The new me needs new shoes

One of my friend's friends' friends - can't believe I just pulled this off (or... did I?) - phoned on Friday morning. "I thought we could have a picnic, but considering the weather, I say we go to La Baraque. What do you say?" I said I didn't care, that we needed to see with everybody else, but really my stomach, or heart, or both, sank when I realised that La Baraque was a very trendy little night bar slash restaurant slash club thing. I don't deal well with trendy. It's true, I don't. I find trendy quite frightening, quite frankly.
We arranged to meet at 10:30 p.m. Because I'm such a terribly socially challenged person (yes, sartorial and social. And so much more, but all in good time), I was punctual. I have to learn not to be, apparently it screams needy. Me, honestly, I always thought it was common courtesy. Sheesh.
Anyway, when I arrived it was closed. Apparently, when club owners take their summer holidays, they take all their personnel with them.
That, my friends, is called a "plan lose" in French (a losing loser's plan, if you will, something you can never quite make good), and after half an hour of toing and froing between la Baraque and la Boca Chica, we ended up at Barrio Latino. Talk about a B series evening. Or something. Barrio Latino also is a restaurant/bar/club type place, and you won't be surprised when I tell you it's skewed towards salsa music.
I need new shoes. I need new, open-toed, highish-heeled sandals, or whatEVER you call those nice little shoes that real girls wear. This new me thing is getting a bit out of hand. I'm still looking for potential leads to potential employers, never mind trying to find an actual employment opportunity, and the only thing I can think of is I need this pair of shoes.
Then - because if I'm going to do nothing clever but be happy about it, why, I'm just going to go ahead and do it - I'll probably take a couple dance lessons. You know, something to get the hips swaying in rhythm.
To continue with the plan lose, the four of us were soon joined by another bloke, one of the two guys' friends, who swiftly started drinking, and swiftly sat by my side, and swiftly started some kind of interesting banter based on "where are you from", "I hate Paris" (at which point, I suddenly discovered I loved this city, because there's nothing I like less than agreeing with someone I don't want to agree with), and... when he found out that my dad used to be a pilot, "so, what do you think of the recent crashes then?". In the middle of an overcrowded and incredibly noisy salsa club. A rough diamond. I looked at him, switched my brains off, and uttered a "what kind of moronic question is that" kind of laugh-thing. He got the hint, and unfortunately for her, went to annoy my friend.
After a wee while, I asked her what she wanted to drink. She simply replied "I'm coming with you" in a "don't you dare say you'll be OK on your own" tone and matching look, and we ploughed our way through the writhing bodies on the dance floor. There is nothing rude in "writhing bodies on the floor", you filthy animals you. By now, the music was all bass boom booms and not salsa anymore. At the bar, a very nice man took matters in his own hands by ordering for me, because apparently I was never going to make it... He was really nice. He looked really lonely, too, which is a bit sad. Nice people shouldn't be lonely. (Now you're wondering if I ever switched my brains back on, aren't you? Well...)
We drank up and left.
To think we nearly went to Deauville. That would have been stylish, no?