We went to meet some Parisians at a bar, Le Kitch, which is a block away from the Bataclan Concert Hall, where the band Eagles of Death Metal were performing.
We had been in Paris for a couple weeks, Benjamin Verdoes and I. Our band, Iska Dhaaf, is here to play shows and write music. On the weekends, we get out and try to meet the locals. We were teaching our new friends American slang in exchange for more conversational French phrases. We had just gotten our second round at Le Kitch when suddenly about 20 people started cramming into the small bar. A man at the back of the group was pushing everyone further in. Benjamin thought it was a surprise party.
The man lit a cigarette inside and his hands were shaking. He was looking out through the glass door and windows. “I didn’t know you could smoke in here,” I said to the Parisians. “You can’t,” they said. The man then bolted the door, walked to the wall next to me and flipped the breakers. The bar was now dark except for the yellow light pouring in from the streetlamps. Everyone hushed, and the man with the cigarette announced something in French. I didn’t understand what he was saying. A Parisian translated: “There has been gunfire on the corner, seven people shot. We need to stay here until things clear.”