Unthinkable place swamped by thousands in Paris at 3am
Paris is seemingly empty. But at 3am, in an unthinkable place, James Weir finds where thousands are.
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The Olympic Games have turned the streets of Paris into a ghost town, but locals haven’t disappeared completely - they’ve just gone underground.
It’s 3am beneath a highway overpass in the edgy neighbourhood of La Villette. Cars whoosh overhead. Then an ambulance siren starts to whirl. It’s drowned out by the electronic thrash-mix tunes blaring from the sound system as a DJ spins the decks set up between the concrete bridge pylons.
This is the unassuming location for the most desired rave in Paris: Kilometer25.
More than 2000 people slam their bodies into each other and raise their arms over their heads. Pink and blue laser lights cut through the darkness, making the servo sunnies everyone’s wearing seem almost necessary.
In a nearby shipping container, Sascha Zentel is inking revellers with tattoos - the designs of which are selected at random, on crumpled up pieces of paper from a bucket, like some kind of instantly regrettable lucky dip.
“The universe decides for you," she says. "People just close their eyes and scoop their hands in and pick one."
The game of permanent future remorse costs 50 euros.
Sascha hasn’t had official training in her chosen profession. Her friends just bought her a tattoo gun and now strangers put their bodies in her hands.
She has been doing tattoos here three nights a week all summer. Midnight to 7am. About 15 designs per shift.
“I sleep all day,” she says.
So do most of the people here - including Lisa Peil, 26, a psychiatrist who currently has Sascha’s tattoo needle stabbing into her arm.
She didn’t select from the lucky dip. That would be irresponsible. Instead, for 100 euros, she’s getting branded with the names of her three favourite DJs.
“I do a lot of parties,” she says.
She’ll dance here until 7am and then go to an afterparty, where people will kick on from 8am to 8pm.
Waiting outside the shipping container is Duru, a no-nonsense blonde chick with sunglasses who has lived in Paris for two years. She didn’t plan on getting inked tonight but is now about to have a barbed-wire heart etched on the inside of her bicep.
“The city is dead,” she laments, as three strangers kiss in a circle behind her.
She goes out partying every weekend. Usually two or three nights in a row. She partied until 6am last night. Or … this morning. It’s hard to keep a clear timeline with the rave lifestyle.
Her pal, Pascal, runs up and hugs her. He’s also getting an impromptu tattoo: a crude stick-figure sketch of a spider on his ankle.
“You come to the rave, you get a tattoo,” he says. “It’s cool. I like to keep it spontaneous.”
Back under the overpass, a young man named Arthur Nycolay dances wildly by himself.
He’s completely sober, he insists.
“I gotta explode!” he screams. “I’m partying a lot. I love it. I can dance for thousands of hours.”
Beneath some metal scaffolding, a woman wearing pleather bondage gear who identifies herself as Lamya XOXO says the lifestyle is more holistic than it seems.
“There are a lot of strong men in the raving industry because raves come with drugs and drugs are less harmful to your diet than alcohol,” she says.
Behind her, a man with a bodybuilder physique starts flexing.
Lamya XOXO's claims seem to stack up - at least to the sleep-deprived. The smell of weed and nicotine cuts through the fumes of passing traffic. By 5.30am, the sun is starting to rise. No one is slowing down.
Valery B, a 56-year-old Frenchman with a grey ponytail and cravat who has been running these raves for four years, is only halfway through his workday.
What’s next on the agenda? The kick-on.
He flags down a taxi that’s speeding along the highway above Kilometre25 and jumps inside.
Facebook: @hellojamesweir
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Originally published as Unthinkable place swamped by thousands in Paris at 3am
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