Hipster Heaven

Last night, Samira and I somehow pushed past utter exhaustion to go out to a bar we'd always passed near the hotel. It was always busy, but most especially at night. The crowd always looked bohemian and hipster-like...I felt like a mole for Los Angeles, eager to report back my findings. We casually rolled up, a gang of seven Americans. So subtle. Dressed in our least offensive outfits, tres chic black and black on black? We shyly squeezed between groups of young french people. Each and every one of them a gorgeous eye-catching character, fetching in natural beauty and grunge ease. Oh to be French. I had a glass of white wine and the rest of the group got beer or Mojitos because it seemed to be the bar's specialty, seeing as most everyone there had one in their slender hands. I watched the gazelle bar woman expertly crush up mint. Samira's Mojito was excellent. The stimulating smells of mint, body odors and hints of perfumes made for an exciting environment for the sense. The bar was dimly lit, with a tight fitting crowd of young French. The men's hair were varying lengths, but none a conventional cut. Everything seemed to fit into a perfectly logical puzzle, wavy hair following its natural course, long straight hair allowed to veil an oval face, creamy skin of varying skin tones...Denim, stripes, jean jackets, all carefully thrown on in a "I barely tried" kind of way. None of the women featured traditional American beauty: blonde hair, bird-like face with delicate features and eyes. Non non. These French women sported unique looks, both in facial build and style. I sipped my glass of wine and rubbed my eyes (super dry by now from the thick layer of smoke that seemed to turn the bar into a hazy dream of carcinogen hell for the eyeballs). J'etais contente.