So, I married a Paris showgirl…

There are doubtless many more conventional reasons for visiting the City of Light than meeting and marrying a Paris showgirl. But can any of them be nearly as compelling? 

A visit to the Louvre to see the Mona Lisa is fine and well. A trip to the top of the Eiffel Tower, sunset from the steps of Sacré Coeur or an afternoon spent sipping coffee in a Left Bank café are certainly worthy Parisian pursuits. 

But finding a real-life Paris showgirl and convincing her to become your wife – that’s when you know you’ve really gotten the most out of your French vacation. 

At least that’s how it was for me. 

I arrived in Paris nine years ago – a young Australian man bent on adventure. Inspired by Hemingway’s tales of a moveable feast, I moved to Paris from London on a wing and a prayer, determined to take a seat at the table and eat my fill. 

I had spent two years living and working in London – as many young Aussies do. And while the city was exciting and dynamic, it was also expensive and exhausting.  

I felt that London and I were engaged in a war of attrition. In her arsenal, she had the winters-with-no-end, the Tube and the ability to rob you blind each time you stepped out your door.  

That, combined with the fact London was the backdrop against which a long-term relationship had come to a crashing, dramatic end, meant that I began looking for greener, less tainted pastures. And there, glinting on the near horizon, just across the Channel, Paris beckoned. 

And so I packed my suitcase, mustered my schoolboy French and caught a Eurostar to the Continent.  

I arrived in Paris without knowing a soul. I had nowhere to live and nothing to sustain me other than a blind optimism that the city would take care of me, as she had taken care of countless dreamers before me. 

For four years I lived the wild life of a bachelor. No late night bar, smoky brasserie or terrace café was spared the nightly spectacle of me attempting – in my own unique way – to get under the skin of the world’s most beautiful city. 

For four years I tried – and failed – to fathom that great enigma that is the French woman. Confused by Gallic idiosyncrasies I couldn’t hope to make sense of, and foiled in my every attempt to bridge the cultural chasm, I discovered that for a clueless expat such as myself, the pitfalls of the French dating scene were many and nefarious.  

I learned quickly that one glass of wine in any social situation is widely considered more than enough, that no can mean yes, yes can mean no and anything described as “pas possible” was rarely so. I discovered the real reason French women don’t get fat (they’re so paranoid their husbands are cheating, they subsist on a steady diet of Xanax and cigarettes) before finally concluding, to my ultimate dismay, that the female of the French species and I were destined never to be together. 

And so, just when I thought Paris had given me all she had to offer, my path crossed that of a Lido dancer. A fellow Australian whose sequin-clad high-kicks were the toast of the Champs Elysées. 

Her name was Shay, she hailed from Brisbane and she’d come to Paris to dance at the Moulin Rouge. Seven years later, she had swapped cabaret venues and was now the lead dancer at the Lido. 

At first blush, ours was an unlikely union. Both of us had traveled to the other side of the world to meet exotic members of the opposite sex. For her, a brooding Frenchman had always been the objective, and for me, a tempestuous French temptress had always been the target. 

But a similar upbringing and a common cultural background finally won out – teaching both of us that what we had traveled to the other side of the world to find was actually a lot closer to home than we ever imagined. 

That I came all the way to Paris from Australia to meet and fall in love with a fellow Australian was remarkable enough. That she also happened to be the lead dancer at a famous Parisian cabaret, was simply icing on the gateau. 

As well as offering up the obvious fringe benefits, dating a Paris showgirl meant gaining an entrée into a most extraordinary world. I glimpsed a side of Paris that very few visitors get to see – the fascinating, behind-the-scenes world of Paris cabaret.  

As a result, I have become somewhat of an aficionado of the Paris cabaret scene. 

The Moulin Rouge entertains with its rambunctious take on French music-hall tradition. The Crazy Horse titillates with its risqué, yet sublime displays of the naked female form. But it is the Lido with which my loyalties – and affections – ultimately lie. And not only because it’s there that my sweetheart plies her remarkable trade each night. 

For me, a night at the Lido is a step back to a classier age. An age in which a proper night on the town required tuxedos and cocktail gowns. A time in which an evening spent sipping champagne before a feather-infused display of over-the-top Parisian cabaret was considered the height of sophistication. 

The Showgirl and I are now married and the besotted parents of a beautiful little boy. And so, from the humblest of beginnings has a Australian-flavoured Parisian dream sprouted.  

I came to France not knowing a soul and with no firmer plan in mind than to throw myself at the mercy of that grande dame Paris to see what she might have in store. And the lesson I learned? Behind her regal appearance and haughty façade, Paris still has a soft spot for dreamers and romantics.

* Bryce Corbett is an Australian author living in Paris. His memoir, A Town Like Paris, is available now in the US, the UK, Australia and all good English bookstores in France.

LINKS:

YouTube promo for ‘A Town Like Paris’

Amazon page for ‘A Town Like Paris’

Bryce Corbett’s website