Sunday August 1

 

Since I’d suffered through tons of French in college, and in theory, I could speak the language, I felt I owed it to myself, and everyone who’d suffered this life along with me, a trip to France.  I had some notions about France and the French that it was about time to challenge as well.  But I knew I wouldn’t be happy with just touring France, so I made plans to go back to The North again.  My erstwhile Epal Lotta was more than happy to volunteer her hosting abilities.

 

Preparations for this trip were low key, except for the now routine scheduling hassles.  I’d originally requested the regular July time off from work, but I was asked to move it out to accommodate the computer transition at work.  Once done and agreed up, the computer transition was delayed and rescheduled…right across my vacation.  Eventually, along with the usual threats and insults, things were worked out.

 

Complications really started to roll on the previous Wednesday though, when I dislocated my elbow rollerblading. Emergency room, X-rays, wraps, swelling and pain killers.  The trip was only briefly in doubt, though, and I now seem to be feeling better, and stronger, with each passing day.

 

Rollerblading was the exercise of choice at the time.  It was quick, quiet and kept me moving.  I always went to the park behind my house, and one sunny night after work I was particularly anxious to get going.  Maybe I was too enthusiastic.  The park was swarmed with people that evening because of two little league games and people with the same idea as me.  Pissed but determined, I parked the car a few blocks away and aimed to skate down the hill to the park and do my routine.  The trouble was I’d never skated downhill before.

 

I hardly made it ten feet before I knew I was out of control.  I pointed myself towards a steep embankment of bark dust and prepared for the crash.  I fell back on my ass and heard the bone crack as I held my hands in back of me to break my fall.  I knew I’d broken it or something. I couldn’t straighten it out, and soon I became dizzy and nearly blacked out.  I managed to get home and call a friend who scraped me up and took me to a hospital, where it was determined that I’d dislocated my elbow.

 

 

Thursday August 5

 

I managed to have everything assembled and packed by Wednesday night, although the house wasn’t quite as clean as I would have liked. Andy arrived right on time to pick me up.  I wrote him a check for the storage space we share and gave him a tour of the computer, which I hope he’ll use while watching my house.

 

I bought breakfast at the M&M where we had a good conversation, almost good enough to make me wish I wasn’t going anywhere.  We blew through Fred Meyer’s to replace the bum compass I’d bought and headed out to the airport.

 

The elbow was in a sling, which was by that time, was supposed to be optional.  I really needed the support sometimes though, and was told not to try to carry a bag with that arm.  Considering the kamikaze way I traveled, I knew it was going to be a challenge.

 

I tweaked my arm right away while pulling my bags out of Andy’s car. For a moment, I really doubted I was going to be able to tow the damned bag across the planet, with all of the weight.  I stood, and waited in line to check in.  And waited.  And waited.  I was suspicious when UA made me check my bag all the way through, but they got me out of my aisle seat, so I felt a net gratitude.

 

The flight to Chicago was easy, though the girl next to me wanted to gab all the way.  I successfully invoked my male deafness hormones and made it to Chicago without the slightest hint at a volcanic plea for silence.  But God knows it was there, under the surface. I fought off the occasional pull for winks knowing I needed to save them for Chicago-Paris.

 

I was surprised that I had to walk all of three gates from my connection to the Paris flight gate. There were plenty of French waiting to get on the plane, really the first gathering of French I’d ever seen.  Much of the crew was apparently French as well.

 

Frogs, Frogs everywhere.  I was kind of enchanted to see so many of them.  And they were exactly as I’d expected:  I couldn’t understand a damn word.

 

The plane to Paris was a 777.  It was very new, with individual monitor screens for each seat and good sound on the headset.  I scored another window seat and watched The Winslow Boy. A Turkish guy next to me would have liked to talk my leg off, but I wasn’t into it.  A slightly pretty French girl sat in front of me, smiled and initiated conversation.

 

There was something to be said about the French girl in front of me. Probably she was just a college girl on break or something.  She was a little plain, but my type.  I was dying to talk to her, but not particularly the goofball to my right.  What is it that makes people want a piece of your ear?  Or is it that an oral Tourette’s Syndrome only effects people on the plane?  God, the last thing in the world I’d want is someone yakking to me for hours and hours and hours.

 

3/4 of the way through The Winslow Boy, I swallowed two Vicadin and had some red wine with the pasta dinner. I just barely made it through the movie when I conked out.

 

Despite the intermittent child screaming and chair kicking from the guy behind me, I slept like a baby for most of the remaining portion of the flight. I was only a little groggy when I came to.  The only way to fly, says I.  Hail Vicadin!

 

 

Friday August 6

 

The Turk emphasized the landscape as we glided into C de G. Despite the fact that the Turk looked like Julius Parada, he was right:  I’d never really seen countryside that looked quite like France.

 

Julius Parada, Jules, was my Italian American 7^th grade basketball coach.  Where they found him, I’ll never know, but he never made a bunch of winners out of a bunch of losers.  He’d threatened that he’d been asked to try out for the Blazers once, but didn’t think he was good enough. That probably was at least partly the truth, considering our 1 and 11 record that year.

 

My best memory of Jules was when we were getting the routine half time chew out from him at some away game.  We were down 50-16 or something ridiculous and old Jules was giving us hell. Screaming, swearing and locker room gesticulating as only a good Italian American can do.  I was a third stringer, felt neither responsible nor really interested in a tirade.

 

His lecture was a shower of profanity and saliva and he swung his hands wildly to articulate our incompetence.  I yawned in the midst of this and as he ranted he unconsciously spat into my mouth.  My buddy Michael Rentsch saw this and about doubled up in laughter. Parada exploded with “You think this score is funny Rentsch?  Does it make you want to laugh?  Blah, blah, blah…”

 

The land was covered with very jagged fields of gold and green, similar to the way England looked, but somehow the land much more productive and rustic.  Large clusters of trees filled areas.  Only occasionally were the fields sliced by winding country roads. A large river meandered below the plane, wandering in and out of my field of view.  I could only assume it was the Seine.

 

CDG airport was surprisingly modern and easy to manage, up to the point of actually getting the hell out of the place.  Rick Steves lead me astray finding the rail link to Paris, but eventually I did.  When I purchased my ticket to Paris, I believe I conducted it entirely in French.  That was a first.

 

The train trip through to Paris was a confusing affair, but it was my first taste of something really French.  The land, the buildings, the cars all looked like they were straight out of a French film. It was sort of depressing in a way, although I still can’t put my finger on why that was.

 

After a lot of wandering around, I connected with the Metro and made it to St. Paul in the Marais neighborhood.  The Metro was very similar to what I was familiar with (Stockholm, London), except that the connections and transfers took one hell of a lot more leg work.

 

A group of Italian boys wanted guidance, but I couldn’t help them much. They spoke neither English nor French.  I didn’t realize it until later, but I was ripe for a hustle.  I don’t think I lost anything though.

 

I always wonder how much of a target and I am when I’m overseas.  Obviously that time I had it written all over me. But usually I find myself struggling to fit in, or struggle to stand out.  I never feel like I am where I’m supposed to be. Just like home, really.

 

At St. Paul, I got my bearings and found a restaurant.  It was probably still morning as I chugged down 23cl house rouges that tasted like a combination of vinegar, merlot and V8.  I left one vicodin lighter and 68F poorer, for which I calculated to be about $12.

 

As I was to discover, French wines are really ubiquitous.  Terrie had Crohn’s disease, and she drank red to ease it.  I got into the habit from her, and hold the habit to this day.  From my time with Terrie, I began being able to discern wines fairly well.  French wines were truly all over the board, and price was an immediate indication of how good they were.

 

I checked into the hotel and crashed. It was a fine place, clean enough but the TV was fucked up.  I napped and showered. Things to remember for tomorrow:

 

Nice 8/8 to 8/10

Postcards

Confirm Speria

Lyon Thursday 8/19

 

After I pulled myself up, more than just a little disoriented, I headed out in the evening for The Pigalle. I was detoured on the way there by a Metro line being out of service. It was inconvenient, but it made things interesting and I made the most of it by feeling the pulse of the city at night, and getting a late night croissant.

 

I occasionally wondered about my safety, but only when I was trying to be paranoid.  Really, I felt exceptionally safe in Paris, as I had in London.  Safer than I would feel in north Portland, although in Europe I was sticking to pretty well trodden paths.

 

When I got to The Pigalle, I was amazed at the scene. I expected a red light district.  And true enough, there were peep shows all along the street.  Bright flashing lights with sex shows and theaters everywhere.  But something didn’t seem right. I realized that tourist buses lined the street, and the reason why it felt like Oxford Circus felt last year was because of the amazing amount of tourists.  Zillions of families with kids walked up and down the streets gawking at the neon and the posters of nude women with stars or spots strategically placed.  The Moulin Rouge in particular was a zoo, and frankly, I had no desire to see why.  A mass of humanity was dying to get in.  I made a few passes and then wandered by the “Bars Americains” on the side streets.

 

I realized that once I was identified as a single man, the barkers in front of the sex shops on the Pigalle would do everything short of grabbing me by the collar and dragging me inside their place.  They were frighteningly aggressive and made the whole thing less interesting and tempting, actually.

 

Afterwards, I’d realized the Pigalle had been one of the major disappointments of Paris for me.  After my wild night in Helsinki, I’d been hoping to push the line a little further.  But it all smelled of rip off, and being alone I wasn’t prepared to pay my money and take my chances.

 

Of slightly more interest were the American Bars on the side streets of the Pigalle.  They were tiny, tiny places in the side streets usually with a woman tending bar and five or six seats at the bar, and a couple of lounge style seats.  Three hookers or so would wait for business to wander in. I passed by and gawked in a couple of them, but didn’t venture in.  I headed back to the metro, tired and hot, and was held up by a parade of rollerbladers.  Zillions of them going down the main drag, lead by a police escort.

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