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It was 10.30pm, and I was in the Fleche d'Or, a club in the 20th arrondissement of Paris, waiting for the last act to begin. It was an event called Frenchic, a night of French pop with the focus on female performers. I was heading off to get a drink, and wasn't paying much attention when one of the organisers got on stage to make an announcement.
I soon realised that he was apologising, saying that the event was cut short and that we all had to go home.
I asked the girl standing next to me what had happened.
"There have been explosions at the Stade de France", she said.
"Have there been people killed," I asked her.
"Yes, I think so," she said.
The lights came up. The atmosphere was calm, and people walked out quickly and quietly. I couldn't check my phone because I don't have global roaming, so there wasn't any way to find out more about what was going on.
It was bewildering, and hard to get my head around. I thought the best thing to do was to get to my apartment as quickly as I could.
I walked to the nearest Metro station, Porte de Bagnolet. There was an announcement over the loudspeakers that on police orders, line 3 wouldn't stop at the stations from Parmentier to Arts et Metiers. I had a look at the Metro map, and worked out a new route that I could take. A couple of young women stood next to me, making the same adjustments.
On the train, people sat in silence. An American couple got off at the same station as me, wondering why the train had missed several stops. I told them what little I knew, then went to catch my connecting train.
The streets were much quieter than usual: restaurants and clubs were closed or closing.
Safely in my apartment, listening to the radio and checking the internet, it's actually starting to sink in. I'm finally starting to get a sense of what happened, and what's still unfolding, and I can't believe what I'm hearing and reading.
Philippa Hawker is a senior writer at The Age currently holidaying in Paris.
