Leap Day 2020
A 1-year anniversary, 4 years in the making
1
The year was 2020, and though there were whispers of a strange new virus, the general sense amongst my peers was that after years of political and civil strife, this was going to be a good year.
Looking back on those winter days now, I can see myself clearly as I was: a paradoxically exaggerated yet watered-down version of the artist I hoped to be, over-stimulated by late nights and multiple romantic relationships.
With each drink, I risked falling back into old patterns and tired ways. Living the life of a single thirtysomething novelist and musician had helped me grow in some ways and stunted me in others. By early 2020, I felt like a stranger to myself, but the contours of an inner pride that had nothing to do with external validation were beginning to take shape.
What I wanted needed at that point in my life wasn’t in line with my touring rock band ambitions; still, I wasn’t prepared to utter this truth, for our band’s entire five-year trajectory was leading to a March 2020 European Tour, and a gig at Paris’ legendary Zenith Arena.
2
Throughout the 2010s, I’d chosen adventure over stability, following every desire and instinct without leaving much room for listening. In a world that so often felt anesthetized, distracting, and disheartening, I’d made it a principle to live a “good story” at every turn. Whether this meant moving to Peniche, Portugal to learn how to surf, traveling to New Orleans for a summer to play music in the French Quarter, or pursuing degrees I couldn’t afford, the inevitable side effect was that I was often the last guy at the bar, eager to meet fellow wanderers who’d also spent years throwing caution to the wind. It had been easy enough to champion the bohemian “yes to life” mantra in my twenties, easier still to look back at various life experiences and assume that simply because I’d had them, I’d learned something of meaning, too. But alas, looking back on past loves, past successes, and past forks in the road was all beginning to feel more like a practice in nostalgia than an affirmation of what I wanted next.
Maybe this is why just three days before we met Au Chat Noir, I wrote these words in my diary as a reminder:
I know what I want. I want love. I want real, deep intimacy. The kind that makes me forget about all the rest of it. The kind that makes me want to gush over someone. The kind that I can’t hold myself back for.
3
Au Chat Noir is a dive bar in the east of the Paris, a haven for wanderers and working-class folk who’ve often traversed oceans and mountains to build a life in the City of Light. During the day, most of the lighting in the bar comes from the blue hue of laptop screens. At night, an orange glow cloaks the place in warmth. The bar has a very lived-in feeling: worn wooden tables, shabby curtains, cracked layers of yellow wall paint . Some tourists confuse Au Chat Noir with Le Chat Noir up in Montmartre, that famous 19th-century cabaret founded by a true Parisian wanderer, Rodolphe Salis … but Au Chat Noir on Rue Jean-Pierre Timbaud has its own story.
Sari from Kurdistan runs the place. He looks like Sean Penn, slender but muscular and clean-shaven. While his eyes carry wisdom, they also suggest an ever-present mistrust, as do his barnacled knuckles and the long scar down his face. Sari spends one month each year hiking alone across unforgiving terrain: the Alps, Corsica, and one day, perhaps Mongolia. He only speaks when he has something to say and he reads more widely than most people I know. One day he’ll be reading Nietzsche and the next, an obscure sci-fi epic, but when the sun is out in Paris, you can be sure to find Sari reading at one of the neighborhood’s many terraces, usually the Chinese café on Avenue Parmentier, always with a perfect seat in the sunlight, facing east.
Sari’s brother, Nuro, used to work the bar during the day. He had a dark sense of humor that could become abrasive when he drank. I haven’t seen Nuro in years. He was known to yell at men in the neighborhood who asked for espressos but could never pay for them; I’d often see Nuro wandering the streets at night, sitting at various bars, flirting with women—politely—usually swaying on a barstool with his Senegalese partner by his side.
A third man, Ali, a Kurdish chef from Istanbul, often wears a thick mustache and round glasses. He has the biggest smile of the three. He works the weekend shift and loves to dance after he closes shop. He is the light to Sari’s darkness—he asks about your day and hugs his male friends and customers with as much genuine tenderness as he does women. As different as the three head bartenders of Au Chat Noir are, they each have a deep connection to their Kurdish roots, and to the importance of family, which is why during the holidays, every year, they close down the bar, draw the shades, and invite neighborhood regulars for a Christmas dinner. You and I ate there with your family on Christmas Eve 2022.
4
I was born during a leap year—so were you—and while I’m not an avid believer in astrology, I’m not so severe a skeptic to claim the stars have no effect on us whatsoever. The ocean tides ebb and flow because of the moon, which slows down the earth’s rotation, too. The atoms in our bodies also contain the wisdom of the stars, which have lit up the night skies since the beginning.
Our paths had been running in parallel lines for many years before we met. In the summer of 2012, we were both living in Paris. You were still a young student discovering a new kind of life, on a hiatus from your long-term relationship at the time. And who was I back then? Is it possible we crossed each other’s path on the Rue de Rivoli? You spent many summer nights drinking at Stolly’s, an Irish pub nearby, where I, too, spent many evenings drinking after my Tuesday night basketball league.
The night we met, you fit like a puzzle piece at the table Au Chat Noir, snuggled into the corner chair, right next to me. You felt familiar, somehow. In retrospect, I wonder if Sari noticed how I looked at you when we met, and I wonder if Nuro flirted with you in his jovial, goofy way, and I’m certain Ali would’ve greeted you with a smile. The regulars were all there Au Chat Noir: David, the gestalt therapist, poet, and creator of Paris Spoken Word; Zeka, the playwright who’s always believed in me, for some reason; the car mechanic whose name I can never remember but who I’ll forever see drinking his pint at the edge of the bar. That night, my friends and I were at the corner table, our backs against the windows. My brother, Aaron, was using his finger to draw a cartoon dog on the misted window pane.
5
The way I remember it, I went to the bar to order a Ricard when you walked in. You introduced yourself as a friend of Kyle’s. I introduced myself as Aaron’s brother. You looked like someone from a different time: dark brown hair styled in a bob, elegant vintage clothing, and words deliberate and thoughtful as they escaped your lush red lips.
At the table, scrunched up next to each other, we started discussing literature immediately—this I remember—because you had a copy of The Sun Also Rises sticking out of your black leather backpack. We flipped through the dog-eared pages and I was impressed by the amount of underline quotes and multi-colored annotations. You were a reader. We discussed the simple beauty of Hemingway’s dialogue, and the complex seductress of the novel, Lady Brett, and over the next hours, we pretended the warm glow between us was just the lighting. I remember our knees touching twice beneath the table—or is that your memory? Or is it ours now, shared?
I wonder if when Hemingway met the real-life Lady Brett Ashley Lady Duff Twysden, I wonder if he knew he had a novel brewing in his belly. Or maybe the reason he took so many notes during that visit to Pamplona was he could sense something vibrating at the seams. Or maybe he could sense he was beginning to write his own life’s narrative.
Bob Dylan’s “The Times They are A Changin’” started to playing on the speakers. We raised our cups, careful to look each other in the eye, as per French custom, and you told me about your three-month stint in Paris in college. At first, I was dubious of your supposed love for this city. I’d been living here for over a decade and had heard plenty of Americans feign interest in one day living in Paris, had met plenty of “fans” of Hemingway and one-time watchers of Midnight in Paris who said they’d give it all up in a heartbeat to move to the City of Light.
You smiled politely when I said this, but you didn’t hide behind your glass of red wine when you replied, “You don’t know me.”
I appreciated your coolness. You were right. I didn’t know you. Not yet.
You were interested in going on a Hemingway walk through the Latin Quarter. We wanted to exchange numbers, but my phone battery was dead, so you handed me your phone so I could send myself a message:
3/1/20, 00:48 – [unknown]: Lady Brett Ashley
3/1/20, 01:28 – [Samuél]: Duly noted
3/1/20, 01:29 – [Augusta NOLA]: Hah. For the record, I wasn’t the one to dub myself that.
3 / 1 / 20 , 11:08 – [Samuél]: this photo of Hemingway in Spain documents what would become the backdrop for the The Sun Also Rises:
3 / 1 / 20 , 11:08 – [Samuél]: [insert photo]
3 / 1 / 20 , 11:11 – Augusta NOLA: Wow. I’ve never seen a photo of her. The real Lady Brett. So pretty—that’s why the story is so good, because it’s real. I can’t imagine anyone capable of writing that from nothing.
The first 12 chapters of me and
‘s story are available in the “A Love Story” section of if not, Paris. We’re working on a unique book together to tell this story. She has plenty of photos, too:
I was there!
Love your love story, Samuel. I hope your and John Baxter’s Salon is still successful. I enjoyed the ones I attended. Congratulations on your recently published novel!! Augusta is beautiful and sounds like your soulmate!