Mélissa marked herself safe during Paris Terror Attacks

#myfuckbuddyandionlytelleachotheriloveyouwhentheresaterroristattackinparis, and it’s a little like that with this long-dormant blog, which was supposed to be dedicated to concerts and the arts.

In Montmartre, it resembles a Sunday morning like any other. I run to Batignolles, I do yoga, I run back to Montmartre, I invite my neighbours over and make us all raspberry-lychee hempmilk smoothies. Tonight’s concerts are cancelled. I pace around my apartment (I moved, by the way, and have room to pace) trying to decide when to go lay flowers out front of the Bataclan.

A reporter friend calls at the right moment to ask if I’d be willing to do this on film and answer a few questions to which I don’t have answers. At least I won’t be alone, and therefore safer, I reason, and ask if my bike can be somehow integrated in the footage – vélo vanity. I stuff roses in my bag and a candle in my pocket, enjoying the touch of the sun and ignoring the sirens as I coast down Boulevard Magenta.

I’m introduced to a British TV presenter who looks and acts like Roger Moore-era Bond, and two other friends-of-friends who agreed to be interviewed, Cécile and Sophian. Bond fixes Cécile with a steely gaze and brandishes a firearm-shaped microphone in her face. “Will you think twice before you go out on a Friday or a Saturday night from now on?” She shakes her hair: “I don’t think so. You cannot know, so it’s better not to think about it,” she shrugs frenchily.

Right on cue, screams. A surge of people fleeing outside. “Move! Move!” I’m dragged down onto the tiled floor of the terrasse. Writhing bodies and upturned tables are rugbied on top of me. I’m slight enough to slither under the red leather bench, trapped. The sound of glass smashing everywhere, more screams, tables flung sideways,  pools of chocolat chaud. Nothing deafening, something that could be interpreted as muffled gunfire, but how the hell should I know what that would sound like?

“Melissa, Melissa! I’m so scared!” she’s gasping. Across glass-encrusted mosaic, I try to get a grip on my friend’s hand and on reality. Human tide deposits me inside the café and I stumble down the stairs into the basement storeroom with a dozen or so stunned bodies. Another reporter is filming the baby clutching Papa’s arm, then takes flattering close-ups of my bleeding glassed knees as someone scrabbles behind me for an alternate exit. “Where’s Phoebe? Where’s Phoebe?” I’m whispering to the reporter.

After some minutes, we all agree that it was a false alarm. We sheepishly, shakingly, shuffle up the stairs and out into the chill night air. Répu, less than ten minutes earlier a sea of grieving, heaving, living bodies, now completely deserted. I locate Phoebe as she reassures her father on the phone. The restauranteur barks at us to get the hell out of his completely trashed establishment.

Sophian points out the damage he contributed bashing the glass partition with a table to improvise an emergency exit. “I didn’t see it, but it was very impressive,” I pat him on the back. He leads us to the welcoming Simon’s rather nicer-than-mine apartment around the corner, where several people caught up in the panic huddled around his flatscreen on a spacious Scandinavian sofa to wait for their heartrates to go down. I borrow disinfectant and tweezers and pick shards out of my it’s-nothings. The host shakes my hand warmly as I head off. “Nice to meet you, see you at the next attentat.

I wonder what happened to the bitty old lady who was sitting at the table opposite me with her dog, and who looked exactly like her dog. I wonder how all those bitty old ladies who look like their dogs are responding to the tragedy and the state of fear that is pulsing through the city. And I wonder what happened to that tea I’d ordered. We never laid our crushed flowers. I glance at Cécile who had declared on camera minutes earlier that she would never be scared to go out and kick up her heels on the battlefield. No comment.

These false alarms will continue happening all over Paris. It’s the scariest thing that’s ever happened to me, and it wasn’t even real, and thank Hermès it wasn’t real, even if the fear was real. From this disaster simulation machine, I perhaps gleaned some vague idea of how I might react for real. And I’m torn up inside for the people who don’t get the ‘it was all a dream’ ending.

I cycled back to Montmartre in a daze. But pedalling uphill on adrenaline is as easy as clicking my heels three times and I was home free before I even knew it. On the way, I realise I forgot my helmet, and have to stop myself mulling over which death I’d have preferred. A rollerblader cradling his takeaway pizza in its box takes a tumble at the crossing up ahead. What doesn’t kill us only makes us stronger?

Bon courage, Paris, je t’aime.

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