Have you ever had a night so insanely crazy, just the sheer retelling of it incites wonder and confusion? This is such a night.
Last spring, two-thirds of the way into my Language Study Abroad Plus program in Toulouse, France, three of my fellow program mates (hey Rori, Prashasti and Kelly) and I ventured off for spring break, a week-long exploration of coastal France that would include Nice and Cannes.
The trip, though fun, had not been exactly what we envisioned. Instead of glamorous beachfront party scenes and swanky vino bars, we spent our first days wandering around the quiet coastal town of Cap d'Ail and going to bed alarmingly early to try to avoid our crazed, overly verbose hostel owner.
The night we arrived in Nice, however, we set our bags down at the St. Exupery hostel and ventured out into the night, hoping for a glimpse of the glamorous nightlife of which we had been so deprived.
Our decision was a bust. Glamazon models unseen, we wandered around lost, until we settled into a culturally disappointing Irish pub.
Tired from traveling all day on the TGV, Rori and I actually began to nap in the dark, dinky bar, drooling into our overpriced cocktails. Kelly, surprisingly conscious, simply shot a look of exasperation when the neighboring booth asked if we were "le wasted."
But Kelly, with her enterprising spirit (and conscious state of being), began conversing with our waiter about the downtown scene to which he excitedly (well, within the limits of his French blase-ness) responded, "Benneee Benasssiii, DJ extraordinaire." Interest piqued, we learned that Benassi yes, that Benassi would be performing at Club High in Nice that very night.
We gathered the remnants of our tattered dignity and sped out the door.
Travel, however, proved difficult. The metro had stopped running, our combined inability to follow directions was impressive and sobriety was fast approaching as the universally lascivious tones of catcalling came at us from street corners. However, we were resolute in our resolve. Nothing would keep us from our Italian techno god. Finally, we made it to High.
A veritable shrine to all things Eurotrash, the club stood impressively aloft, Gothic lettering glowing in welcome. We stood in line excitedly behind an older, balding gentleman and his scantily-dressed, noticeably more attractive date (yeah, it was that kind of club). The line moved quickly, and we were soon faced with a hulking but sweet-faced bouncer and a surly bottle-blond woman in her 40s.
However, a simple request for our identification soon led to a startling realization in our frazzled, post-travel state, we'd left our IDs in our hostel, nowhere near the downtown club district. We pleaded with the bouncer, but the blonde woman's tight-lipped expression said it all: It wasn't happening.
Rejected and dejected, we cabbed it back to the St. Exupery, sullen at having to shell out Euros for what seemed like a failed night. Alas, the night was far from over. As we stepped out of that cab, our knights in shining armor stepped in.
Well, guido knights in gelled armor, that is.
As our cab pulled in, we were greeted by the two Belgians dressed head-to-toe in I wish I were joking form-fitting white, with the figures of Pauly D and The Situation to match. We'd entered the unknown waters of European metrosexuals.
They were, as it turns out, fellow guests at the hostel, and extremely friendly. As soon as we stepped out, they gibbered on in an incomprehensible hybrid of German and French, but the key words were there Benny, DJ, le dancing.
The disco gods had spoken we were going back to High. Rori decided to hang back, but Kelly and I proceeded on, emboldened by the Belgians' indecipherable enthusiasm.
So Kelly and I found ourselves with the strange Belgians in the backseat of their shiny, trying-too-hard Porsche that was booming a terrifying noise that I later found out was German rap. Trying to process thoughts as the tones of Deutsch music which I can best describe as a consonant-laden Eminem at his angriest I was struck by the insanity of it all. It was, in my fluent Franglais, tres strange.
Inside the club was even stranger.
Imagine a virtual cornucopia of virile 20-somethings willing to drop their pants for anyone/thing with a heartbeat, then throw in European attitudes toward personal space (read: none) and you had Club High. Too sober but wallets nearly empty post-30-Euro cover charge, we were pretty unamused. When an Italian Michael Jackson impersonator (what?) started to air hump us without our consent, we were at our wits' end. Luckily for us, DJ Benassi finally entered.
He delivered.
Up on that podium he was our god, controlling the ebbs and flows of the orgasmic ecstasy hypnotizing the club. The music would build and build and build, and you'd be dancing and just when you couldn't take anymore, the euphoric climax of beats just took over. It was magical. Kelly, ever the club queen, insisted she locked eyes with this DJ deity when he looked straight at her in the middle of his set. It was basically like that movie, "When Harry Met Sally," but different.
As we exited the club, the sun was rising, and we walked barefoot along the beach, waiting for the Belgians to drive us back in their ridiculous sports car. And all we could do was laugh, and laugh, and laugh.