Paris Review
January 12, 2002
I can now officially add the night train from Rome to Paris to my list of things that were cool to do, but don't ever want to do again. Like LSD. You know, you're thinking, “This is cool—an adventure—something new and different"—but at the same time there's a part of you that just wants the whole thing to be over. But you’ve committed and there's no escape—if you fight it, you'll go nuts. You have to release yourself and wait it out. And when the whole thing is over, you're relieved, you're stiff, you're vaguely sick, and the world is a slightly different place than it was before. So bon jour!
My cuchette slept 6. It was me, a French girl with way too much luggage, a family (a Mom, a Dad, and a little girl who liked to cry and scream from time to time), and an Italian guy with no personality who got up to smoke about every 15 minutes. When he'd come back into the room, he smelled like he had just rolled around in an ashtray. We slept on smelly vinyl shelves and listened to the clicks and the clacks and covered ourselves with synthetic wool blankets that made me think of smallpox.
When the train finally pulled into Paris, about 12 hours later, we all stumbled off the train dizzy and disoriented. I helped the girl with too much luggage. Hearing her say "merci, merci" over and over in her little French accent almost made me wish she had even more stuff. Almost.
I found a cab and took it to Nicole's apartment. She had to work, but we had enough time for a coffee and for her to ask me the latest details regarding her ex-boyfriend. She wastes no time. It sucks that she has to work on a Sunday, but she doesn't afford her swank Paris apartment by being a slacker like me.
I showered and shaved, and exploded my suitcase all over the spare room. Now I have to go out and find some food, because Nicole is one of those chicks who doesn't believe in eating. So there's nothing in the house to mooch. She's going to be working tonight until about midnight. And my other friend, Pauline, is out of town until Tuesday or Wednesday, so I guess I'll wander around by myself and play the lonely guy in a strange city like I do so well.
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January 13, 2002
I wrote these things in an email to Raymi, and she told me I had written them already. Perhaps I did. But I am in France, and this is where they invented deja vu. If I'm writing nothing new, it's not my fault. Really—it isn't. But I want to tell you about the girl I'm staying with:
She is fancy. She likes to drink espresso and wear Jimmy Choo shoes. Sometimes she even says "fabulous" without moving her jaw. But I might be making that part up. She has a washing machine that has a dryer built in. You put your clothes in, and a little while later, you pull them out all dry and clean. Miraculous. I've known her for years, and last night we looked at pictures from long ago and far away. It's funny how lives go. Things move you and take you this way or that. She told me she is jealous of the family that lives across the street. She sees them through the window, and they are perfect. Beautiful. They drink coffee and read the paper, and the stories are always happy. They eat dinner, and they are in love. Their child is gorgeous and gets straight A's. Yes, yes, of course, I said, but don't you see? That woman over there is looking back at you. She sees a beautiful young single girl and thinks—ahhh—that's the life I miss—the freedom and all its adventure and loneliness and pain and excitement and pleasure and bliss and everything in life's exquisite range. Don't you see? She thinks your paint is whiter and your joys more pristine. “Thank you,” she said.
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January 13, 2002
I keep finding myself in these romantic settings. Alone. I'm not sure if being alone makes them less romantic, or more so. Either way, as I walked around and found quiet places in the chill and the mist, I felt as though I had found something special. Another gentle rain, serene and desolate. Another carousel in another city. Another moment lost and found. Speaking of lost, I lost my scarf. I don't know where. It was there, and then it was gone. I went to the top of the Eiffel Tower, walked out on its windy decks, and imagined myself blowing off. What would the faces of those Japanese tourists look like, and what stories would they tell? I went back down and headed home. Past the guys selling small pieces of junk, through the wind and the wetness, along a muddy path, and back out onto the street. City of lights. Headlights and taillights. Sometimes the lights are all green, and you never have to stop. I bought my train ticket for Amsterdam today. I tried to change my flight home, but couldn't do it. So I'll only have one full day in Amsterdam. Two nights. I didn't plan very well. Oh well, the lights can't always be green. Hung out with Nicole’s friends, Hans and Skye, tonight. Their apartment situation is tenuous, so Nicole is letting them stay with her until they sort things out. When Nicole finally came home. It suddenly felt like a sleepover party—except everyone has to get up for work tomorrow. Everyone but me, that is, so I'm like that annoying kid who never shuts up—never goes to sleep. The parents come in to yell at everyone to "quiet down and go to bed". Only here are there no parents. No voice of reason.
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January 14, 2002
Went out for brunch this morning. It's a whole different experience going out to eat alone here than when I go with Nicole. She speaks fluent French, and it's all patience and smiles. Then, when it's just me and all I can manage to say in French is that I don't speak French, things turn ugly. Ok, so I've said it before, I have a bum ear. Sometimes, especially in crowded places where people are talking, I have a hard time hearing things. I can hear when people talk, but not with the fidelity it takes to figure out what the hell they're saying. So when the waiter starts asking me questions in French, All I can say is, French, "Je ne parle pas français.”
"Okay,” he replies in English. “Are you here for the Breakfast?"
Oui. I order (again in broken French—but I tried) and when the food finally arrives, he says, "Bon appétit".
Pardon? I say.
"Bon appétit," he says again, "it's French".
I know it's French—I just didn't hear you.
So it was all downhill from there—no more service with a smile. I was alternately ignored and sneered at. He played the stereotype perfectly. So I ate, read the paper, paid, and left—Hasta la vista, cheesedick That's Spanish.
I walked around a bit, looked in the windows. When I got back to the apartment, Hans was just getting up and ready for lunch. Wanna go eat? Umm—ok—he speaks French, so I figured I'd be ok. We had Chinese. Then we went to pick up some groceries for later tonight. We walked to what looked like a clothing store and went inside. I ask Hans, What are we doing here? I figured he needed to run an errand—pick up some socks or something. We ride down the escalator, and then I see— there are aisles of food mixed in with the towels and makeup, and jewelry. We get what we need and wait in line next to the lingerie department. Fucking weird. I told him, This place is odd. He said, "Yeah, I guess so". I guess it's like a Kmart or something—only fancy. There was a gourmet wine shop down there, too.
I spoke to Pauline. She's in Amsterdam and is heading back to Paris tomorrow. I, of course, am leaving Paris and heading to Amsterdam tomorrow. I told her to make sure she gets a window seat, and we can wave to each other as we pass on the tracks. No. Wait—let's think about this—there's gotta be a way to see each other. So, okay, she's taking an early train, and I'm going to the train station a little early, and we'll meet at the Hagan Daas stand on the platform of Paris Nord. Something oddly romantic about it all, I guess. We'll have a little over an hour to catch up and say hello, bonjour, goedemiddag, etc, etc.
