We landed in Paris just as the dollar hit a historic low against the euro. Fortunately, breakfast was included at Hotel Bel-Ami (which was not, alas, named for Lucas Ridgeton's posse) where we were staying on the Rive Gauche. But then, cost be damned, because it was an anniversary trip -- and besides, one of us flew across the pond for $5.05, an Air France special designed to commemorate that airline's inclusion on the stock market on the 5th of May (5/05).

Though moderne and chic, the Hotel Bel-Ami would not have been our first choice, given its location on the Rive Gauche, the more touristy section of Paris, and a too-long walk from le Marais, where les garcons gather. But we were on the Rive Gauche because Will and Bill had taken an apartment nearby -- but then of course, Will and Bill divorced after Black and Blue Montreal 2004 (SVT review to follow in minutes, no doubt), thanks to a certain dick dancer at Stock Bar.

So there we were, just the two of us, at the Bel-Ami on the Rive Gauche, with all the buyers from Barney's and Bergdorf's. Right around the corner from Cafe Deux Magots and Cafe Flore and Brasserie Lipp. Well, Paris is Paris and the leaves crackled underfoot and the streetlights came up and everyone was shopping and drinking and cafeing and Chris and Paul were arriving from London.

A quick perusal of the gay rags and we decided that le Depot might be just the place to meet our London boyz. Friday night, and it was les beurs night at le Depot. Les beurs being a rough equivalent of hispanic night or men of color, and in this case, men from former French colonial countries. Yes, that sounds just fine for us.

Le Depot has two floors. The lower one is a warren of pitch black rooms and caverns and holes draped with black camouflage netting and a small dance floor playing Kylie -- oh, and also a sling, should you be interested. It's a little too early for this. Back upstairs, there are whirling dervishes, under the spell of North African music. Uh, oh. We get a text message from the boyz. They've arrived; what should they wear? We write back "Fuck-me clothes and on-your-knees jeans and anything you won't mind losing." This might prepare them. They're not really this sort of people, at least not at this hour.

And surely, just as Paul enters, he says, "There's a time and a place..."

So we book to Raido. It's a bar not unlike Splash, but smaller. Put Splash and g and xl together and toss them around, and you'd get Raido. Very well-designed and stylized with a lovely red-velvet lounge downstairs and television screens above the urinals that show you the face of the person at another urinal, so you can cruise each other while you're pissing. Oh, those Parisians....

Back upstairs, there's a shower stall above the bar. A shower stall with a gorgeous naked man taking a shower. Sudsing up and shampooing and pressing his flesh against the plexiglass wall. The bar is packed. Not everyone is watching the showering man. There are way cute boys here, and most of them drinking huge steins of beer.

Suddenly, it's three a.m. We're walking back to le Rive Gauche, past Notre Dame and under a sliver moon, over the Seine. It's Paris in the a.m. It's heaven to be here, miles from the American election, miles from our own lives.

On Saturday, we shop with the London boyz. We brunch at le Carre and shop and drink cafe and shop and drink cocktails and shop. It's just like a circuit weekend -- and then we find out that tonight, Saturday night, it's Manny Lehman's debut at Queen. There are posters in all the gay stores and invites on the bars and an interview with Manny in one of the local rags.

We do the disco nap, which lasts longer than we imagined, so that we're later getting to dinner than we thought, and then we linger like the French over cafe and liqueurs, so that suddenly, it's nearly two a.m. and there are no cabs in Paris, because this is not New York, and we're in a panic about missing Manny and not getting the London boys what they need more of and suddenly Paul's racing down a street, waving his arms at a cab, which is mercifully empty.

"We're going to--" Paul starts in his broken French.

"I know where you're going," the cabbie says in better English. "You're with those three over there, right? You're all going to Queen, am I correct?"

Oh, it's so obvious.

Down the Champs-Elysee on a Saturday night. There's no line in front of Queen which relieves the London boyz who apparently always have to wait in line in London. There is, however, for the first time that I can remember, a security frisk once we get inside Queen. Bothersome, yes, but let's not dwell on it.

Queen is the biggest, most well-known gay dance club in Paris -- but it is not as big as clubs we know from New York, Miami, Montreal. Instead, it's somehow more local. More like a gathering spot for European gays from all over the continent. They come to Queen the way that boyz from Philly come to New York on a Saturday night. It's two floors, with a small mezzanine overlooking the dance floor. And there's a VIP section, which is primarily filled with the kind of heterosexuals one associates with certain bottle-service clubs, and it's canopied and corralled, so it sometimes feels as if they're the ones behind bars, while all the cool and fun people are dancing -- on the floor, on the tables.

Paul and Chris find just what they need in a matter of minutes. No joke. Time them: three minutes pass, and a deal is done. Two deals, in fact. And everyone so pleasant about the entire undertaking. Oh, those Parisians -- so civilized about such matters. We're golden. The night is young -- and the boyz are pouring in. And there's Manny, so Robert goes over to him and says, "We came all the way from New York to hear you." This is a blatant lie, of course, but no matter because it's meant well. And Manny says, "I'm so nervous," to which Robert says, "Don't be. We're here for you."

There are American flags all over the club. This is too much, in my humble opinion. What's next: freedom fries?

Michael Kaiser is playing. We last heard him in Montreal at the Main Event. He's good. He's very good. He was playing the first part of the Main Event, tag-teaming with Gilles Massicotte. He's very young and he knows his crowd. Queen is his club; he knows how  to make the boyz move, and suddenly, we're dancing on the illuminated banquettes. Shoving tables aside, making room. I'm getting a blister already because I'm wearing shoes, not sneakers, because I didn't pack right and I already lost my ATM card on the Champs-Elysee the day before but right now, who cares? Nothing matters, but the music.

And then there are Indians with turquoise headdresses cutting through the crowd -- and it's Manny at the helm. Manny and three Indian go-go boyz. It's adorable. It's like a little club in some part of the US where everyone has traveled about a hundred miles to be there for the night because Saturday nights at this club are always the best and everyone knows it. And Manny knows it too. He's playing vocals and he plays George Michael's "Go to the City," and also that Pointer Sisters remake "Baby, Make Your Move, Step Across the Line," or something like that, which is not something I would have known (or ever danced to) save for the fact that Chris is yelling that into my ear and repeating the words over and over so that I'm going to hear them for the rest of my week in Paris.

Then Manny moves into some tribal. And Paul and Chris are shaking their heads. It's not what they like. They prefer "Lola's Theme." "I'm a different person." I, however, like what I'm hearing. I'm having a great time. Paul and Chris go to the floor in search of a third, while Robert and I stay right where we are. There's this very hot guy who looks like the sort of person who could make a porn by himself and sell millions and never have to lift a finger again. We watch him get the attention. His buddy is next to Robert and he and Robert are laughing at how the boys sidle up to PornoBoy and try to make it happen.

Then it's the cowboys. Three American cowboys shoving everyone off the go-go boxes so they can perform again, and there's a blast of nitrogen and smoke and confetti and there's a lot of cheering and we are having way too much fun. Let's move to Paris. Let's live here forever. The boys are so sweet. They want to practice their English on us. Okay. If you want. It's unnerving how they move right in without reserve. They're so frisky, such puppies. Yes, we're moving here definitely.

Hours pass. Poppers. When was the last time? Poppers? The video screens flash warnings about GHB. But Paul and Chris aren't worried. They find a boy from Melbourne, Chris's hometown. He makes them happy. There's another boy from Amsterdam. The four of them are doing the circuit boy rock. Dirty sheets full speed ahead.

Manny's having fun. So is the crowd. He needn't have worried. He fits in fine here at Queen. It's not a judgemental place. It's a place for fun. A let-go, Saturday night place.

And then he's gone, and Michael Kaiser comes back on. It's five a.m., or maybe it's six. The floor is still crowded and the VIP is still packed. We watch from the mezzanine. We see what sluts our London boyz have become. Happy to know it, happy to see it.

We say our goodbyes just before seven a.m., and out we walk onto the Champs Elysee. A Sunday morning in Paris on that impossibly wide boulevard. The streetlights are still on, the sun not yet fully up. We walk along Avenue Montaigne, where Dietrich used to live. Leaves crackle underfoot. Those huge oak leaves, the size of a bear paw. The street cleaners in their green uniforms are out. We're about the only other people walking in Paris. The city is ours. We're walking through Paris on a Sunday morning, high from the night before, and oh, it's so glorious. We don't know exactly where we're walking, just the general direction, and we could keep on walking--

Until we can't. Suddenly, we're starving, and thank God, for that breakfast at the Hotel Bel-Ami. We're the first ones there, seated in our sweat-drenched clothes, and that butter, those rolls, that cafe au lait, the granola, that fruit, the butter, the butter, the butter.....

Paris. Our week in Paris was the cost equivalent of a month anywhere else, and made even worse by the fact that I left our brand-new iPod in the seat pocket of the plane, and no, no one from the cleaning crew called to say that they had retrieved it and were
holding it for us, but so what. We still had our week in Paris.

That butter, those boys, and tea at Laduree, and baba au rhum, and the frites and those streets....

Paris. It's a joy.