Few cities have as rich and visible a lesbian history as Paris. Thus, it was a special treat for me to spend the month of July in the Marais - the busy, stylish center of gay Paris. The twenty-something lesbiennes that I met were exceptionally kind to me, taking me in despite my anguished French, and even allowing me to ride on the backs of their scooters, a Parisian accessory that this New Yorker found exceptionally hot and practical. The girls I knew wore lots of black; they obviously preferred Carhart briefs and caps, American Apparel clothes, leather jackets, boyish pants - or skinny jeans, and dark eyeliner. They kissed each other on both cheeks when coming and going. Due to the popularity of the American cable drama The L Word, now available in France, some Parisian lesbians refer to romantic infighting as "L Word," as in "Aurélie and Inès are having L word so please don't mention Pauline's new copine." I was thrilled to tag along at football lesbienne, an annual lesbian soccer tournament in the Bois de Vincennes - and even happier to hear about their current favorite haunts, a short list of which appears below.

Le Pick-Clops
16 Rue Vieille du Temple

One of the few places that the segregated gay and lesbian communities mix, Le Pick-Clops was the first meeting spot suggested by every single one of my Parisian friends and acquaintances, all of whom enjoyed long evenings drinking and gossiping at the yellow tables lined up on the sidewalk.

Paris is a city in which wine is often cheaper than coffee, the sun doesn't set until after ten, and nobody eats dinner before nine, all of which add to the allure of this little sidewalk café, where the price of a drink buys you two wicker seats facing the sidewalk and the serendipitous arrival of friends results in the pulling up of countless little black stools. On hot days, mist is sprayed down over the heads of flushed, happy patio-sitters at short intervals, a welcome relief from the July heat. Order alcohol and the waitress will spill a little red dish of peanuts out across your table. You'll spend the rest of the evening refilling the dish with the discarded shells as traces of peanut skins and cigarette ash - everyone in Paris smokes - settle over the scooter helmets nestled beneath your chairs.