A few of us corralled around the big green gate at 7:55 p.m. – a dating couple from England, a married couple from Poland and me – “sans homme”.

As we walked up the stone pathway to the hub of the party, curiosity ensued.  Who would I speak to first? Would anyone talk to me? What would be the soonest I could leave if I felt awkward at all?

Jim Haynes has been inviting unfamiliar people into his home for 30 years, every Sunday.

I first heard about his dinners from a local Toronto blog – the author, Katie, had just returned from Paris and attended one of his popular soirees. I immediately emailed to reserve my spot on the list.

Several people at the party couldn’t remember how exactly they came across Jim Haynes and his story, but by the end of the evening, it was decided that it would be an evening we wouldn’t soon forget. I ended up staying well past the end time, which was 11 o’clock.

It was still raining (see my part I) when we gathered in the garden; the group of us who had met at the big green gate now gathered into a small ball for a few minutes, like tiny mice, to somehow establish our presence in what felt like an open wheat field.

“You can get wine over there”, one woman finally said, “And beer, if you’d prefer it.” I poured myself a glass of red from a box of wine – a fine Bordeaux – that had a lot to offer for a vin isolated in cardboard, I must admit.

I’m going to say it here now, because I think it’s one of the many secrets to the “joie de vie” in Paris, although by no means a must: wine makes the world go round here, especially in a crowd of unfamiliar faces. I wasn’t drunk by any means, but I will admit having a little rouge in my belly sure did help matters.

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After a few sips and looking around the garden for what felt like too long, I walked into Jim’s small apartment – exactly the kind of apartment you’d picture a man who has lived a full life to have: an open-concept kitchen with an island for serving his guests, a wall of well-used books and shelves showing off local art, painted and sketched mainly by his friends (he rotates the “exhibit” every two months) and a small lofted bedroom, where someone later told me many a baby had been conceived over the course of 30 years of dinners (but I couldn’t prove it, although I tried to dig for that little nugget).

“I bump elbows” said Jim, as I reached out my hand to introduce myself. So, I obliged, bumped elbows and we laughed about it. Well, I did. Jim, however, just remained in a perpetual state of joyous smiling for the entire evening, which is sort of how I pictured him to be.

There aren’t many people who have lived up the physical and characteristic expectations I have had about people over the years – having interviewed possibly hundreds of people, since I started journalism eight years ago, Jim is the one person I will remember as being exactly what I pictured him to be: kind, with genuine eyes, self-assured, humble and loved.

{source – what an actual Jim Haynes dinner looks like}

Every so often, Jim called out a name – he did this with mine – “Sandy, meet Renata, she’s from…”  he did this all night, reading from his list of guests who had checked in.

Eventually, I met Mark – an expat from New York City, living in Paris for 15 years, with his French wife, no children, and one ex-wife living not far from him with his adopted daughter. “This is life here”, he said, when we suddenly launched into a candid conversation about marriage and the quiet culture of infidelity in Paris. “But I promise,” he assured me, “I’m not trying to pitch you and get you into bed.” I paused. “Well that’s alright, Mark” I answered, “I’m not really in the market for suggestions.”

Mark was a great conversationalist and a gentleman, albeit, he did more talking than listening, but then again, I have a habit of “interviewing” people these days, especially when I’m digging to the bottom of something. My target in this case: love and marriage in Paris.

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Later, I was scooped away by David (he gave the “you look like Sarah Palin” comment earlier in the evening), who was a good friend of Jim’s. David led me outside, back into the rained-on garden, to meet a group of young gentlemen – two from Austria, one from California and one (a writer and editor as well) from London, whom I probed for information about magazine life in London. Turns out writers in London are just as disillusioned with the publishing industry as we are in North America, in fact he wrote an interesting post about it here.

By the end of the night, I had given out exactly four business cards – the sum of which I brought with me to Paris; I have yet to hear from any one of those people I met. I’m not holding my breath, but if you have a card and are reading this, let me know you’ve been here, somehow.

At this point, you may have noticed that there aren’t any original pictures to go with this post – the conversations distracted me completely and I forgot to snap a single one. “I guess it’s a one for the memory bank”, said Rob, when I told him about all the people I had met, including the couple from Poland, who I was able to commiserate with over the borscht soup served that night. But I digress.

This post is getting longish, so I’ll end with these three observations (three of a dozen I made that night), which I hope you find somewhat interesting:

1. Wine, in moderation, can be a great catalyst for good conversation.
2. It’s difficult to call people you’d had a meal with “strangers”, so I recommend it immensely.
3. Not one person asked me “Your husband let you come to Paris, alone?” (I only received that reaction in Toronto.)

When I first forwarded Rob the email from Jim, confirming that my request to attend had been accepted (he has waiting lists – I felt lucky), he wasn’t impressed. “Sandy, you don’t even know who he is!” To which I reminded him, “That’s the point.” An hour later, he called me back and told me he thought I was nuts, but knew what he was in for when he married me, so.

I’m asked often how my dear husband reacted to my decision to venture away from home for this long, in a city notorious for love, sex and mastering the art of discreet indiscretions, not to mention it has captured the hearts of many an expat who intended to visit for 30 days and stayed away for 30 years instead. The answer to that question, I feel, deserves a post unto itself.

But I will spill this…

I’m naïve when it comes to the rules of “being married”, even though I’ve been with Rob for well over a decade (in fact, the night of Jim’s dinner – June 12 – marked 3 and a half years of marriage). But for all the ups, downs and in-betweens we’ve had, I realize now, more than I have before, that we’ve marched to a different tune, together, all this time. Our relationship isn’t perfect, but even thousands of miles away, I can see it’s something special. But, like I said, a post for another time.