L'un de mes endroits préférés pour sortir était le Dancers, un club situé à l'intersection des rues Harrison et Second. C'était un espace sombre où des lumières colorées clignotaient au rythme d'un battement industriel constant, créant une atmosphère de sensualité incontournable, avec des gens qui dansaient sur le comptoir du bar. J'avais maladroitement demandé à plusieurs jeunes femmes de danser avec moi, mais à chaque fois, elles avaient refusé. Juste au moment où le découragement s'installait, j'ai repéré une femme séduisante près de la piste de danse, appuyée contre un pilier, de longs cheveux bouclés cascadant sur ses épaules nues, et ses grands yeux marron encadrés par des sourcils épais et parfaitement soignés. En m'approchant d'elle, je me préparais à un autre refus, car elle aussi risquait de décliner ma demande. Je lui ai donc posé la question cliché : « Tu viens souvent ici ? » À ma grande surprise, cela a engagé la conversation. Et il s...
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A Night in 1980s San Francisco: A Maserati-Powered Citroën SM and a Romance
One of my favorite placed to go out to was Dancers, a club on Harrison and Second Street. It was a dimly lit space where colored lights flashed to a constant industrial beat, creating an inescapable aura of sensuality, with people dancing on top of the bar.
I had awkwardly asked several ladies to dance with me, but each time they declined. Just as discouragement set in, I spotted an attractive lady near the dance floor, leaning against a pillar with her arms folded. She seemed relaxed, her long, curly hair cascading over her bare shoulders, her large brown eyes framed by thick, manicured eyebrows.
Approaching her, I braced for another rejection as she too might decline my request, so I asked her the clichéd question: “Do you come here often?” To my surprise, it led to a conversation.
And it turned out we had something in common: she, too, had worked at the Carnelian Room restaurant (on the 52nd floor of the Bank of America,the top floor and highest floor in San Francisco back then) and we knew some of the same people. Her name was Monique. We then danced and soon thereafter she told me she wanted to leave the club, and asked me if I wanted to come along.
Out on the street, Monique’s car was parked under a bright streetlamp. It was a Citroën SM, my favorite car. I was stunned to see one in the U.S., and Monique was stunned that I knew about the Citroën.
In Holland, the finest Citroën I’d seen was a Pallas. A friend’s father once drove us back from a tennis tournament at 180 km/h (110 mph), the car slicing through the wind like a spaceship. Its hydropneumatic suspension lowered automatically at high speeds, a feature of its aerodynamic design. The Citroën was way ahead of its time, with front-wheel drive and swiveling headlights that turned with the steering wheel, illuminating the road ahead.
It was just past midnight when we drove off. Beyond entering a new day, I felt I was entering a new world. Instead of walking back to my basement apartment on Larkin Street or taking a trolleybus, I was now sitting beside a beautiful woman who was driving me through San Francisco in a Citroën SM. Life was beautiful.
While Monique’s eyes were on the road, mine were on her. As she drove down Van Ness Avenue under the passing streetlights, it seemed as if there were paparazzi everywhere taking pictures of her. Monique was a star.
She handled the Citroën with great skill. And what a beautiful car. Its leather interior was so comfortable as its Maserati engine pulled us forward. At one point, Monique glanced over and asked, “So, where do you want to go?” I said: “Let’s go to your place.” Monique gently smiled while keeping her eyes on the road, not responding to my request verbally. But moments later a garage door rose and the Citroën dipped down into a large pool of darkness.
I had awkwardly asked several ladies to dance with me, but each time they declined. Just as discouragement set in, I spotted an attractive lady near the dance floor, leaning against a pillar with her arms folded. She seemed relaxed, her long, curly hair cascading over her bare shoulders, her large brown eyes framed by thick, manicured eyebrows.
Approaching her, I braced for another rejection as she too might decline my request, so I asked her the clichéd question: “Do you come here often?” To my surprise, it led to a conversation.
And it turned out we had something in common: she, too, had worked at the Carnelian Room restaurant (on the 52nd floor of the Bank of America,the top floor and highest floor in San Francisco back then) and we knew some of the same people. Her name was Monique. We then danced and soon thereafter she told me she wanted to leave the club, and asked me if I wanted to come along.
Out on the street, Monique’s car was parked under a bright streetlamp. It was a Citroën SM, my favorite car. I was stunned to see one in the U.S., and Monique was stunned that I knew about the Citroën.
In Holland, the finest Citroën I’d seen was a Pallas. A friend’s father once drove us back from a tennis tournament at 180 km/h (110 mph), the car slicing through the wind like a spaceship. Its hydropneumatic suspension lowered automatically at high speeds, a feature of its aerodynamic design. The Citroën was way ahead of its time, with front-wheel drive and swiveling headlights that turned with the steering wheel, illuminating the road ahead.
It was just past midnight when we drove off. Beyond entering a new day, I felt I was entering a new world. Instead of walking back to my basement apartment on Larkin Street or taking a trolleybus, I was now sitting beside a beautiful woman who was driving me through San Francisco in a Citroën SM. Life was beautiful.
While Monique’s eyes were on the road, mine were on her. As she drove down Van Ness Avenue under the passing streetlights, it seemed as if there were paparazzi everywhere taking pictures of her. Monique was a star.
She handled the Citroën with great skill. And what a beautiful car. Its leather interior was so comfortable as its Maserati engine pulled us forward. At one point, Monique glanced over and asked, “So, where do you want to go?” I said: “Let’s go to your place.” Monique gently smiled while keeping her eyes on the road, not responding to my request verbally. But moments later a garage door rose and the Citroën dipped down into a large pool of darkness.
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| Citroën SM |
As we walked to the elevator, Monique pointed at a black Porsche 928 and said, “See that car? It was featured in Risky Business. Have you seen this movie?” Before I could answer she pressed the elevator button. The elevator was small and antiquated, with a sliding copper screen. It ascended slowly, passing numerous floors until we reached the top.
Outside the elevator, to the right, was apartment 704. As Monique opened the door, a tall, skinny, furry creature with an arched back approached me with a smile. It was a Russian wolfhound, also known as a borzoi. The dog blended seamlessly with the apartment’s art déco aesthetic of black leather couches, sleek lamps, vases, and statues that could have been designed by Erté himself.
In the corner stood a bar built from glass bricks, illuminated by colored lights, its shelves stocked with liqueurs. Everything was modern and sophisticated. As I sank into a black leather couch, Monique brought me a glass of white wine. While sipping my wine, I noticed The Lexicon of Love LP by ABC, my favorite New Romantics band against a record player.
Next thing I know, we were watching the James Bond film Octopussy together. In one scene Bond is sipping Dom Pérignon champagne in bed with Magda and notices her tattoo on her lower back. “Forgive my curiosity, but what is that?” he asks. “That’s my little octopussy,” she replies. And as they kiss, Monique and I kiss, and I thought to myself: The eagle has landed – but that was a different movie.
The next morning, Monique opened the refrigerator and introduced me to a fruit I’d never seen before: a mango. Its odd shape and large pit intrigued me, and I liked how it tasted.
In the corner stood a bar built from glass bricks, illuminated by colored lights, its shelves stocked with liqueurs. Everything was modern and sophisticated. As I sank into a black leather couch, Monique brought me a glass of white wine. While sipping my wine, I noticed The Lexicon of Love LP by ABC, my favorite New Romantics band against a record player.
Next thing I know, we were watching the James Bond film Octopussy together. In one scene Bond is sipping Dom Pérignon champagne in bed with Magda and notices her tattoo on her lower back. “Forgive my curiosity, but what is that?” he asks. “That’s my little octopussy,” she replies. And as they kiss, Monique and I kiss, and I thought to myself: The eagle has landed – but that was a different movie.
“My goal is to marry this man,” Monique said, pointing to a leaflet on the refrigerator. The man didn’t strike me as very handsome and seemed much older than her. The name below the leaflet read: “Dr. Leonard Peikoff, Capitalism versus Socialism Debate.”
I asked Monique why she wanted to marry him and she said: “Because he is the greatest man in the world.” We then went out to a French restaurant for a real breakfast.
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