Conversations

The street where I lived.

26 November 02 Tuesday

Hotel Aviatic 8AM

Woke up had coffee this morning. I started reading Orwell's down and out in Paris and London again; enjoying it immensely, marking up places to go for context. Last night prepared a tea of green tea and chamomile flowers (5, way too many) maybe it was just exhaustion but I nearly passed out after only a few sips of the stuff.  It was so bitter it took 5 sugarcubes (courtesy Hakim in lobby) to cut but probably too long of a steep.

The plumbing echoes sounds from other rooms through its pipes. So far I’ve only noticed the sounds of toilets flushing and other plumbing noises elsewhere on the floor, but quite think I heard a conversation coming from the bidet in my sleep.

Still adjusting to the timezone and what seems like a longer time for the sun to rise. Am I missing something here? Yesterday I slept in until 11AM then showered; an ordeal in itself, venturing through the lobby, out the courtyard and up 3 flights of stairs to a cold shower with a skylight that leaks the even colder rain.  The shower nozzle falls off from time to time leaving a snakelike, whipping hose spewing water at your ankles. If you just go the hose option, the hot and cold water doesn't mix correctly and you end up getting burnt and frozen at once! I’m learning why in Paris showering twice a week seems to be the average. I read somewhere that only 60 percent of the dwellings in Paris have private baths.  So on the way to the shower I got a coffee from the machine in the lobby while some American backpackers were checking in. I’m sure this was quite the unromantic greeting to Paris they did not want to see, checking into their Chambre de Bonne! The coffee was sharp and bitter and hot in my hand. 3 ounces of warm pleasure...

Did some grocery shopping at the marche biologique (organic food market) across the street: 6 1,5 litres of spring water, .25 kilo of mexican organic (biologique) arrabica coffee, crisptoast, tea and chamomile loose, stain remover (will be handy in Amsterdam), .5 litre of vin de maison blanc (oops need also a corkscrew) then to the bazaar for a knife and a corkscrew (oh, lost the will to drink early in the day) and an extension cord that doesn't work with my coffee machine or any of my converters, oh well... and back home.  Another dark grey day and the first Monday...

I called Mom from the payphone in the Metro Mouton-Duvernet and spoke with her a good twenty minutes. She was very happy to hear from me, I could hear when she answered. I do miss her and I’m happy that we could connect before I left. Can never get a read on my mother. It’s a shame she doesn’t play poker; she’d be an ace.

This card holds a weekly metro ticket in a pouch on the back.

Got my Carte Orange metro pass and took a silly picture in the photo booth in the urine smelling corridor of Les Halles. They clean these things every Monday and apparently not yet, so it’s a week’s buildup of stench and rot mixed with the indeterminate noxious subway smell that is common to all cities. I go a few stops further than my previous perimeter of comfort and emerge from M Etienne Marcel somewhere beyond Ile De la Cite near Les Halles. I seemed to be stuck in a CD/DVD store for an hour or two, it being duskish when I left and the time change and the jetlag all screwing with my sense of time of day.

I am averaging only about a conversation a day so far. I do speak to people on the phone and in French to Hakim and Pascal at the front desk. This writing makes me feel stuck in my mind because it’s just my thoughts and no dialog. My French is passable and though my vocabulary is extensive from reading, my comprehension is not close to par with my ability to express myself.

I found an internet cafe that is more swank than "easy internet" and not as many con-artist types floating around. In fact, none. Owned by a Tunisian, Nejib and a gorgeous blonde woman that helped me fix the keyboard to standard qwerty and made me tasty if  expensive 2.5e cafes creme.  Spent a good 3 hours screwing about with unfinished business stateside. Uploaded a bunch of pictures and sent them off to friends—K, J, T,  and soon to Richard. 

This Palm was a good thing to get.  I thanked Kate and wished her a million years of good karma for giving it to me.  It is perfect with the keyboard, and has been years coming... I like that I can carry both things in my jacket pocket and set up shop to write anywhere. My handwriting is awful and my hands hurt after only a page or two.

So after internet I stumble into one of the infinite number of Irish pubs called O'sheas or something like that with Beamish ales on the sign. An agreeable bartender named Derrick and a guy from London named Charlie at the end of the bar. Charlie asked me about Niagara as he is getting married to a girl from Buffalo soon and wants to take her there for 'a good shaggin' so I told him what I knew of the hotels. I had a pint of stout (missing happy hour by 15 minutes) and a plate of fish and chips and salad for 9.20e, a bit expensive but well cooked and a heartily rounded meal. I played billiards with Derrick first, pulling a win out of my arse somehow with some amazing unintended bank shots, then a guy named Mario from Croatia who seeming kept creating his own rules to beat this American who spent more time in the pool hall and kitchen than in the library in college. I let him beat me twice, but mainly due to my lack of interest. Spoke with a cute barmaid named Linda from, Ireland of course, and she was pleasant and eager to to sit down after the dinner rush.

“And what are you doing here in Paris?”

“I’m traveling and I’ve loved Paris and wanted to come back.”

“Me too. Do you want another pint dear?”

“I do but I only have 20E on me right now.”

“Don’t worry about it, dear. Welcome to Paris.”

Some pints O' Irish.

She kissed me on the cheek and squeezed my shoulder firmly. She took the 20E note that I’d set under the glass and returned with another pint of something. I remained at the table with my leather journal and tried to scribble some thoughts but couldn’t get my mind off the warmth of her lips on my cheek. I could still feel it minutes later. She returned several times in the hour with several more pints and shoulder squeezes but no kisses. I thought about all the things I’d want to say and do but I stopped short not knowing my place or who else in the bar might also’ve acted on those thoughts. It was enough to be kissed and served many beers by a sweet woman speaking English in the center of Paris. Still I am not leaving my comfort zones. In many ways.

I find myself talking to a Tunisian crepe maker near the forum Le Halles near the Irish place. Ali was his name. What started as a sweet crepe to finish the savory evening turned into a lengthy exchange in French and English. We talked about beggars, about police being assholes and not giving a shit about the merchant, and our general philosophies on the structure of society. I got a Nutella crepe for 2e50 and lingered, tempted into a crepe with egg, ham, cheese and mushrooms to go, on the house as he had made an extra by accident probably due to our distracting conversation. In any event he was not dismayed and seemed eager to provide me my breakfast for the next morning. I asked him if he drank and he said sure and I got some kronenbourgs at a stand down the street and came back to share them in plastic cups while watching him craft sweet and savory crepes for mostly tourists and students. This is who is out in Paris right now getting street food. Our conversation came to an end with the agreement that it would continue some time. He gave me his cell phone number and suggested a place to get cheap phone cards and a prepaid cell phone.

A lengthy descent into the cavernous metro hub of Chatelet Les Halles.

Lovely that around midnight I can still call my sister and caught her on her commute home. This is a perfect time change for someone like me who procrastinates. Spoke to her for an hour with that new phone card at 11centimes/minute in the Metro Chatelet Les Halles...until the last train arrived with a metallic clanking rumble. She seemed patently interested in my Paris adventure and listened for long stretches which is a rarity with her. I confessed to her that I didn’t want to come home, that I’d had it with the States. She seemed concerned, but not unhappy with that and though she is younger than I is ever more traveled in Europe having spent the entirety of a summer with G’s family romping through the continent. She told me that G had just graduated from law school and is traveling, in Greece right now...I said give her my email and voicemailbox number. She talked about her trip to Europe with G and so on and it was good to listen to hear her voice. I listened in a way I’d never before. Standing there, against the cold white tile of the metro and the wind blowing leaves through the entrance and hearing the French chatter and the dark late Fall night in another city, my sister's voice was comforting and saying our goodbyes made me cry.

So it's now 9am a pale day and cold feet in my bed typing this and listening to tribe called quest...had two tumblers of coffee and soy milk that has some sort of odd liquery-taste to it but still good.  This is a lot like living in a dorm room, actually almost exactly.  My music, my writing, a little coffee maker, etc... But it’s in Paris. I’m in Paris watching the pale slowly lighten over terracotta roofs and hearing chatter and footsteps in a courtyard below.