Jaunted

National pastime
Smoking has been a national pastime since the first person to roll tobacco was a small boy. In the 1830s, groups of young men calling themselves the `Bousingos' (the equivalent of the T-Birds in Grease, I guess) stood on tables in smoky bars and sang songs like: "let us smoke, smoke! Like cigarettes, all things are brief in a useless life..."

Smoking ban?

In 1991, someone told the French government that smoking was bad for your your health, and they sighed and passed a law requiring restaurant owners to have a non smoking area. A couple of restauranteers put up a small sign in one corner of their smoky rooms, proclaiming that corner a smoke-free zone. Most were ripped down and used as roaches. Not like this:

In 2003, the government put the price of cigarettes up by 20 per cent, presumably to help pay for the billions it spends treating smoking-related diseases. That gave a boost to the black market.

In 2003 also some responsible dad in the government finally made a law against selling fags to under 16s. Trade in fake IDs rose briskly.

Mission Impossible
The government, possibly unable to see the failure of their previous measures due to the clouds of smoke billowing round their own private chambers, has now decided to go the whole hog and ban smoking completely in public places from New Year's Day next year. Fine of 75 euros for anyone caught fag-handed, or the cost of a packet of ciggies slipped to the policeman.

Hookahs
Okay, okay, I'm exaggerating. Most people smoke like chimneys on fire, but not everyone does. In fact, one of the more common smoke-related pastimes is the slightly tamer but infinitely more exotic hookah or narguile.

Instead of just a packet of fags and a lighter, your back pocket now has to fit a bloody great water-filled, multi-coloured, coal-fired, bubbling contraption and a plastic package of gooey, gluey substance that smells faintly of apple pie and tastes like what Jim in American Pie put in his.

Why? I guess it's a nod towards a healthy lifestyle. Drink more water, they say, (or tobacco filtered through it) and eat more fruit (or fruit-flavoured smoke).

Pulling placesI do it because it's now the new thing to do and be seen doing, not because I actually like it. There are hookah bars up and and down rue St Maur in trendy Oberkampf, which I visit regularly. They're top pulling places, especially after your first couple of attempts when you can finally manage to light the bloody thing and keep it burning.

They're something strangely erotic about sharing a pipe with a stranger, or asking for a light from his burning coal.

A lost cause
Unfortunately, I'm English as well as exotic (and erotic), and I like a stiff drink with my smoke. This is what happened last Saturday:

Good-looking Arab: Do you mind if I borrow some of your burning coals?...would you like a drink?
Me: Oh yes, I'd love a cold beer thanks
GLA: They don't have beer, I'm afraid
Me: Oh. Okay. A martini-lemonade? A screwdriver maybe?
GLA: Ummm, perhaps some tea?
Me: G&T is that? Or a pina colada? Bloody Mary even?
GLA: Sorry, this is a ...
Me: No wine, no whisky? Drop of eau de vie? I'm not fussy, you know
GLA: They don't serve alcohol here
Me: No alcohol! We're in Paris, aren't we? Where are they?
GLA: They're Muslims, like me. We don't drink
Me: What? Bugger that. I'm going next door to the Petite Garage for a beer and a fag. And I hope I get nabbed by a good-looking policeman.

*****
Monica Guy lives in Paris, writes for Time Out, and keeps a low profile, like any true femme fatale. In fact, most people don't even realize she's a femme fatale. She's been told to upload her avatar, but she's not sure who or what that is, or why she might want one. Unless he's in a pilot's suit, that is. That would be quite another matter.

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