl with Pocahontas braids squirreling around a stoic Viking with a striking resemblance to Nico, the late years; the creeping feeling of maybe we’re not in Kansas anymore, certainly not Paris, was hard to shake-off.  It’s as if we had entered a realm of “reverse elitism”- a safe space for the Not So Fabulous Friends of the Friendless.

Appreciative glances from someone who may or may have not been Robert Smith sealed the deal. We had arrived to the “off night”. Surely enough, the middle-aged emo Cure fan, lured by our magnetic aura no doubt, edged his way to our disco circle to dance – not with us – but directly behind us. It’s nuanced in Montana.

Having no idea what was going on, we did what any self-respecting tourist posing as pseudo-local does, we blended in.  Disjointed 80s electro-clash dished out with no sense of beat matching, a throw down of robot moves, erratic gesticulation of body movement that in no way resembles contemporary dance, uncontrollable bouts of manic laughter, sweat matted hair and glistening skin (none of which are flattering); a Molotov cocktail of age agnostic weirdo’s, it was the best basement house party you ever went to in your frigging adult life!

And then, the absurdity really kicked in. A gargantuan bouncer, looming among the crowd of undesirables proceeded to remove people selectively and delicately off the dance floor, tapping them politely on their shoulders before escorting them OUT of the club.  For what? Being too beautiful? Generic? Not Misfit enough?  We’ll never know.   Not that we cared as we breathed a sigh of relief at not being singled out, feeling oddly vindicated and validated.   We (and Robert Smith) had made the cut.

Whatever that may be.

Poor Pocahontas on the other hand was not as fortunate, unsuccessfully causing a commotion trying to hide behind the “Burda models”, dodging her inevitable ejection for whatever particularity was deemed unseemly that night.  Perhaps “too short” was not part of the evening’s criteria; but questionably attractive was de rigueur.  It was all so un-politically correct and delightful! A true conquest for the hierarchy of the upper echelons, but twisted and in reverse. 

But what did that say about me. Was I part of the ugly people? Or a winning reject of the night?  Had we come to the right place at the wrong time? Or were we the wrong people at the right place, at the right time.  What did it matter?

I’d made the B List.  And there was no need to aim any higher.