Paris came to Joburg last Saturday night. Our Cruella de Ville cigarette holders tucked into our clutches, Anjarae and I sidestepped puddles in new heels before ducking through the line of white Audis into Bain’s Christmas Party.

It was lovely. Arts on Main had been transformed. Champagne glittered in hand as berets and baguettes flitted around the courtyard, being sketched in their bougie glory by the artist hired to sit in the corner. James led the charge with his baguette in hand, Sayo a close second with his oh-so-suave scarf, and Dimitri aptly donned a bowtie.

The dinner call sounded and we clanked past Faith 47’s The Long Wait, up the stairs to the dining room, careful to hold our skirts against our legs juggling our champagne flutes, purses, and our dignity as we scaled the spiraled staircase. The room that was usually full of glorified Goodwill racks on Sundays was instead glowing with candlelit petal-ed tables laden with buckets of wine. A caricaturist now, the artist had moved to her own table and was sketching the Bainies in all of their glory. I insisted that Anjarae and I sit for a portrait. Very flattering… 

So we tried the photo booth in the next room instead. Much safer option.

Text from Fred. “Where are you?” I was missing ALA’s Cultural Exchange to sip Chenin Blanc by candlelight. I felt guilty. The Staffulty was all getting together at Chez KVG and I knew I needed to be there after the Bain party peaked, even if it meant getting in a cab in the middle of the CBD at midnight by myself (breaking at least three “rules”). When my cabbie stopped for petrol a few blocks into the CBD, I waited in the back seat stricken with anticipation of the worst. I tried to make small talk to ease my mind. “So you’re from Zimbabwe. What’s your family like?” I pried, as I slid my iPhone into my dress in preparation for whatever this band of guys next to my window was planning on doing to us. This is it, I’m going down. “50 Rand of 93.” Really? Where we going on $5 of gas?

While I didn’t get taken down at the petrol station (and I was overreacting), 120 Church Street couldn’t come fast enough. Ryan answered Veda’s phone and the gate slid open. I tottered through the gravel, my heels scraping and sinking into the ground. “Did you just come from a wedding?”  Um, something like that.

Kathlyn and Veda splashing around in the pool (the same pool that I’m pretty sure was green with algae when I was here for the EL retreat the other day), Liz snuggling into Gavin’s sweatshirt, Chemeli sampling the vial of Hugo Boss Nuit, the palm trees glowing…Midnight! Clare’s birthday!

I am overwhelmed with gratitude. Feeling like I’m with family. We laugh and laugh until early morning. Like summer down at the cabanas at home with Beau and Liza, the kind of nights that pass unbelievably quickly snuggled up in sweatshirts, laughing into the sea. Watched the stars sparkle until morning, fighting over whether that one was a satellite or a shooting star. Or a plane. The red blinking light gave it away. Talking until the stars disappeared and the grass turned green again.

Sunday after an all-nighter was a struggle. Drove back down to Arts on Main to meet Kudzanai Chiurai for lunch. The Ethiopian tea garden and the coconut chopper had replaced the champagne and rose petals. Transformed back, the courtyard bustled with young families and the hippest hipsters of Joburg alike, buzzing with caffeine from our favorite coffee bar (where the baristas wear SOME LIKE IT BLACK tshirts).

Kudzi came out and hugged me with his sheepish smile. We sat down at Canteen and dove into a philosophical conversation about creativity. He pulled the ashtray towards him, speaking thoughtfully between drags as I scribbled in my Moleskine. He talked about the world shifting from capitalism to socialism. The rain. We talked about the walls in Sandton, in Zim, and about how they sterilize communities and enable the dehumanization that drives crime rather than allowing for the community connectedness that prevents it. Raindrops turned into ladles-full of warm water, and the sky exploded with thunder and cracked with lightning. Drenched, I pause. I’m having lunch with Kudzanai Chiurai entrenched in a philosophical conversation about the future of our generation. Is this a modern Midnight in Paris moment?