Girls would wipe off their lipstick,pasted on fake tattoos, put on strappy Tanks. On the Corner of Cross Street, a corroded gray warehouse contains both the Red Tide and Express-O. The coffee shop faces Harbor View traffic through its huge windows, covered by hurricane safety white X's. At its entrance it is a wannabe Parisian Café, a plethora of crowded white metal tables too small in circumferen
ce to support dinner plates and white peeling chairs made of haphazardly entwined wicker. The walls, covered with Museum prints and Reproduction Vintage Advertisements are a crumbling eggshell. Gay Pari ends three rows of tables in at the L- shaped counter, where the right back area of Express-O has gone thematically rogue, crossed the Pond and became all SoHo New York, with couches and bean bags, low coffee tables, and a sad attempt at a stage against a red brick wall which takes up the back end of Express-O. There are pastries in a clear glass display at the counter facing Paris, while CD's and music paraphernalia of local bands cover the other end. A door in the back leads to a steep staircase to the basement where the restrooms are labeled "Water Closet," without a sense of irony. Another door, covered by the stage curtain is the entrance to a tunnel system of dimly lit gray hallways and back stage rooms of the Red Tide.
