My first apartment in Paris was two doors down from Moulin Rouge on Boulevard de Clichy in Montmartre.
Every night, I witnessed lines of tourists who came from all over the world, anxiously waiting to see the show. To this day, the bodyguards protecting the doors of Moulin still recognize me. Year after year, giving them “kiss kiss” on the cheeks still feels like reconnecting with old friends, they saw me at my best and worst: heading to dinners on weekends and mundane grocery runs without any makeup on. Fortunately, I’ve seen the show quite a few times, each experience was filled with awe-inspiring enamor accompanied by bottomless champagne.
Fanny was generous enough to take me backstage, where I got a rare glimpse into: where the dancers stretch to get ready, how costumes are made, trying on hats that almost broke my neck and a colossal collection of Swarvoski crystals that stacked the walls like books in a library. But the true magic of Moulin Rouge resides in its red carpet. Even for my local Parisian friends, it is a rare chance to step inside the theatre and take flight with the spectacle of a cultural fantasy.
For me, the image of Moulin Rouge will always be kept in a very special place, in my heart. It encompasses memories of the sheer excitement that moving to a foreign country entailed: discovering hidden paths in the hills of Montmartre and spending initial weeks of being completely alone without an ounce of loneliness. Daily inspiration stemmed from locals who sat in cafes and brasseries on Rue Lepic. Even now, when I walk by the front doors of Moulin, security guards wonder where I’ve been in these past few years. I tell them that I’ve been traveling, but my thoughts of this quartier never drift too far.
Safe travels,
