The other night, my book club all come over to my apartment to discuss our latest read, Colette’s “Claudine à l’école” (“Claudine at School”). As it was first published in 1900, I’d expected a pleasant if somewhat milquetoast novel, but I ended up lapping it up as the title character is an impudent and fearless 15-year-old schoolgirl in a French village who recounts her maneuvers to seduce her 19-year-old schoolmistress and then how the other schoolmistress steals her away, and then how the schoolmistress’s younger sister develops a crush (mostly unrequited) on Claudine, alongside all the other intrigues and silliness of a small town in the provinces. So it was a lot of fun to be able to discuss and laugh over Claudine’s adventures with my fellow book clubbers.

I think I’ve mentioned my book club a few times, or as we call it in French, “l’atelier de lecture.” It started out at the Paris LGBTQI+ Center, but after six months or so, they asked us to leave as there simply wasn’t enough space for us to meet there. So one member of the group suggested we could start meeting at their apartment near the Place d’Italie (or the “Place d’It” as the Parisians call it since they seem to abhor words with more than two syllables), in a modernish high-rise apartment building with elevators that stop only on every third floor and stairs to access the floors in between. Fortunately Linh’s apartment was on a floor with an elevator stop.

So we met at Linh’s place for a year and a half or so, everyone bringing snacks and things to drink. It was always very convivial, with ten or fifteen young people (plus me) squooshed into a largish living room (by Parisian standards at least). But at the beginning of this year, Linh was obliged by their landlord to move out, and they were able to find a new, though smaller, apartment right in the center of Paris by Les Halles.

During their move, though, we needed to find a new place to gather. Several people offered their apartments, and mine was picked as it’s the most central. I have to admit I was a bit nervous about inviting the group to my place though. They are all in their twenties or early thirties, none of them have much money, and I was worried that seeing my admittedly slightly enormous apartment would put a distance between us.

I needn’t have worried. Yes, the first time we met at my apartment, they were slightly in awe of the size of the place — it’s about three times the size of the average Paris apartment — but they quickly settled in and started catching up as they nestled into the sofas in the living room.

When it came time to eat and actually discuss The Book, I had assumed that since it was just a bunch of snacks and so laid out the food on the table as a buffet, putting the chairs against the wall. This had worked well when I’d had a number of my American friends over — they would load up their plates and then go back to the living room and sit on one of the sofas or huddle in little groups in the dining chairs scattered about the room.

But no, not the French. The French immediately started grabbing the chairs and settling in around the table as if for a formal meal. And it wasn’t like there was even any question as to whether this was how it should be done. That’s just what you do in France. I chuckled quietly to myself.

So everyone sat down and started passing potato chips and dips and cheeses and salami and the obligatory baguettes, sliced and in great quantity (thankfully they’re only 1.30€ apiece), and “tartinables” (things you can spread on bread to make a “tartine” such as soft cheese with garlic or shallot and herbs, hummus, nutella, etc.) and fruit and salad around the table and filling each other’s glasses and discussing discussing discussing. It was all very lively and convivial with spontaneous peals of laughter, like a big Sunday family dinner.

This Wednesday there were nine of us. After dinner we retired to the living room or had a tête-à-tête in the kitchen or stayed at the dining table nibbling and talking. In the living room, some were sprawled haphazardly across the sofas, some lying on the rug, some crouching over to scratch and pet my cat Gertrude as they continued to discuss. In the entryway two were sitting on the floor looking through a tall stack of books one had pulled out of a knapsack.

Even though this is just the fifth time the group has met at my apartment, it seems to have already become a bit of a tradition to pose for a group selfie in the lobby of my building on the way out.

Enjoy!