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LA FRANCE, 2010
*straight to LA NOUVEAU*
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Jeudi, 4 Mars
The apartment windows open unto an enclosed barren garden, the other units surround with chipped white shutters and wrought iron. A tenant across the way is hanging what looks like long strips of pork to age on her tiered clothesline. I may be bold enough to buy food today. Hemingway says hunger is good discipline. You may be surprised to find how satisfying black tea and trail mix can be ( I was ). I am older now than when I was in other cities to which I've traveled. I thank them -- Vancouver, Austin, Berkeley, Buenos Aires and mi ciudad de los angeles perdidos-- for getting me here. In BsAs my first real success was buying a voltage converter from a friendly Argentine ferreteriero who snuck me a small bag of almond cookies with my change. I didn't notice until down the block. All of my muscles are terribly sore upon inspection. The 15 hours of travel should have been properly slept off by now. Was it the 10 klik walk down to La Nation, down and around Rue Voltaire to Diderot ( an unintentional philosopher path I swear ) to Le Seine, then finally to the Rive Gauche? In the majestic and dormant Jardin des Plantes I followed signs to a Menagerie and a Labyrinthe, but finding neither I went up through what the signs told me was the Latin Quatier to stumble upon Notre Dame. Inside I went to warm up my hands and remarked to myself: "How the fuck did they do this?". I stayed for the mellow, silly pomp of men in purple robes and, after hesitation allowed one of them to feed me 'le cuerpo du christo' but I put it in my hand first. Christ tastes like bleached printer paper with a rice flour finish. Highly disappointed that they didn't dole out any blood, with my hands only slightly warmed, I continued out on my vague search for the tower. I spotted only the top of it briefly as I rounded the Seine at the Pont d'Austerlitz. So along the quai of the left bank I went perusing the sparse bouqinistes, imagining that, though the town is packed with people, it's rather shut down to tourists-- only one accordioniste on the bridge. Bought an undeniable botanical print of a cherimoya. Now I had a bag for the spikey electric adapter in my pocket that the friendly man at the quincaillerie had sold me for a mere 1.50 Euros. He spoke to me in English after I met him with my meager French pleasantries. After he schooled me about voltage and retrieved the double pronged plastic from a drawer, he asked me if I was here for work which I marked as a triumph, not being taken for a student. Now I'm preparing for a small trek to see a room I may take for the month of March. I might as well stay in Paris for a while no?  . .
Also, the young woman from whom I rented this room mentioned with hesitation that "O! my neighbour, upstairs, he, uh, practices the saxo... but only until ten at night!". He does in fact play, very well, and has as far as I can tell a rough little trio-- bass, piano and sax-- who play wicked cool jazz. It rubs through the thin walls while I sit in the salon reading. They've been working on "So What" for a few days. Sounds good to me. I hear someone's foot tapping above me, let's assume it's the bassist. I can hear they're playing off the original recording though, which I think might be setting them back a bit. Just wing it! You're not going to be Miles Davis or Coltrane again.
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cemetery....
[ other: ... clear day in Montmartre, Burgundy tasting with American wine drinkers in the 1st, dinner in Beaubourg with Yom, Soulage at the Pompidou, found new place to live on Rue Quincampoix, more ... ]
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Samedi, 6 Mars
So I took the 10 Euros I made cleaning glasses at the bistrot bar Le Cordon Blanc last night, and went out this morning looking for some ouefs. I remembered that I had yet to see eggs anywhere which I thought was paradoxical given that I'm in the egg capital of the universe. I started with the little supermarchè because it's homogenized and american-styled, thus comforting and familiar, and I don't have to say anymore than "bonjour" and "merci" (thus representing the full range of my French vocabulary). But supermarkets do not have eggs here! Curious! So I walk down my streets wondering "who has eggs?" One of the many halal butchers maybe has eggs, since they do roast chickens streetside? Maybe a bakery? Do I have to find a "laiterie" and would I know one if I did? Aside: one thing I can say about the French is that they label most things-- names, prices, produce origins-- clear and bold... except their streets. I continue on some street (probably Rue St Maur but I've given up attempting to know what street I'm on anymore) towards Belleville station and along the way find eggs at a little produce / legumerie. I live in a sort of Chinese/Arabic neighborhood the cultural clash of which makes me feel at home. I can relate better to anyone not French, since we have that in common here. Feeling rather jaunty (my new friends at the bar were really locked on the idea of 'justine' being 'jaunty', o the hilarity that ensued), I kept walking perusing the various bits of herbs, dried fish, chilies, chayotes and cherimoyas (see! just like LA) that hang out onto the sidewalks from the open shops. I stop into the asian supermarket to compare it to mine back home in Lil' Tokyo, and thought again about why we bother trying to differentiate and name greens that exist on a continuum of similar varietals (mustard greens, arugula, dandelions, etc. then try that in Korean, Chinese French...). Terribly hungry now and in need of Orangina everything looks tasty: chow mein noodles, bahn mi, even frozen egg rolls. Hunger has been the norm for the trip thus far though, so I'm adapting. No amount of real eating would satiate my desire for all the consumables in Paris so why begin. Then I stumbled on the local outdoor market. I initially imagined it to be a flea market, but as I entered the first stall was a table covered in sea weed. Dark shelled lobsters, crabs meekly chomping, baskets of mollusks of all description, complete scallops with bright orange tongues in their shells and whole clear-eyed sliver skinned fishies. I would have laughed out loud had I not been in shock. Then the glass case full of fuzzy white rind soft cheeses, as if the whole case had just been wheeled out of shop and unto the street. Produce tables of Spanish oranges, apples, quinces, pears. And the signs stuck in the little purple artichokes and cabbages say "provence" and "nantes". I passed a single head of cream-colored lettuce with purple polka dots! The most black-green watercress in little wooden crates and sparkling burgundy to ivy colored greens (clearly and without doubt all 'biologique'). Butchers in discreetly blood-stained aprons and fur hats flaying off slabs of pink veal, slicing whole heads into manageable sheets for patrons, weighing fresh sausages. Pates and pig ear terrines in impeccable clear gelèe. Oh you know, just the Saturday market, no big deal. And no one seems to be surprised that there are 8-rack rotisseries turning skewered whole chickens golden with piles of baby (fingerling) potatoes soaking in the bottom-- maybe 5 of these dispersed down this single aisle. At least 3 separate fish mongers all with scallops, some with more mackerel than others or big flat sole or sardines or what I guessed were skate wings. Some lay their sea creatures on sea weed, some on ice. A woman behind the stall advertising 'African food' lays a pile of purple kidneys on a hot plate with onions and peppers; she has 4 plates sizzling with curries. Selections of olives like you can't believe, with cured/dried/smoked all-manner-of-things. Hummus, tabouleh, babaganoush. And my only French friend cautioned me that one must go to the rich neighbourhoods for the really good markets, "those in your area are not so good" leading me to understand that this is one of the more mediocre of Saturday markets. sigh. The aisle is packed with people. Dads with babies slung around their chests and old women pushing carts. Some stalls attract longer lines than others. It's a good thing that I can't talk to these people; here I make less of a fool or glutton of myself by just remaining silent and staring safely down at the food. I might have starting crying anyway. And I did tear up a bit when I made it to the end of the market: needing a bench, I sat to relax and process. This happened to me in North Berkeley once, at the evening market near Chez Panisse. It was wrought with end of the season heirloom tomatoes and Hog's Island oysters. I didn't have any money there either, so I just looked around then found a tree to sit under and weep. The money wouldn't have mattered really. It's principle. I determine to make another round through my market. During my walk I had since procured: six eggs, maybe 500grams of flageoulet beans, 2 shallots and a head of parsley, with one leek and a head of escarole back at the house (all of which had set me back about 8 euros) as well as a bottle of 2000 Mercurey and an '08 Sancerre Rose (those were 35 Euros from Spring Boutique). So I venture for meat, maybe sausage. The fish is too pretty for me today and those butchers were fascinating. I remembered the one that had had the longest line had andouille sausage. I also know how to say "andouille" and "saucisson" which is a plus. On the way back, I focus again on produce: the brussel sprouts were tiny delicate perfections but I don't know what to call those. I successfully buy one link of sausage for 55 cents, and a philo epinard pastry for 2.50, which I promptly consume. On the way home I buy my first baguette (2.20) and an Orangina. I curl up in my cold little flat and watch French home-and-garden shows which are exactly as pacifying as those in the States. Being on vacation is odd, I'm living like a junkie-- sleeping most the day, flat's a mess. The cold has slowed me down tremendously. I stomp around outside for a few hours then come home and hide under a big blanket (there's no 'heat' here per se).
Dimanche, 7 Mars Drank most of my bottle of rose with an egg sandwich at my place then stumbled on a 13 piece string ensemble in the metro on my way to pick up a bike in the 15th. A THIRTEEN PIECE string ensemble. In the metro. Egg sandwich. Perfect rose. Vivaldi live.
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Yom (our dinner of foie gras and pouilly fuisse I have yet to recount) set me up with a wicked fancy bike and all the gear: helmet ("which, in my experience in Paris, I recommend"), gloves, backpack, lock (though I brought my Kryptonite) and a grip of some other nonsense I won't use. I ride with some set backs through Les Invalides then along St. Germain and finally over Ile St Louis. Taking some time, it now being round sunset, to ride in between the crowds of families doing sunday on the river. I feel safer and at home on the right bank, the left bank is foreign and too "Parisien" for me (so far). I like having a 'home', a place that is mine and if not warm, at least comfortable and safe. Maybe I'm not a real traveller in that sense, I like packing pretty dresses and books. I like having a kitchen and a big bed, being able to walk home to pee and take a nap.
Here's the first little makeshift cassoulet I made with my findings: 
Lundi, huit Mars Accidental groceries. Even the conglomo-anonymo grocery stores are fascinating to me. I went into my local MonoPrix just to check it out but found this package of mache lettuce with sous-vide beets inside was too adorable (2.20 E). From there I gathered a few things amounting to about 9 Euros and I made a nice casserole of red potatoes, cream, bit of blue cheese, leeks+shallots and Poilane bread. I was inspired by the tiny orange earthenware dish and high temp toaster oven in my flat. But I always make enough for exactly two people. O! to be a doomed romantic! 
Mercredi, 10 Mars
Losing myself in cycles of self-conscious loneliness through labyrinthine streets. In every curio shop window I see my unsatisfying reflection and wonder what the hell I'm doing here. And if only I were prettier. (O Cruel female vanity! Lest it be the downfall of us all!) I decided while sitting in a reclined iron chair on the gravel of the Louvre yesterday, taking in the sun across from the tower, that this a necessary pilgrimage. Like visiting Mecca, but for the liberal-educated Western agnostic. And especially for a guildsman of Dionysus, or a "culinarean" as has been my most recent professional incarnation. Walking in the rive gauche, on St Germain, turning down a side street, I notice a placard with the name Jose Luis Borges. "ecrivain Argentin." Borges lived in this hotel and Oscar Wilde died here say the signs. (The menu was prohibitively expensive.) I run my fingers over the bronze relief of Wilde and almost take a picture before thinking better of it. A few doors down, I find the art shop I visited as an adolescent. It must be this one, I'm sure of it. My mother bought for me then the things of my choosing: one white triangular eraser, one pencil and one steel sharpener. I still have the remnants of these aging with my other unused art supplies at the home ancestral. This set of streets displays collections of MesoAmerican, African and Indian art. An ominous piece of hieroglyph engraved stone floating in gallery light near the window. Is that real? What is one to say about all this? Am I a tourist? No better than the American couples in parkas holding unfolded maps in their mittened hands or the chubby British girls trying conspicuously to dress Parisian? Along the Seine, I heard an American boy remark "oh yawh, Miwaulkee is all a'full a'hipsters now". I've been asked for directions in French a few times. Once I knew where to point. I say "hola, si" after "bonjour". But I've made a few necessary connections, I've had appointments to make about town, I've conducted not one commercial transaction involving a beret, so I feel not entirely feckless. In a slick, burgundy-curtained bar in my neighborhood along the canal, I drank an espresso to warm my hands. They played an early Wailers album (double disk) which I have on vinyl. But no one was eager to know about my album collection, or anything about my otherwise impeccable taste. Nope. Just a non-French speaking nobody, probably American. It's not self pity, just the humility that ensues from being transplanted (from transplanting oneself maybe that's why I do it). I'll never incorporate into this society, because I simply don't have the patience to learn another language. There. Especially one as nuanced (see !) as this. I'm going to be honest with myself about this. I have the potential to have Spanish-- and Spanish is fun, the Spanish are more fun. So this is a pilgrimage. I must pay my respects. They gild the facades of their chocolate stores. There are neighborhoods with every storefront an art gallery. The streets are divided by genre: you find the "19th century engravings" district of town, or an "abstract expressionist sculpture" neighborhood. Wine caves have "alimentation general" signs. Pastry is high art and everyday necessity. They honor deceased gay Irish playwrights in bronze.
you've got to stand up pour vous droites
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Vendredi, 12 Mars
Continuing a recent tradition of living on the top of old buildings in city centers in large rooms filled with another person's things, I have settled into my place in Beaubourg. I have a big private room in a flat that I share with three others: a soft-spoken lanky Dane fond of black suspenders, a Serbian girl who has a snicker perpetually choked behind her smile, and Monsieur Pierre an aging French man who I generally see in his underwear. We all sat down to an impromptu chat at 3 am Friday evening: Monsieur Pierre regaled us with stories of cooking naked in Cannes (wearing only a denim apron which he modeled for us-- he was clothed during this demonstration) and hanging out with Anna Karina (he decided she was an alcoholic). He and I discussed how sore your feet get in the kitchen no matter the shoes. He wears a necklace with tobacco pipe paraphernalia and was a Chef "without schooling". I was apprehensive of his not speaking English, but we get along quite well. Plus my trilingual roommates are ready to hop in if need be. Up six flights of worn wooden steps, the front door of the place opens to a thin hall, an isolated toilet to the right, creaking doors hide tiny bedrooms, a few paces becomes the bathroom with an elevated tub, a clothesline and sink decorated with several decades of toiletries. Walk through this to the kitchen, a galley brimming with dusty spices (I've counted 4 containers of white pepper alone), all manner of dishes, salad spinners, vinegar bottles, food mills, pots and pans crowding every possible space, but the sink is large and shallow next to a built-in wooden cutting board right beside the GAS range. Turn a corner to the salon, carpeted, a 10 person dinning table with mail and magazines. Shelves all around with books (science fiction and cooking mostly), faded liquor bottles (rum mostly *I learned in my night working a bar and through studying cave windows that rum is widely drunk, often in the form of "grog" warmed with honey and lemon*), countless forgotten objets d'art, as well as some decent big abstract impressionist canvases on the walls. This afternoon a lightening bolt of ambition led me underground to the Catacombs in the 14th. I've felt a bit decadent in my going to sleep before dinner, not once running out to paint the town. But the last few days my toes have been going numb (pinched nerves kitchen clogs, I think) making trotting the cobblestone more self-flagellation than tourism. But after frittering away a few hours in bed looking at new models of masticating triturating juicers online, I began planning for my cultural enrichment. Starting with an underground palace of human remains. So far the only historical institutions I’ve visited with intention have been cemeteries. After a bit of research, I decided against the 2-day 34 Euro every-museum-in-Paris death march pass. Entry into most of these joints is cheap for kids like me: the Louvre is 11E (free for "the unemployed", dismembered veterans (with your assistant) and any citizen of the EU under 26 !) and with bargains like 2 for one Musee d'Orsay + Rodin or Orsay + Orangerie for 13Euros, I'll take my museums as they happen. The Catacombs was only 4.00E, and they just set you loose in there! A day of unwavering grey chill, I found the entrance near the Cimetiere du Montparnasse. A tiny stone room with a ticket window and a red digital wall counter, now at 60. I assumed this to be the number of live souls down there, I read that only 200 were allowed at a given time so there is often a wait. I thought we were to be escorted in a group with a cruise director and wondered if he would speak English, no matter. A few French youths were in line before me, and a vested man stood near a velvet rope leading to a spiral staircase. I sat down in one of 3 chairs for a moment about to peruse a brochure until I understood that you trek down there on your own. Hundreds of tightly wound steps, like climbing down the spire of a medieval church. If one were at all inclined to claustrophobia this would be your masochistic paradise. The French kids before me paused at the informative gallery, I pushed on alone into the darkened dirt corridor. I'm shaken as I remember that I have only a vague idea of what I'm getting myself into. I walk for ages. There was a sign on the surface that had said to use the "call buttons" in an emergency. I could not notice any of these supposed call boxes; the primary emergency I can imagine is having a psychotic breakdown and running a rampage through the blackness. I thought of the acoustic folk show I went to underground Austin, we climbed down a manhole to get in and following tea lights set up along the trickling of rain drainage. How wicked it would be to be down in this passage with only a torch? Or would they have set up torches along the route, hung into wire sconces? I pass a French couple inspecting the walls with blue cell phone light. I wonder if this is the whole experience and begin to feel like the Parisians ripped off my 4 Euros. At a crossroads of tunnels in the entrance to the sacred areas. Signs demand no flash photography and “respect”. The first steps into the bone-lined path I stopped to stare at one of the dozens of skulls. Insert all of one’s normal feelings of mortality and the fearful meaningless void after you stop breathing. Some thoughts while walking:
Golly, bones sure are strong and last a long time.
So that was my cloudy afternoon in the Catacombs. I surfaced and went to a corner bakery, ordered a duck sandwich with a glass of Chablis from a nice waiter who didn’t make me feel stupid.
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Lundi, whatever, March something
Ate at a MADAGASCARIAN restaurant I found in the corner of a tiny passage near Faubourg St. Denis. I had lunch on my mind and knew without hesitation that this MUST be the place for which I'd been searching. Who has ever had food from Madagascar? And yes, there were lemurs painted on the wall. A first course of terrine du poisson (fish terrine) was pleasantly tasty and not at all abhorrent which I'd always assumed it to be knowing the concept only through the 400 recipes I've read over various frenchy cookbooks. Followed by a main of whole braised white fish, with broth rich rice served molded under half of a coconut shell (delightful! and a receptacle for fish bones!), unpretentious and tasty braised cabbage, carrot and an unfamiliar starchy white tubor rounded out the plate (ten fifty Euro for the 2 courses! I'm going back). I relaxed with coffee and my big bottle of water watching the clean spring light ebb across rooftop chimneys. Then my plastic money didn't work, so I left my California ID with the nice zoftig matron with conspicuous cleavage while she continued washing dishes and I went trotting around the neighborhood for a bank. It was a few blocks of dismay, asking bank employees in rough French about "un peu d'argent de les etats-unis?" But I was well-fed and thus unthwartable, so I rounded a corner and saw a great CHANGE sign, which upon inspection turned out to be a MADAGASCARIAN exchange place. Hot damn! Life works out just splendidly. If I'd been able to communicate the coincidence to anyone, I would have. The little plexiglass box seems to specialize in money transfers to the island, while also hawking Madagascariabelia like funny vegetables in cans, cheerful British sodas and countless DVDs of local pop acts. I waited with several natives, official banking bureaucracy creeping along at third world speed, and watched some really lame music videos. Then the nice man exchanged one of the emergency 20 USD bills I keep in my wallet for 17 some-odd Euros and I was on my way! I tried to go to the Musee d'Orsay, waking up EARLY and everything, but it, as everyone knows, is closed on Monday. So I walked to the silly tower, and looked at all the ridiculous people waiting hours in line for the mere chance to haul their fat asses up the iron steps, paying a fare per tier. The tower is not without its charms. Though I find it somehow frightening up close. I took Dad's advice and went on the little Batobus around the Seine. Like riding in a floating greenhouse, I lounged towards the window taking in the sun. Bridges are elaborately decorated towards the water. I'm surprised that gold holds up so well to the weather. Hopped off near my place at Hotel de Ville, found the above explained lunch scenario, then used the last boat to go to the Champs Elysées-- figured I should get it over with. Walked all the way up to the Arc, hearing only English, Italian and Russian spoken by the crowds. Went inside a few malls and smelled all the pretty perfumes. I love the grand department store at l'Hotel de Ville (BHV Bazaar Hotel de Ville). I went tromping around it a few days ago and remarked at our cultural points of separation, especially how industrious the French are. By this I mean, along with the expected clothing, lingerie and cosmetics there was an entire half-floor dedicated to crafts! Art supplies and the like. In a department store. As if an upscale Sears would have sales on Fimo modeling clay and paper mache accessories. Full aisles of taut canvas, tubes of oil pants and a wide selection of framing equipment. The other half of this floor was a bookstore, with a none-too modest Philosophy section. The floor above was *cross your chest* where all the cooking supplies lived. Le Crueset as far as the eye can see. I said to myself, "and why does it even SMELL delicious in here??", when I saw a glassed-in teaching kitchen where a group of house wives was in the process of learning to brown meat from a know-it-all French guy. I spied on them for a bit. Today I fell into the bottom of the BHV because my metro from the far off Charles de Gaulle Etoile let off in there. Feet thoroughly finished, I'd been on the look out for insoles, and none were to be found at the well-stocked super duper marches. Here in the underground of this massive shopping oasis, I found the quincaillerie (hardware store and favorite word from the Rosetta Stone because of the hidden triple diphthong in the middle) and all the supplies necessary to become a cobbler (cordonnier)! It was shocking to me how many Parisians were invested in the task of building and refurbishing their own shoes. This wing of the shop was packed. Here one could procure soles of all description, tubes of dangerous stern glue, leather tanning devices, yards of straps, buckles, tiny packets of useful brass do-dads, whole rolls of leather in several shades to be cut off to the swath size of your choosing, and my precious squishy insoles! I debated long between my option of gelly or cloth, I chose the slightly more expensive cloth. (The point of this anecdote is that the Parisians are crafty, ok.) Then I wasted the rest of the evening writing my resume and looking at stuff online about Los Angeles.
This AOC rose from Provence was 2.75E ! And guess what? While it is admittedly not great, it's way better than Beringer and that's at least 4.00 USD.
. paris marching along...
The musical act when we arrive is a group of white girls playing African drums in matching black tank tops, baggy pants and colored hip sashes. They rattle on exuberantly for nearly half an hour. I don't attempt to decipher the reactions of my friends in the dark, rather I just take in the odd scenery and gloat a bit about its overall campiness. The rafters of this unfinished industrial space are bedecked in neon-green plastic ivy vines, huge rough painted portraits hang in black, red and blue. Next to the sunken velvet couches across the way are dried christmas trees propped onto stands, lights of the same persuasion are draped college-dorm style. Artists are like messy children. I love listening to Anglo (in this case Saxon) hippie-interpreted African music in a room full of young white bourgeoisie. This whole affair reaffirms my belief that the French are in many ways, quite unhip; but I try to withhold judgment, it being only my 3rd week here. Some things are universal: Led Zeppelin and Ray Charles. Also, Joni Mitchell for sad heartfelt 20-something girls. The people that I meet speak English. At first I feared maybe just for my benefit --pity English?-- but this seems not to be the case. The prettiest girl, blonde british in a conspicuous too-large hat, mentions Waiting for Godot as she sits at a desk, clicking on to the antique typewriter that has been set up outside on the curb. We're out smoking and I chime: "You know, I had a radish in my pocket the other day!..." (blank stares). I continue, jumping on what I saw was a perfect opportunity to make conversation, "Well see, I was eating a sandwich in the park, and I had brought a radish with me as you know, accoutrement..." (still nothing) "...and, like in Waiting for Godot..." The overly pretty Brit chirps a short "o really?" and turns away, it's obvious the others have given up following me too. So now addressing only my flatmate Philip and his buddy Christian, "Well you know... (slowly) in Godot, there's that scene... where he asks the other for a radish err-- a carrot! and the other only has a radish and he goes 'o not radishes again!'. " The joke is pretty well lost at this point but Philip obliges and asks if I had brought the radish just for the literary reference but I said that no, it was merely a hilarious coincidence.
Christian, who reminds me very much of a young philosopher I knew in Canada, is from **So it was really funny to fake ignorance as to the geographical location of Serbia in this passage except that Kristijan is from Croatia making a not so cute slip-up on my part and completely nullifying the humour of this joke. ahem. Radakovic for President!** The exhibition is a series of photographs, one or two of them of good quality, tacked unto graffiti-decorated panels. The first sets are of Paris, unmoving. A close-up of a man in a wheel chair seated next to a bike, old women in a laundromat. Butchers smiling in blood and people examining sterile prepackaged meals for sale. They are mostly ill-composed, but one is in shocking perfect focus with a complex depth of field (lucky shot?). The next room is African community scenes, children bathing naked in rivers, women on dirt roads with stacks on their heads. Butchers surrounded by flies. I get it. Out on the curb with our wine we meet cute boys in need of a light. We had been speaking English so they follow suit. Some of the Parisians have literally no perceptible accent whatsoever. The taller of the two is half-American, having lived in California. They're looking for a bar, but we invite them into the show. From the street one couldn't imagine what lies behind the corrugated steel doors and they are impressed by the find. The Franco-Californian is amazed that I have found this place having lived here such short while. "I've lived in Paris for years and have never been to a place like this." Oh well, have you tried the cafe down the street? It's great for lunch. The following evening I'm trying to learn the French word for jaded but no one is landing it quite right. Philip's British lady friends had met us at the art-party and an impromptu dinner à Chez Nous was decided for the following night. They are young Londoner doctors in town for the weekend-- kind, enthusiastic and a bit loud. They love our flat and point out with glee that one must walk through a thin hall with the bathtub and sink to reach the kitchen and dinning room. "O my! look at that!" I make a meal, three courses. Below par in my opinion but well accepted by all: Philip and his handsome architect who was in for the weekend from Versailles, the two cute brits and Monsieur Pierre, our aged host and landlord. The girls are just beside themselves about the whole thing. Nearing the end of the meal, I feel that I have made the Italian mother's mistake of making too much food and we're all a bit spent. Cigarettes roll around the dinner table, Mr. Pierre continues to down his rosé. I chat with the English-only-spoken girl and her friend speaks in loud and outlandish french with Mr. Pierre. I had learned that he has been a chef, and continues to be a Marxist. Philip says the flat used to be a commune, the whole building in fact, a left-wing strong hold on Rue Quincampoix ("cehn-cahm-pwah" for ya'll). Mr. Pierre described growing up in Africa with a colonialist father: a table of an elephant's foot, crocodiles causing consistent troubles, French cheeses flown in weekly, learning that 'my father was a murderer' et cetera. Then the conversation turns to rhum, of which he is un gran fan. He insists on making us all rummy drinks, I duck into my room to down some more stomach saving pills, and gratefully oblige. He defines the finer points of white or dark, and admits those from Martinique to be the undisputed best. It’s feeling quite late now, the girls are trying to find some boys they'd met recently, while Philip and gentleman friend are down for the count. I come out with the girls, just for fresh air really. And to feel like I'm young and adventurous or something. The girls are as enthusiastic as ever, though drunker now, pointing out all of the various "adorable" and "romantic" attributes of Paris such as shutters and wall taps. The boys in question find us in the rather terrible gay-bar/ Irish-pub district of the Marais. They offer to head to a spot in Montmartre but a communal grown from the girls over the thought of such distance at this hour keeps us close by, landing at an after-hours lesbian bar on my street. It's loud and gross, playing terrible gay hits and pouring butterscotch flavored shots. The handsome Greek boy is chatting with Karrie (the english-only girl with whom I've girl-bonded) and I watch her eyes fall in dismay when he and I start talking. I gently gesture the conversation back to her and turn to some guy named Laurent who has just joined the group. I'm suspicious of these boys, knowing the general type of Americans who venture to meet girls after last call. But Laurent and I fall on the topic of classical music, and he turns out to work in opera. Soon the girls have had enough and need to call it a night. I stick around, stomach feeling better but beyond the possibility of getting drunk (I've found that I hit a mark in the evening where if I'm not yet drunk, it's just not going to happen at all, so I resign to sipping gin). I press sardonic apologies unto the boys about the loss of their girl prospects and they act genuinely offended that I would suggest such a thing. I stay with the boys, thoroughly awake with no real reason to go home to sleep, and we meet some other of their friends elsewhere in the neighborhood. Now it is the mellow middle-of-the-night socializing among close friends, this circle of which I've infiltrated. And it is here that I was trying to figure out the word for jaded. Julien has cornered me to practice my French, and I truly appreciate the lesson, even at this hour. In isolation like this I do "quite well" with pronunciation, but when I'm trying to buy a kilo of charcuterie or tickets to a museum, I'm apparently completely incomprehensible. (Jerks.) The man from Norway who owns a restaurant in Maroc (Morocco, a recurring topic of discussion here) is fascinating and prefers speaking English. We talk about the dangers of a country of well educated upper middle class with nearly no immigration. I've been turned to think upon Scandinavia a lot recently with Philip being from Copenhagen. Julien is very surprised that I've read Spinoza and no one asks if I know how to surf. He says I can stay with his father in Avignon. We talk furiously with the Norwegian about all manner of unnecessary things before I grow bored of the Parisian machismo, battle of wits. I wonder how people pursue these relationships that start so miraculously spontaneous? Because now that I've met these boys I feel apprehensive to elaborate upon the casual relationships forged. I become such a shut-in at times, I have trouble reaching out to people. I sit up in my room and fritter away on the computer or eat cornichons in bed and read about Alexandria. I used to be so confident ! The weight of short heavy years has made me downright shy. I'm trying to take the advice of friends and walk lightly through these early spring days. Slowing down the frantic spinning of my logical mind to a calm manageable rumble. Not yet quiet enough to call anyone back though.
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glow of the spot light of the Eiffel Tower 
Bike Journey à La Bois Vincennes... 
A kitten with the look of petrified determination was stalking this guy through the bushes. 
supposedly you can rent this gypsy caravan. 
sat for sometime in this flower patch on the little island in the lake. 
canada gooses! 
What in the sam-hell is this polyethylene mountain jutting into the quiet park skyline? I think it's a thematic habitat for the zoo. 
abandoned miniature golf course! 
Right about the time my bike and I got a little carried away and were lost at the outskirts of the Bois where I was sure we would be trapped in the suburbs of Paris for eternity! I found our way soon after a rather lofty hill and everything was ok. 
Rag-time dancing kids with unexpected man playing stand-up piano at the Seine. 
those wacky goths and their attention to detail. 
This falafel shack is Lenny Kravitz approved. We went to the one across the rue. 
Flatmate Philip (middle) was growing flustered by the crowds. We pretend to be tourists to camouflage. 
Isn't Paris super fun when your out with your friends eating falafels?? Oh my god I love Paris it's so romantic. 
He insisted on this shot to really bring home the point.
Dimanche, 29 Mars
Today I succeeded in buying laundry detergent, light bulbs and lunch at an Indian joint. The detergent turns out to be stain remover, my translation was off while inside the confines of the hardware store, and one of the light bulbs fizzled as soon as I switched on its lamp. The Indian restaurant was decked in hanging fabric that smelled musty and dank but they gave me extra cardamom tea, the meal was simple and the server fastidious. I am easily pleased when I find the pakora and samosa newly fried, the naan fresh, and rice fragrant. There's not too much to ask of life. I went about the rest of the day overjoyed. The damp smell I owed to the restaurant's being inside a covered atrium, and it being Paris in the rain. The length of this stone passage that runs through Faubourg St. Martin to Faubourg St. Denis is lined by identical over-decorated Indian restaurants, all hawking super cheap multi-course meals, with only La Reine du Kashmir open on Sunday. Blood oranges from Tunisia are cheaper and better than those from Spain, and I've fallen completely enamored of the melons from Maroc. I spent too much money on a tiny one from the boujie market that I've been eating for 3 days, but have since found the jackpot in my Turkish neighborhood along Faubourg St Denis. I am so sympathetic toward the desert peoples' obsession with melons now. Our California deserts do not produce melons of this quality. These are smaller than your average American cantaloupe with that familiar beveled beige canvas skin. They have green bisecting lines that serves as perfect slicing markers, with less seeds and richer orange colored fruit. Dreamy! The Turkish plates of seared red lamb and white rice, stewed white beans with a ground meat and potato pie, smell perfect for a grey day but I don't have the gumption to try them. The groups of swarthy men smoking, sucking back espressos and eyeing me remind me too much of wolves. On Sundays the sidewalks of this quartier are packed with dark-haired, well-suited men standing, hands in pockets, chattering like they're cutting surreptitious deals. On what, cigarettes? They're in front of a bakery or standing beside a pile of bicycles? In any case, they seem to me quite unwelcoming so I buy my melons and weave back to the hidden Punjab passage where I better understand the iconography. Using the washing machine in my flat is proving to be exceedingly complicated. I understand "lavage" and "rinçage" but otherwise I'm lost. Made friends with Yann and Tarik who own my local wine shop La Note Rouge. Yann says I should stop burning myself with the underpaid grunt work of the kitchen and get back into wine where life is good, but I told him its some latent Protestant work ethic that I need to live through. Wine will be there for me. Drinking some excellent 20€ wine from the Ventoux, we scoffed at the horror of working in a modern 'crush facility', where grapes are hauled in by truck to be processed en masse. "This is not making wine," we agree, "wine making is farming". Men on mopeds arrived with pretty girls in pink helmets. The Italian one who owns a glacee shop (thus I coined him 'the ice cream man') was sympathetic towards the States. I backed him up in Italian matters of conversation too. A messy haired German physicist working in brain science missed his train back to Frieburg and so joined us. He told me that doing purely theoretical work like philosophy is important because you don't know what is practical until it is, waving his quantum physical cell phone out of his pocket. The boys told me never to drink wine alone and that I can always come hang out with them at the shop, they even have Atom Heart Mother on vinyl. "You know, how rare, in Paris, to find this album?" Hell yes I do. It was a trip drinking champagne and listening to old Floyd. Many little things slip you up at first, like light switches and door locks. The toilet is always in a separate room from the bathtub. You don't refrigerate eggs. I can't imagine spending less than 3 weeks in a new place; the distinctions would just wash over you in a series of annoying misunderstandings. (My clothes have finally made it into the far more reasonable dryer.) The streets are mostly cobblestoned, cold medieval churches vault up off of the sidewalk and you always eat dessert. +++ Last night I saw a group perform Vivaldi's infamous string works inside a gothic church. That afternoon a security guard had let me cut in the line of tourists to buy my concert ticket from the cutest quiet French boy yet encountered who didn't ask for my (nonexistent) student ID. My ticket was thus a manageable 16€ instead of twice that. Evening came and I trotted the quick walk to the Ile de la Cite. The Sainte Chapelle is connected to the department of justice so the military men politely confiscated my pocket knife at the security entrance. They gave me a receipt and no mouth, my knife was safely retrieved after the show receiving an additional congratulatory shrug about my being from California. A popular attraction by day for its stained glass, the small church is chilly with a gaudy interior architecture. Granted that I am from the New World, and the world of Disney's Magical Kingdom at that, but I can't help to think that all the gold leaf and fleur-de-lis wallpaper is almost tacky. The aesthetic sensibilities of the 13th century just lose me at times. Likewise, Vivaldi's 4 Seasons are timeworn, not stale but hardly fresh. I knew the piece to be approaching cliche, but this was part of its appeal. The musicians were on point but seemed bored, casting knowing glances to one another. I had not realized how these pieces depend so heavily on a virtuosic first violinist. In this case, a quintessential shaggy haired man with perfect posture. I swear I heard him insert a few discreet extra notes into some of the faster parts just to be a fucker. My father had suggested to me that the French have a subtler hand with Vivaldi, from the opening chords this seemed to ring true. The attack on the strings was imperceptible, perfect sound just rose up from the darkness. Few days ago spent the evening at a fancy top floor flat in the 7th close enough to flick a cigarette on the tourists climbing the tower. The sky was epic post rain watercolored fuchsia lavender white gold, sun descending behind the tower, boulevards glowing below. From the balcony you look through the flat to a bay window framing Montemartre and Sacre Cour. No pas mal. This was the tableau for a private exhibition of the sculptures of my dear friend Yom. I was nearly terrified by the rich French art collectors but eventually Yom's well dressed cousins chatted with me while I ate peanuts then a spritely Bostonian expat artist arrived and we talked about Montana. "Scenes of visionary enchantment" I told him, recounting to his French friend about that excellent score of the Louisiana territory we took off their hands in 1800. Other than all that it's life as usual. Mostly walking then sitting, reading, eating or sleeping.
Monsieur Pierre was a Marxist, then a Maoist and now he's settled on anarchism. 
This pet store (animalerie) sells chickens and fluffy heirloom pigeons. 
Thanks to beermaster Simon at La Cave à Bulles much important research is being conducted on Rue Quincampoix, I assure you. 
Paques Dimanche, 4 Avril
Drinking a bit more beer than is advisable but all in the name of camaraderie! I've managed to spend the last few evenings getting rowdy Paris style (ie. demurely in leather jackets) with new friends I met at the liberator from my loneliness and sobriety, La Note Rouge. Last night found us at an underground West African jazz show-- and when I say underground, believe that I mean in a cerca 1421 former-prison, now-bar called Les Caveaux des Oubliettes complete with a real guillotine and blue Chimay. The show was free (FREE) but consumption obligatoire and our friends had landed a collection of stools inches from the djembe. These folks are French, so with my stubbornness being as it is, I've been mostly smiling silently, arching my eyebrows in recognition of understanding, and interjecting the occasional "d'accord". But lack of locution aside, I've learned that Groucho Marx sweaters, middle-of-the-rue elf kicks, and enthusiasm for xylophones are universals. As are the Rolling Stones and Green Day. Previous to this recent bout of courage, my bestest girl friends Monica and Huyen talked to me in the new old school method of online chatting and brightened my spirits immensely. Moni even offered her NetFlix account for my use so I can watch Twilight (yesss) when I have nothing Frenchy to do. I told them that I had been stalking their personas online; I'm remembering now the isolation-curing fuzzy feeling overuse of the internet can give you. No wonder everybody is out there checking their MyFace page every 4 hours. Currently listening to Honky Tonk and avoiding the hailing out of doors. George Jones "Jesus Wants Me" in honor of the day. Feeling pretty well sprited, I decided the other day with a hot chocolate that these my last two weeks in Paris shall be the best. 
Prepare yourself, Good Reader, for a rather weighty update of journal robbings here presented: These are from a few weeks ago, when times were more lonely and contemplative. More recently it has been good natured rabble-rousing and the polishing of many bottles amongst friends...
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Ginsberg makes me impossibly happy. It is possible to love those with blood fortified on different stuff, but the voices that move us deeply can’t change form. It’s night in Paris. I guess it’s Paris, I know by the bread I eat and the brand of cookies -- out the window a courtyard of windows, and the searchlight of the Eiffel tower. You don’t feel a thing until that last glass of wine, then everything is heady and true and perfect. I worry that because my room is just a room, with certain French attributes and I stay here, that I’m missing it. I could have gone out to Chopin, but after my café cardamom and chocolates, I want to be back reclining listening to Bach cello on the radio and reading American Poetry. _____________________________ Rue Montorgueil. 2ème. croissant and coffee. I should be able to laugh-- about how all I ever want is a good croissant and some coffee on a little cobblestoned rue. The cheese shop is across the way next to Le Repaire de Bacchus beside an olive oil emporium. The chocolate shop has an endearing animatronic bunny displayed in preparation for Easter. But here I’m thinking about this or that, preoccupied by ideas of occupation, or blue eyed babies in strollers. Here I’m concerned about when will be the best time to buy this white asparagus (I fear that it is still too soon in the season). I’m concerned over money matters, over buying a new pair of sneakers, that my time here is not being used to its fullest. The color and shadows of real life are less bombastic than one’s dreams. People are less like characters, landscapes less like paintings. I want to drink a gallon of espresso, the 2&euro a pop keeps me from this. To be like a baby in a stroller: soft face with wide open eyes. As long as you are well-fed, well-rested and warm, there really isn’t anything to worry about. There is everything to see and nothing to do. Play spot the English kids: easy! Dressed like they’re from Winnipeg with complexions of clotted cream. _____________________________ I like sitting strategically in picturesque places-- reading, drinking a beer, blowing my nose-- so as to ruin tourist photos. They try to angle their shots around me but it would be so much better framed if I weren’t there. A group of German boys playing soccer lose their ball in the fountain. I hear a short roar of congratulations as one of them has taken off his shoes and tromped into the shallow waters to retrieve it. He is a hero. He kicks a great splash towards his friends. He is the hero of the square, of the Stravinsky fountain, this Saturday. What is with kids wearing Disney hats like they were in a Dell Taco in Anaheim? A McDonald’s cup too? You must be kidding. A lost canard has seated himself below the streaming waters. His fragile organic form looks ridiculous among the painted concrete and iron.
_____________________________ Every journey is one only of self-discovery. Stabbing pains in the arches of my feet as if nails had been hammered into the bone. It’s time to do some serious writing but it’s too sunny outside. The light moves as a drama curtain of clouds opens and shutters. All of the same excuses and mental rumblings are either obscured or amplified. Last night I left my stuffy evening bedroom to walk. I walked north through bar crowds and breakfast odors of steaming crepe stands. It’s always looking and finding, then hesitation. Two boys I’d like to meet approach me. I hang my head until I hear my name and realize I know one of them. Çe va? (I still don’t know quite how to answer this.) Oui, çe va. We chat a bit, talk of impending soirée, then continue on our trajectories. I use being alone as an impediment to action. In my town being alone doesn’t bother me-- but my town doesn’t have 1/100th of the restaurants or bars of this, certainly not arranged in convenient promenade walking paths. But here I hide, the excuse not of solitude but of saving money. This morning predawn I couldn’t sleep. The pastis which had lulled me to coma shocked me up and left me bright eyed. A wicked morning after. The bottle of booze had improved my lonely mood with staggering efficiency. I decided to walk without concern. So what if you get lost? You can’t really get lost in Paris for more than a few yards. So the night has a chilled breeze but is otherwise comfy, growing warmer with every swig. For a little under 10&euro, such calm it brings. I know that some don’t need booze to uplift their mood but I am not one of these. Food gives me a similar joy but has attendant guilt for fear of getting fat. But pastis makes my wandering worthwhile, makes the inside world of chatting warm bodies and candlelit romances inferior to my freewheeling roofless rambling. Without it, I press my pauper’s nose against the glass of boulevard after rue after passage of tasty havens like a Dickens child. In the suburbs of California I like to walk at early dusk to watch the families sitting to dinner (mostly tv.s on). Here I covet foisgras specials. I saw “soup a l’oignon la vraie!” in chalk and made ecstatic mental note of the streets: where Augustin meets Richilieu-- I can remember that. I will return for lunch! O the joy! I decided to walk aimless until I grew tired and then begin the trek home, rather than start my return preemptive to exhaustion. Caution thrown to the icy north wind! I follow a saxophone whose bellow is warped inside a classical arched stone corridor. He stops as I approach but no matter, I’ve found Le Louvre. And the moon. The brightest platinum full moon reveals the purpose of my walking to be through this night and not others. Naturally it is tonight that I should know, not knowing, that this be not a night to stay in. The moon rises, craters form an earth fully inhabited by our imagination. The moon most certainly is populous-- by dreaming selves. The white gold iron works pyramids are before me, to compete with our moon, gold lamps line the square. I laugh at my luck. Against classical stucco, women of marble in greek gowns hold court over outlandish geometry. Water echoes, the saxophone has started back. I decide to give him my last monies, but I don’t. Sitting on the smoothed black marble bordering wide triangles of flat flowing water. It’s me, the bright pyramids, moon basking to the east, spotlight of the tower like a wayward lighthouse swirling across the west, gold lamp light and a duck. Bold canard sitting atop my flowing water tableau. I chuckle sucking back my pastis. A few lost tourists try to take photos-- it won’t work, I tell them to myself, you’re not going to get it. The cold moon rising, the white pyramids risen, the French searchlight turning. The canard paddles his bouyant rump directly to wear I sit. He’s looking at me now. I tell him in a whisper that this is not the best evolutionary trait you’ve picked up mister. Because though I know most of the tourists in Paris whom you approach will toss you a piece of eggy crepe or cheese sandwich, I could just as easily grab you by the neck and eat you. I love and esteem ducks above all animals I’ve decided. One: because I want to be a duck, and two: I love to eat ducks. He paddles away then back against the current of a breeze which whips ripples across the black water landscape. I put up my hood and burr. There’s a man closing up a kitchen of the restaurant; I can see him through a distant flourescent-lit window. On a higher balcony 2 white linen umbrellas rap in the wind, appearing as robed women back lit in gold light. I talked to the canard about his troubles, or rather lack thereof. It seems apparent that all he wants of life is food. He ducks his head into the icy blackness with diamond beads of water slide off his waxen frame. He nibbles his cartoon orange beak into his wing. Do you have fleas? I ask him rhetorically, are there bugs that live upon the water? He approaches very close, I see his rubber flipper steps against the marble bank of our architectural pond. I look straight at him while he twitches his head, left, then right and back. His black bead eyes are void, simple. Only attention and concentration on me. He’s waiting. He nibbles the water in front of him like a begger clasping air in an empty fist. I don’t have anything for you, I tell him truthfully. Imagining for a moment how disappointed he would be with a dram of anise liquor poured into the water before him. I lay down and see Mars spinning. The gold cast stucco palace in its Greco filigree, the pyramid’s apex and moon spinning all in tandem. Turning over and up and out of sight, then back again. I have to piss. Lying down at this state of drunkenness is hereby prohibited. I don’t spose you can piss on Le Louvre can you? See now, here is a moment when friends comes in handy: to watch your back. Girls pissing in public are non too discreet. But I’ve seen 3 men pissing conspicuously in day lit public Paris since I arrived. From what I've read of Henry Miller, pissing in public Paris is part of a cultural legacy. Mostly the pastis drove away that nagging contemptuous loneliness, but I did imagine a few familiar spectres sitting beside le canard’s pyramid pond with me. We could be silent and swig the bottle together and see the same things-- then we could laugh and I could go piss behind a pillar while they stood guard. I laughed at Paris walking between the puzzle piece infinity pools floating under our pyramids, under the moon and the rotating searchlight. Well, of course people relate to Paris as they do an amusement park. This is an amusement park. It is completely and utterly outlandish and ridiculous at every turn. Giant bronze men on horseback watching over circling honking taxis and scooters. Scantily clothed graces pose against bank façades. Rows of encased raw-milk goat cheese ripened and arranged for the taking. I hop a fence to free me from this wonderland (I’ve retained a few of a mischievous childhood’s teachings) and trot against the wind with the intention of pissing in the Seine. I hope there are no couples making out or hoodlums drinking down there and I am blessed by complete desolation. Arriving home unlocking the door with the difficulty of frozen fingers I am elated to have “home”. I imagine that I'm not much of a real traveler, I so love turning my key quietly to escape the treacherous outside world and back to my warm private enclave. _____________________________ As environs change so changes nothing internal. My mind rumbles constant-- concern and too much attention to everything. I exhaust myself. There was a time, in the summer and early fall of Los Angeles, I had time after work where I sat in the loft and read as the sun set. Or I’d take a nap till dark, or sometimes ride straight from the kitchen in stained tank-top out into the hills. I concerned myself too much then too-- but a bit less. I could never fear eating in a nice restaurant, that is for certain. But I worried, about money, or rather the spending thereof. There were summer days though, some early afternoons before the night shift, sitting beside Jon’s soft face on his porch. We’d just watch his American flag flapping as light changed, burnt orange sun descending upon the dry hills. _____________________________ He makes me repeat: “rgheee rghoougsch” Well if you’re so obsessed with getting everyone to pronounce your goddamn language correctly why do you put so many fucking useless letters in your words? Why don’t you spell shit phonetically like the Spaniards. Jerks. _____________________________ coming into translation soon ..... JUSTINE VS. LE LOUVRE (ODYSSEY a DEUX PARTES) 
Objets d'Art dans Chez Monsieur Pierre 
jardin des plantes 
Chopin at l'Eglise de St Julien le Pauvre 
at Cimetière du Montparnasse
TRANSCRIPTION DU NOTES DE LE LOUVRE:
(In the mezzanine before entrance into the exhibitions:) What the fuck are all of these people doing here? What’s the point? I admit to being more interested in sitting upon the ledge drinking an espresso. And why is it that museum ticket window workers can never understand a word I say? Fuckers. This is like the honeymoon of my love affair with Paris? (thus it begins...) (Pensée a le louvre: or Some of What I Learned at Le Louvre:) No wonder the aristocrats got their heads chopped off-- creating blood-chilling beautiful marble monoliths while people starve in the streets. How do you move these? Death masks are terrifying, the figures lying in prayer feel too real to approach, standing beside them is genuinely scary. Napoleon’s Salon! A GAW ! What a legacy to inherit ?! How to be jaded to this? If there be anything in the world more luxurious and extravagant than Napoleon III’s appartements, I am not ready to see it. No way the Roman’s could compare, impossible to imagine. inconceivable. The Tapestry of the Hunts of Maximilian: Flemish weavers. The first tapestry depicts a scene of Brussels in which the precise date has been backdated by the image of the church in the background. Knowing the date of its construction, judged against its semblance in the tapestry, the year of production can be marked between 1531-1533. Tiny black berries and gold shimmering threads woven through the shadows of leaves against the fur of a buck whose antlers intertwine with bell flowers and thorny vines. They are absolutely perfect. Not a single mistaken stitch. In 1533 a contract specifies that the tapestry must be sent to Constantinople to “Seigneur Turc” namely Suleyman the Magnificent. “seven to eight warp thread per centimeter”. __ Tchoga Zanbil, règne du roi Untash-Naprishi XIV A tiny stone no bigger than a playing card marks the dynasties of kings in little tack marks. Forgotten kings. Historians- philologists. How many years of study is required to decipher that this forgettable piece of sand stone marks the names of 2 dozen kings? Inscriptions from the époque of king Shilhak Inshuishinak: Everything from our world will disappear and be forgotten. People see with their cameras not eyes and hearts. A round nob of stone inscribed with marks is translated (1140BC): “ O Inshusinak, Seigneur de l’Acropole! Je suis Shilhak-Inshusinak, fils de Shutruk-Nahhunte, l’agrandisseur du royaunne, le souvrain d’Elam et de Suisane. Pour ma vie, la vie de Nahhunte-utu, mon éspouse chérie, jai fabriqué les pommeaux et les statuettes en terre émaillée et je las ai déposés à tes pieds.” 3 of these each saying more or less the same. Last night a young man with gilded teeth stood spitting rhymes at me while I polished off my whiskey. All of his teeth, gold.
______ Very slowly is the only possible way to move. Except over the marble steps through darkened corridors, there you SLIDE. You slip from the residual gravel stuck to your shoes and skate along the granite like ice. The Medio-Elamite Period, Iran, 14th-12th Century BC. Capitals Anzen and Susa “The bronze model of the sit shamshi illustrates a religious ceremony at sunrise. Two naked priests face each other, the one pouring water onto the outstretched hands of the other, in the center of an esplanade, wherein are grouped sacred copses and pools, a receptacle of lustral water, and various stelae. The setting is dominated by two tiered constructions. The great period of Susa came to a close at the end of the 12th century BC. The city fell under the might of Babylon and was eclipsed for several centuries.” “estamos en Iran chicas” (overheard passerby) The revolution will not be televised. You should not take pictures it’s bad for you. I wish we could demand absolute silence in Le Louvre. No speaking in the exhibits. None. The Phoenicians look Greek. (Very Greek, then French, still Greek) I’m holding a little vigil for myself in this makeshift tomb. No one says you can’t sit on the floor. This is very precious. Very precious. How privileged! To sit in the presence of a king’s tomb! How many people in history are allowed this right?? For what? 10 bucks? This is priceless, absolutely priceless. Sarcophagus of Eshmunazar II, roi du Sidon
(emotional aesthetic breakdown in Egypt; run out or Louvre teary-eyed and heart broken; up the staircase of the grand glass pyramid, out into fresh air, across the cobblestone to a piece of quiche and a glass of rosé, and a coffee.) (Le Louvre shall not defeat me. Grounded, having breathed, I return...) Two little kids sitting on the floor with an animatronic dog squeaking with glowing eyes. Chirping as it hops around the floor. The parents are smiling, reviewing their photos on a digital camera. People fucking eating chocolate chip cookies. Bored and frustrated, or an attempted appreciative. The fact that you don’t even put your camera to your face. You can tell people’s nationality by the color of the maps they carry. Yellow is Spanish, Red Japanese, Green is Italian. It’s much safer here than among the sarcophagi. People don’t even know magic when they see it. No respect. A real mummy. Maybe if I had gotten that hug that I needed so bad after trying to plug my ears in the presence of hieroglyphs-- but no, it was a mummy. The bandages were wrapped meticulous around each finger. You could see the shape of his ear. It was complete. And real. The cloth covering his face was wrapped in concentric layers forming a woven pattern. _______ Why are you posing with a statue? Why? Why are you forcing your friend to photograph you in front of a marble bathtub? Why are you eating a FUCKING CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE among Roman marble? There is absolutely no reason I can see to bring children here. There should be an age limit: no one under 45 allowed. Chinese man asked me for direction like being in an airport. They are grinding rocks outside in the courtyard. The floor rumbles. This could be the end of the world. Imagine a massive earthquake while you’re crowded by all these people in Le Louvre. This all started because I wanted to tell you about the heraldry wrapped around the column tops. A vicious owl grasps a rabbit in its talons. Four of them identical all around, I’m sitting below them now. The one across from me is bears, one has rams-- big horned rams posed beside cactus and pine cones. Why cactus? Ah, maybe they share being spiked? Ram horns, a sword, cactus branch and pine boughs. SALLE DU MANÈGE ______ It was all going ok until the Egyptian stuff. I had needed a break after Shilak-Inshushinak, but no... then they hit me with the big guns. I will say this: SACRED PROFANE
The sacred and the profane. _____
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Snagged the last train out of dodge (Paris, Gare de Lyon) for Marseille. There for a week and with luck the gods of land transportation see fit to bring me back to Paris next weekend. Got a room in Montmartre at Blanche that is lovely and too expensive (cheap by vacation standards, expensive by trying-to-live-in-the-city standards). My Parisian friends now read my blog so we have to stop whispering about them behind their backs. Sunny days on the steep patchy grass of Montmartre, tanning effectively; reading Cortázar and laughing out loud with glee in public places; drinking my way through the Languedoc; sunset Campari on Quincampoix; days on the stoop at internationally acclaimed art space, TPTP; life-affirming tasty late night dinner at humble accommodating Polish restaurant with 7 of my now-closest friends; during an impromptu outing last night drank mint tea and talked shit about Althusser, recited some Ginsberg to a young man who wanted to hear American poetry (ha! he asked the right girl no?), he countered with some Cervantes and Baudelaire and finished with an uproarious if uncalled-for round of Simon & Garfunkel.
Off to a semblance of North Africa! Wish me luck!
photos stolen from Philip, none of which make me look cute:
Marseille Aw too bad I had to spend all day yesterday on a boat from Marseille to Cassis watching the passing white cliffs and lapping crystal blue water. I got this intolerable tan I'll have to hide from my paler intellectual friends in the North. Oh well, off to the beaches on Bandol. yawn.
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Lyon is the greatest city in the world. Gorged on the last oysters and bulots of the season with my new friends atop the plateau de la Croix-Rousse, then down the cobblestoned hill for iced espresso and a boule of honey-pinenut glacèe on the sunny terrace of a cafe run by a smily Mexican man and his french wife. Stop by the Roman ruins on the way back to the flat, share stories of mind-shattering Louvre moments and laugh. They plan to see Iggy Pop perform this summer at the adjacent Gallo-romain amphitheatre, Lou Reed and David Bowie were last year. Van leads me to la rue de Soyeux to tell me about the series of secret tunnels that cut within these blocks of flats, used first by the silk traders and later served to hide resistance fighters during the German occupation. We pass the tree lined gravel park where he says they often play petanque and drink pastis. My kind of sports are those which facilitate conversation and can be performed with a drink in one's hand. This is agreed. For tonight I'm planning to make the morels with white asparagus I picked up at the open air market to drink with the Gevry-Chambertin Van had grabbed from his cave last night but which we decided not to open, after that '02 Côte-Rôtie it just wouldn't have be right. Just yer average sunday in Lyon. "It is best not to talk to French people about vacation, it will just make you sad," Frederic remarked about the difficulties of planning where to go during all those 9 weeks of vacation they get each year. Pascaline reminds to be speak French while buttering her brown bread which I do not so effectively in stuttering stops. Yesterday afternoon I swam in the brisk Rhône near a town called Miribel with several gigantic white swans and only 3 brave bathing adolescents. The others tanned upon the grass, we built a little barbecue then with it roasted merguez, peppers and sardines. A mountain of baguettes piled upon the picnic table, worked out to be about 3 per person. The Lyonnais couch surfers wrapped bananas and chocolate in foil to place into the hot coals, we ate them in the shade of the lime green canopy of leaves. Tiny white daises populate the entire expanse of the grass and you have to squish them to get around. My new friend Ankit has made it to Nice from Punjab via 8 months in Helsinki. He and I found the Roman ruins by chance at sunset after climbing sprightly up to the top of the Fourvière. Sometimes it's great to be 24 years old. Now the others are taking late afternoon siestas, I'm going to catch some more sunlight and maybe conjure some semblance of an appetite before starting on tonight's meal. Maybe I'll check out that record store that I passed on Rue du Beouf. Back to Paris tomorrow, to join my new flatmates in Montmartre at Blanche. The prospect of returning to Paris feels as if I'm leaving the country-- going back to a city in another world. I suppose there will be some excellent sunny days on the stoop at TPTP to look forward to. Kristijan (whose name I have previously misspelled) has a birthday picnic in the works for next weekend. I do miss the boys at La Note Rouge, I'm bringing them a geeky bottle of Rolle I picked up on my rainy day at the Côtes-du-Provence winery that lies below Sainte-Victoire (a big mesa they call a mountain). The white is sadly less than 5% of their overall production, the vigneron told me chatting beside massive stainless steel fermenting tanks, which is too bad because it's really tasty and weird. If I were not so content right now, I might be more disturbed by my current profound conflict about the concept of home.
Stayed in an excellent cute room on Rue Muller for a few sunny days before heading out to Lyon last week.
light breakfast for 3 young women in Lyon 
traboules
Erin and I are both cooks from California with the same skin tone and haircut (the vacation phase of post-very short hair from working in kitchens look). We met for the first time while being hosted in Lyon. 
At a party in Lyon, 3 people are sure to bring pate en croute, there is an expected ratio of 1:1 bottle of wine to guest and 3:1 baguette to guest (in Paris these fractions are inverted).
Paris: Anne and I prepared for a gallery opening at TPTP.
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+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Mid May, last evening in Paris:The recently clear baking hot skies have gone from opaque to tropical gray today. We are at a balmy 25º (I apologize I have forgotten fahrenheit) but without that omnipotent soleil this evening is unusually relaxed. The weekend had me at my wits' ends. Lundi was a holiday here, the second this month, though no French person can muster enough recollection of Catholic school to explain to me the details. Something about Jesus being resurrected or his returning to earth, anyway the banks are closed. The long weekend brought the city an insufferable mass of tourists French and otherwise, broiling under unscrupulous California-esque skies. Sunday I trekked to the Champs Elysees as a trusted girlfriend had mentioned something about 'artist, young farmer, anarchist, green space take-over'-- certainly my kind of bag. Braving against my best judgement (which tells me to ALWAYS and FOREVER avoid the Champs Elysees) I walked southeast from my home in Montmartre to check it out. Wall-to-wall doesn't begin to describe it. The four-oh-five at 3:45pm on a Wednesday afternoon going south from the 101 to Long Beach approaches an understanding, but this is sweaty humans together with no intermediating chrome and rubber. There is more to say than this but for now I'll say the last 5 days have caused me to be thoroughly exhausted, disgusted and finished with this city. Almost, dare I say, ready to return to the reliably familiar States. But at the moment the sky is forgiving, and the crowds have returned to their RER's for the suburbs or to their hotels rooms to watch tv. It is a rare night when the mood of the city corresponds perfectly with your own. The battle pauses for a truce. Perhaps Paris is as frustrated with her crowds as I am. Tonight she's given me some breathing room. Now just to figure what to do with it. n'est pas le fin...
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. . argentina journals--> Justine Langston <-- |
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