wanderings

So where did I leave you? Or rather…where am I? I can not help but find myself oddly in a similar position as the characters or authors of books I had read when I was younger. For example Henry Miller and “The Tropic of Cancer” or l’homme(I forget his name) in L’Etranger by Camus. However here I am in Paris, I do not particularly have anything to do. I do not have a lot of money, and I find myself wandering the streets of Paris with very little direction or purpose. It’s liberating but also rather bizarre. I wouldn’t dare say that I am bored but I definitely could say that….je suis blasé. ??? Oh what a burden…to sit in a tiny hotel room on a hot summer day in Paris eating bread, avocado and mustard for the 4th day in a row and to wander the streets with nothing to do. (*Notice sarcastic undertone) No, I am not complaining. I am merely making an observation on my condition right now. However, I can not help to think what is Paris now? Obviously, this is a very different Paris than Miller experienced. Prostitutes definitely don’t run the streets and as far as I can tell there aren’t any opium dens in town. Not that I would particularly care for Paris to be this way, but it definitely makes for a much more fascinating read that anything I am writing.(Note: I also don’t plan on shooting any Arabs… but wouldn’t mind meeting an bourgeoisie American who buys me dinner as long as I let him complain to me(ref. Tropic of Cancer)
Thus, here I am, finally inspired to write. And here I am writing. But what about is it that I am writing? Perhaps, in 150 years some how this blog will be stumbled upon and 18 year old kids will be fascinated with the vague details of my 12 days in Paris! So where am I?
Well should we got chronologically or backwards?
Let’s go chronologically.
First of all, I wake up everyday with the sun beating down on me and the sounds of construction going on next door. I have yet to figure out when they start work. One day it was 9…the other day I left my hotel at noon and no one was there. Ahh…the French.
So two days ago I received an email from one of my sister’s contacts here in Paris. The email was short but gave me two good suggestions; a bar and a hostel. I immediately left my hotel and went off into the metro and straight he hostel. There I booked 6 more nights for only 17 euros a night! Then I walked across the street the bar. I talked with the bartender a bit, she knew my sisters friend, gave me some suggestions on places to go and then proceeded to tell me to stick around because there was going to be a birthday party at the bar and it might get fun. So I stick around and the party eventually arrives around 10. They all gather around a table that is right next to mine. While they sing and laugh and pat each other on the backs, plates of food start coming out. At this moment I have my camera on the table. I like the way the good is displayed on the plate so I take a quick snapshot of it, with not flash, sitting from my table. This French woman who is with the party and probably in her late 40’s, short grey hair, looks pretty bourgeoisie starts speaking very loudly and aggressively to me in French. I understand a bit of it and immediately say I am sorry in French and put my camera away. She then starts critiquing me on my French. She then proceeds to start yelling at me about something…she gets louder…I say I am sorry and keep saying please(in French) and start trying to ignore her. Then, she starts speaking English to me. She calls me a typical American and what not and so forth. The rest of her party is beginning to notice her and is sort of trying to coax her away from yelling at me. She keeps pulling away and continues to yell at me. So finally (in French) I say the English equivalent of, “Shut your fucking mouth, I said I was sorry…” Voila! It sort of worked. She critiqued me on the way I said “la bouche”(mouth) and then finally left me alone.
10 minutes later she is offering me pineapple.
What?
“Ahhh…non…non…non….meeeeeeeeeeeeerci.” I say sarcastically. She turns away in a huff. About 10 minutes go by and a guy from the birthday party comes up to me apologizes and says that in the car ride to the bar she was bitching him out and that she is sort of off her rocker. So…I got buy two beers and try to offer her one, saying I am sorry again. She rejects it and then says in English, “I can’t have beer because I am on drugs.”
………….
She then proceeds to tell me roughly that the camera was freaking her out and that’s why she freaked out on me. We made amends (I guess…) and then she walked out of the bar. Immediately, as she walks out…everyone in the birthday party (equaling about 10-12 French people) start apologizing to me and making me sit in the middle of them and start practically shoving food in my face. It was pretty funny. Fortunately, the rest of the night was chill…I talked some more with the French people and then eventually left but not without confirming with everyone, including the two bartenders, that the lady was out of her mind.
You mean I am not a stupid American???? Ahh….thank god!
Everyone has them right? Every country, state, town has that stereotypical person that seems to be the generalized idea to at least certain parts of the world of what those people like. America has the bible-thumping, Bush loving, McDonalds eating, cowboy hat wearing kind. Just as the French have to bourgeoisie, drink red wine, smoke cigarettes, wear mostly black (and maybe a beret) and only talk to you if you know French type. By no means are they a majority in either place.(well…maybe in the US…) but nevertheless it was sort of funny and very interesting from a anthropological stand point to meet one.

The next day I went to Notre Dame.
I will title this part of the blog as “Notre-Dame: Cathedral of Pick-Pockets”. I know what you are thinking. You think that there were a lot of pickpockets in that area because it’s a high tourist area, etc. Well you are right partially. In the 40 minutes I was at Notre-Dame I overheard three people talking about how they had just had their wallet stolen or their purse. It is really unfortunate, especially in front of such a monument. It is certainly a high tourist area, but it is really beautiful and it was made in like 1100 or something. Regardless, it’s not the only pick-pockets that were there.

(*sorry…I am in my room right now and this song just came on my I-tunes and it brings me back to southern California…ahh….so cool…)

The other pickpockets was….that’s right….THE CATHOLIC CHURCH. Okay…so to get into Notre-Dame it is free. To get into the Notre-Dame museum it cost money. However, that is okay because all museums in Paris cost money. So what the rip off? Well, inside the first floor of the cathedral are little mini-chapels that surround the walls. These chapels have a little gate, a few benches and are all dedicated to some random saint. All these saints also have candles which you can light as a prayer or an offering. OH but wait. You have to pay two euros to light a candle. What? And the size of these candles is small. They are the same size as tea-light candles (mom… you know…) Two euros!
But it gets better. So you walk around…and it’s beautiful and the chapels are interesting and adorned with beautiful stain-glass windows and paintings, etc. Then you get the chapel of Mary. Oh wait…its FIVE EUROS to light a candle for Mary. You mean you didn’t hear? Mary is a high-class girl. She aint no cheap date bro. She is hiiiiiiigh maintenance. Don’t think you take her to McDonalds and a movie and expect to get to third base. Mary only allows offerings of FIVE or more man. She is out of your league!!!
Ugh.
Anyways…after that I wandered over the Luxembourg Gardens which is another amazing example of the French artistry for parks. No, I am serious; the French don’t mess around with their parks. I ate some food, fell asleep.
Later on that night, I went out and got food with my sister’s friend and the bartender from the previously mentioned bar. Got decently priced cous cous. Conversation was fine. The bartender also works as an assistant editor to a fashion magazine called “Purple”. It’s more of an art-photography magazine with models who happen to be wearing designer clothes. It’s pretty cool… and Terry Richardson is all over it…I guess every issue. So you know what that means….ahem…. (Warning…for the faint of heart…if you don’t know Terry Richardson…DO NOT look him up on the internet).
More importantly, after I left I went down into the metro and as I was waiting for my train, I noticed to teenage French girls with Japanese fans. They were randomly opening and closing them and occasionally actually using them. They were talking about a dance class and were occasionally doing subtle pirouettes. For the last four days the heat has been unbearable. As I looked to my left and caught a middle aged woman also using an Japanese fan I couldn’t help to think how practical such an ancient invention still is…even on a hot summer ride on a metro line in Paris. I think it’s fascinating that such a simple, old invention is still feverishly in use by the French. It also reminded me of my mother who collects such fans. I couldn’t help but imagine her, there amongst the crowd, waiting for a metro line, with a fan in her hand, feverishly waving it. I think I should suggest to my mother that some time this summer she should break out one of her fans on a hot humid central California day and utilize it. It would also be a nice addition stylistically…very Parisian! Now only, if they made something like that for men. Damn it’s hot.

Today, I booked a weekend at a hostel in Nice. Oh-la-la…a weekend in July in the South of France…on the Mediterranean. I never thought I would. I best go buy some thongs and a swimsuit. Hey Chris is there surf in Nice?
Then I wandered around the 10th arrondissment as suggested to me. Some would say its ghetto. Which compared to the rest of Paris, it is a lot less posh. Actually, there is nothing posh about it… which is probably the reason why I liked it. I went in search of some places that would be more of my liking in regards to a place to go have a beer, maybe meet some people, hear some good music, At first, I stopped by the canal that runs through Paris. “Canal Saint Martin”. Eventually, the canal stops and turns into a long strip of park that runs awhile through the city. It’s very similar to the park blocks in Portland. Basically, a street would normally be where there, or maybe houses and shops. Instead, it’s a long skinny park. This park is a lot like an American park…sort of. I only say that because it seems that Paris doesn’t mess around when creating their parks. Most of the parks in Paris are gated, well kept and trimmed, usually close at sundown and some don’t even let you on the grass!(In this case, I noticed they provide a good amount of chairs and benches. Often times I have seen a whole section of the park dedicated to young children. One, even had its own merry-go round. Imagine growing up next to a local park that had its own, free, merry-go round. However, the park I found myself in today is no such park. It has not gate and it is not taken care off and it goes for a very long time through the city. I guess until one they have a flea/farmers market there. When they end…this mini cars come through with big hoses attached to them and spray down everything in site including you, who are sitting there eating a sandwich. It also seems that the homeless have taken to “resting” there and the whole area seems to be filled with second hand shops and cheap Turkish food. However, there does seem to be an underlining “bohemian” (can someone please destroy this word. Come on…let us find new word for the 21st century that means “poor, artsy and hip”) feel to the place.
So I took a walk.
Down a street with a German name (irony?)
I wandered a while, went down an alley, wandered a bit more…and found a magazine/art gallery/record store. I stopped in and looked around. Then I asked, in my poor French, “Connaissez-vous un bon café ou discotheque?”
“Ahhhhhh….Ouais!!!!!”
(insert 10 minutes of a young man speaking French very quickly to me, about 27 percent of that which I understand…flyers are getting handed to me…names and addresses written on the back of other flyers being handed to me…etc.)
“uh…merci monsieur”
“Rien!”
Damn I felt like I should of bought something but I wasn’t into the idea of buying a comic priced at 17 euros. Fortunately, there is a show going on Saturday at that very place. So I will definitely be going.
I stopped by a café playing afro-beat, had an espresso, and reviewed my flyers. Wandered around a bit more, found myself in a completely Arabic part of town,(hardly any French…almost all Arabic signs), found some places on the flyers, saw a burned out car, walked by an elementary school and heard the laughter of children but couldn’t seen them, wiped my brow…walked down into the metro…