June 26 Solidays

At yesterday’s festival we were discussing who were the biggest music personalities in the world? Like, who did people know everywhere? What artists have that elusive appeal to become objects of adoration and intrigue across the globe? We’re wondering because there are a lot of names at these festivals that we don’t recognize, but at the performances, thousands of people are going batty and singing along. Rodrigo y Gabriela? Leftfield? Who are these people? We decide Shakira and U2 are the two living, performing bands best known across the planet. Then we put on SheWolf and promptly stopped talking about Shakira.

We roll into Paris for the Solidays festival. It’s an enormous affair, but it’s meticulously run and beautifully set up.

BBE is playing mid-afternoon, and until then, the organizers have everything from Shiatsu massage to breathing exercises set up to distract the bands while they wait. I get frustrated with the line for the massages and just wander around in the blistering heat listening to the ocean of French swirl around my ears. I go to get a drink and figured tequila flavored beer was a good idea. It wasn't.

Unfortunately for us, the festival is so well organized that they recycle the dressing rooms. Which means we get kicked out for another artist. Fair enough, but annoying. Coincidentally, Jamie Lidell, one of the only artist’s names I recognize and the only artist I want to stick around to see, is the artist we get kicked out for. Maybe that’s why I didn’t’ find his set later in the evening to be as inspired as I was hoping.

With all our gear and nowhere to hunker down at the festival, we make our way into the city to find our accommodation. We’ll be staying in the flat of our French booking agent (yay Guillaume!). Finding the apartment isn’t a problem, but finding parking, that’s another story. I got a bit dizzy circling the neighborhood over and over again in concentric circles. I did feel like quite the superstar after parallel parking our car on a hill into a spot 8 inches longer than the vehicle though.

And so we lounge away the rest of our night up on the sixth floor of a Parisian apartment complex. We sit around in our underwear as the temperature continues to hold strong at about 85 well past midnight. With the windows all spread wide open, you can hear cars singing between gears below as you mindlessly stare into the neighbors’ flats, which are formulaically graced with baguettes and pottery. I imagine crawling out through the dormer onto the narrow ledge and shimmying up the tiled roofs, where I’m sure there are hundreds of black cats demonstrating perfect posture as they look out over the city. And as I sit searching the Internet for what time the Louvre is open this week, someone somewhere is playing Leonard Cohen on the stereo. Suzanne sashays softly into the room. I get it already. I understand why people love Paris. Teach me French already.