Paris On Air

by Oliver Gee

  9.5 The embassy party

  I still don’t know why the Australian ambassador to France let me bring 100 people into his penthouse apartment. I also don’t know why Australia, of all countries, has such a grand ambassadorial residence. And I had no idea, at the time, that the story behind my event there would be the last chapter of this book.

  But now wasn’t the time to be thinking about these things. It was late October, a crowd was arriving downstairs, and I was standing alone by the grand piano trying to figure it all out. I’d been in France almost five years and it seemed unbelievable to me what I was about to do. 100 people. In the flesh. For a talk show. That I was hosting. I’d never hosted a talk show before. Surely it was just like a podcast, right?

  Now, the first thing you notice about the Australian ambassador’s residence is that it’s enormous. I mean truly gigantic. It’s big enough to have at least one elephant wandering about without being a nuisance. Maybe even two. The second thing you notice is the view of the Eiffel Tower through the ceiling-high panoramic windows, looming so large that it feels like a fake Hollywood backdrop. The embassy is just 400 metres from that magnificent tower, and I was counting on the Iron Lady to provide a surprise grand finale for the evening... if only I could play my cards right. Yes, I had one last trick up my sleeve that would rely on impeccable timing, blind faith, and the courage to face certain embarrassment if things went wrong.

  But for the moment, I was focused on the logistics of the night. The embassy team had set up rows of chairs on the ambassador’s plush, thick carpet. The kind of carpet I imagine you could sleep on, if it really came to it. Carpet that felt comfortable on my feet even though I was wearing shoes. By the massive windows were two more chairs, a small table and two microphones. These were for me and my special guests; and this would be the stage for my first-ever talk show. With the wondrous Eiffel Tower right over my shoulder, I was calmed by the knowledge that if the talk show lagged, at least the crowd would have something worthwhile to look at.

  The embassy had allowed me to host the talk show on the condition that it had an Australian theme. We decided on “Australians making their mark in France” and I invited guests including the lead dancer from the Moulin Rouge, author John Baxter, and Ambassador Brendan Berne (of course). We agreed to stream the show live for home viewers on YouTube and the embassy said all I was expected to do was put on a good show, fill the room, and provide the catering. The logistics and security meant it was like organizing a wedding in an airport, but a chance like this didn’t come around too often and I was running with it. This would be Paris On Air, as no one had seen it before.

  But back to the ambassador’s living room. The evening was setting in, and the special guests were arriving. John Baxter channelled Al Capone, with a black overcoat and wide brimmed fedora. Amanda Chapman from the Moulin Rouge wore a short sequin dress and looked like she had stepped right off the stage. The ambassador himself oozed charm with an open jacket and a diplomatic smile.

  Right before the audience arrived, we went over the plan. No more than five minutes per guest, short stories, on topic. A steady camera and a hidden timer in the front row. The ticking clock was the most important thing. We had to finish at 9 pm on the dot, not a millisecond later. I looked at the Eiffel Tower, blinking to life as the evening set in.

  It was time.

  The one hundred guests, no doubt eager to see the residence for themselves, flooded into the penthouse and the soirée began. And I wasn’t ready for it. I was hit by an almighty sense of humbleness and nostalgia. About half of the crowd were my podcast supporters, the people who had truly believed in it and had joined forces to turn it from my hobby to my job. I recognized some of them from past events. Some had been listening for years. Some said they’d planned holidays from abroad to coincide with this very event.

  In the crowd I also saw the faces from the past five years of my life in Paris. They streamed into the room in their best clothes as if it was a wedding. (Or a funeral - yet to be determined.) It was kind of like that final scene in Titanic, where all the characters are together one last time. My basketball buddies lumbered in, towering over the others. Friends, family, and even the guys from Le Peloton showed up too. Past podcast guests like Michael Kennedy from Paname Brewing Company and Nico Piégay from KB cafe were the catering heroes of the evening. And the local band Slim and the Beast, the guests from my very first podcast episode, brought their guitars and handled the entertainment. I spied other past podcast guests in the crowd too, like the Mayor of Montmartre and author Cara Black. But this was no time for mingling or thinking about Titanic. It was time for the show. I had it scripted to the second, we couldn’t miss a beat.

  As 8.30 approached, we gathered the guests into their seats and explained what was about to happen. Talk Show. Live Stream. Australian Theme. I started to sweat.

  Gotta remember the clock. Can’t waste a second. God damn that’s a fine carpet.

  I asked the crowd, if they wouldn’t terribly mind, to cheer and applaud louder than ever before at the start of the show to spruce up the live stream. Then, I excused myself and headed onto the sweeping balcony with the ambassador for an opening monologue.

  It was showtime.

  The ambassador and I got the ball rolling, welcoming the home viewers on camera, then we headed through the balcony door into the living room. The roar of the crowd, playing along for full effect, was outstanding. It gave me the confidence I needed to fly through the show. And it all seemed to work. Each of the guests played their part: we talked about Australia, Paris, books, and cabaret. The clock ticked on. And with one minute until 9 pm, I got a signal from a helper in the crowd, who surreptitiously held up her phone with a timer ticking towards zero.

  This is it. Here we go. One last surprise.

  I started to give my thanks, in a speech I’d rehearsed so many times that I knew I could do it in exactly 60 seconds. I began by thanking the crowd and the sponsors. And everyone unexpectedly applauded.

  What’s going on? There’s no time for clapping.

  “Uh, please hold the applause,” I urged in a panic.

  60, 50, 40 seconds left.

  My God, I’m running out of time.

  I thanked the listeners, the viewers at home, my special guests. 30, 20 seconds. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the head of the embassy team looking at his watch with wide eyes. He shook his head. He knew what I was about to do and had advised me against it.

  Then… then… I looked at the crowd and I told them lie.

  “I’ve organized a special thank you to the embassy, the ambassador, and the guests this evening,” I said, focusing on the timer.

  “I’ve spoken to the guys over at the Eiffel Tower and I said: Can you keep an eye on us tonight, and when I start clicking my fingers, maybe you could…”

  As I spoke I raised my hand and clicked my fingers. And I didn’t need to finish the sentence. Right on cue, the Eiffel Tower lit up with its mesmerizing show of brilliant, twinkling lights. 20,000 light bulbs flashing at once. From the penthouse view, from this close, it was almost as if we could feel the heat from them. It was pure magic. The crowd went wild.

  Now of course, it wasn’t actually me who made the lights sparkle. It happens every hour, on the hour, for a good five minutes, as you well know. It’s one of the most regular wonders of the City of Light that everyone should see before they die. But to this day I still get the occasional email asking if I really was in cahoots with the Eiffel Tower staff.

  No, it was just perfect timing, and the guests at the soirée knew it too. But it had the right effect: they oohed, aahed, they took pictures, and applauded - and it was the ultimate end to the talk show.

  As the applause faded, my nostalgia set in again. I stood back and took it all in, reflecting on the whole crazy ride of my time in Paris. My mind flashed back to when I had seen the same Eiffel Tower light show
five years earlier, alone in my communal seventh-floor toilet. I thought of my Valentine’s Day with Lina under that same tower; a delightful date that had paved the way for a marvellous marriage. And I thought of our home in Montmartre, on the horizon, where we so often watched the same light show as if for the first time.

  At the back of the penthouse living room, I spied Lina, the love of my life. I smiled. And she smiled back. We were five years into our story but it felt like it was just beginning. Over my shoulder, countless grey rooftops and terracotta chimney pots stretched off into the distance. And the Eiffel Tower continued to sparkle.

  Acknowledgements

  Writing a book like this isn’t possible without help. Quite a lot of help, it turns out. Thanks to my wife, Lina, for being my sidekick, and often the instigator, in most of the stories you’ve just read. Thanks to John Baxter for reading the first draft, Paul O’Mahony for editing the second, and Janet Hulstrand for adding a magical grammatical polish that I didn’t even know existed. And thanks to photographers Danielle Nicole, Anna Mardo, Amber St. Lucia & Janelle Sweeney.

  Thanks to the guests who’ve been on my podcast, the people who’ve listened to it, and especially all the kindly folks who’ve become Patreon members and allowed my hobby to become my career.

  But most importantly, this first edition was made possible largely thanks to the following people. Their generosity during the Kickstarter crowdfunding campaign made all the difference. And without them, no one would be holding this book. Alors, un grand merci.

  Ruth & Peter, Tom & James, Eddie & Elizabeth, Mary Barone, Joan Burns, Lida & Reed Randolph, Kim Loftus, Sandy Esteve-Ziegler, the Moores & the Pearsons, Maria Trenzado, Blythe & Marc Musteric, Deborah & Ron Ball, Nan & John Moss, Judith Solanki, Meredith Mullins, Lu Brigham, Terry Cardwell, Shelah Miner, Lachlan Cooke, Steve Oswald, John Clarke, Lynnelle, Cindy Owens, Jodee & Carl Boehm, Juan Ulloa, Jim Carmichael, Katherine V. Miller, M.D., Camille & Olivier from FrenchToday.com, Philippe Hertzberg from SecretJourneys.Travel, Erin & Michael Bittler, Christine Gitomer, Margaret (“Maggie”) Patterson, Cindy & Melanie Mollard, Dimetrios & Samantha Kantzios, Joshua Swanson, Human Nature, Cindi Witfoth, John & Ana Margolles, Heidi & Michael Boyd, James Arthur, Franc & Sandra.

  About the Author

  Oliver Gee was born in Melbourne, Australia. At the tender age of 21 he left Australia seeking adventure in Africa and Europe. He tried and failed to settle in London, very nearly settled in Sweden, and seems to have settled in Paris.

  He runs the award-winning travel podcast The Earful Tower, which you can find anywhere that plays podcasts. To learn more about Oliver, a good place to start is theearfultower.com.

  Oliver finds it difficult to write in the third person, and wonders why anyone would read an “about the author” section of a book that has largely been about the very same author.

  Paris On Air is his first book.