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last dispatch from paris, or the most expensive drink ever

So I found this on my laptop. I think I nursed a bottle of wine to sleep that night on top of all the drinks at an amazing dinner, and of course, this bar. Things must've gotten foggy. I thought I posted it. Turns out I wrote it in Word:

I always thought that New Yorkers paid way too much for their drinks. Well, after tonight I can say that they have nothing on Paris. After having an amazing meal, which also didn’t come cheaply, but which we were prepared for, L and M wanted to go the Ritz to have a drink. I wasn’t super interested at first and sort of reluctantly went along, but once there I noticed they had a room called Bar Hemmingway. Okay, I could deal with that.

The bartender told me that I needed a stiff man-sized drink and proceeded to pour me a raspberry vodka. It was very strong and quite tasty, but it did have that girly pink glow to it. It went down well though, and if I hadn’t helped L finish a little of her drink, I probably would have ordered another one. “One drink? Most people have sixteen or seventeen here…you start over there and have five or six, and then you move over here.” They just about sold me, but L shot me a nasty look when she saw that I was thinking about it.

So I turned it down. We had to catch the Metro before it closed for the night. It was already nearly midnight. I gave the universal “check please” sign and I, being the gentleman and all, was presented the check. 75 euros for three drinks, one of which was non-alcoholic. My raspberry vodka alone was 28 euros. Yeouch. That amount would get me through some entire days in Spain. Oh well, I drank where Hemmingway probably drank. I got to see his guns, numerous photos and a couple old typewriters. It seemed like a nice enough way to bid farewell to this city. Although I really should be writing about that dinner. But that takes some perspective and metal clarity, and I guess I’m still feeling the effects of that cocktail. Goodbye Paris.

a mad crush

PJ Harvey was amazing at Summercase in Barcelona on 7/13/07. She played solo guitar and piano and dusted off some classics as well as some brand new songs.

maybe Henry Miller fell down these stairs

I saw Michael Moore’s new movie before I came to Paris. Sicko is a documentary about the health care industry in the United States. It’s pretty eye opening. Not that we didn’t already know that things were out of control, but this film had a nice way of beating you over the head with the sad fact that getting sick in America can cost you your financial life.

Michael Moore likes to show extremes. We already know that Canada has a far superior health care system. Most of us point to it as an example of what we should strive for. But Moore goes beyond Canada and shows us France, where if you are working and have children somebody will come over to your house and do your laundry for you. Paying a copay? Wondering if a drug is covered or not? Forget about it. You have more important things to worry about. Like how you’re going to spend that 5 week summer holiday.

Having questionable health insurance myself, I was encouraged by Michael Moore’s movie. I didn’t need that traveler’s insurance. France would take care of me. Well today I almost put it to the test.

I’m in a restaurant. A place where Hemingway and Henry Miller and F. Scott Fitzgerald would frequent at different times. I cozied myself into a booth, and even got out my moleskin notebook in case inspiration striked, and ordered up a French Onion soup and a large carafe of wine, enough for at least two glasses. I listen in to the conversation taking place at the table next to me, I mean, it is in English after all, and that is a rare thing by this point. I gather that some of them are Italian, and the woman next to me is Spanish. They have come together on some sort of trip, but I can’t tell who is with who and where exactly they are going. But it’s interesting listening. I’m so close to them that at times I feel like it’s rude not to introduce myself, or that maybe they’ll tell me to pull up a chair. Except I’m sort of already there.

In order to get into my table the hostess had to pull out the table. After I was done with my meal I waited awkwardly for the waiter or the hostess to come back and move the table for me so I could get out. The space was super tiny, and I thought I would disrupt anyone next to me if I moved the table and tried to get out myself. I couldn’t squeeze through the narrow gap between tables without the risk of sweeping my fellow diner’s meal right off the table with my backpack or umbrella, or even just my ass. The space was tiny.

The waiter comes and lets me out. I gather up my stuff and make my way toward the door. Except it’s not the door. It’s the stairs. But I don’t realize this. To me it just seems like I’m stepping into a dark revolving door that will take me outside, and it takes a few moments to fully comprehend that I’m falling head-first down the spriral staircase that leads to the basement where the bathrooms are.

It truly was in slow motion. And it really did feel like I was falling into the abyss. I know how people must feel if they fall into an empty elevator shaft. But at the same time your senses are awakened. Adrenaline kicks in. I felt every single step with my hands and reacted accordingly. Desperately trying to stop my body from catapulting all the way down the marble stairs.

I stop. My right arm reaches out and extends itself to a stair three or four steps away from me. The waiter stretches his arm out to me, and he goes for that right arm. But I know that if I let go of that, I will fall all the way down to the bottom. And who knows what I might find there.

So I reach up with my left arm, and the waiter pulls me up, apologizing profusely in French. Of course, this is what I’d like to believe. He could be saying “another stupid American falling down the stairs, I can’t believe you clumsy fucks” or “that’s what you get for coming into this restaurant and only ordering the French Onion soup, who do you think you are, Henry Miller?”

I get to the top of the stairs and the manager is there. Or at least a better dressed version of my waiter. Again, apologies in French and a whole lot of “are you all right’s?” which seem to translate well in any language. I was fine, I suppose. I scratched my knuckles a bit and hit my head, but I didn’t do any major harm. Mostly I just wanted to get the hell out of there. “Look at that stupid American. He drinks two glasses of wine and falls down the stairs.”

But hey, when the manager asked if I was all right and I said yes it wasn’t because I was worried about the hospital bill. No, for a split second I thought that a nice morphine drip in a French hospital with little French nurses and unlimited hospitality on the French dime might be exactly what this boy needed.

Then I went down the stairs, of my own volition this time. Green line. Metro stop. On my way to see Jim Morrison’s grave with a headache not unlike the numerous wine hangovers he surely endured.

This ain't no Amsterdam

I didn't feel an enormous energy of feeling of place when I stepped off the train in Paris. I stood in line for the taxi after first being offered one for 40 euros, and began my short journey to my hotel. Big white French buildings. Lots of them. The kind that influenced much of the architecture in New Orleans. I realized I was in a big cosmopolitan city, and it was very unlike Amsterdam.

Just when I started to learn my way around Amsterdam and catch up on sleep, I was out the door on my way to Paris. Once here, I suddenly longed for the comforts of that city. It was active with plenty to do, but it was also very quaint. I loved my room. The bed was insanely comfortable, and I had started to frequent a coffee shop. I was in my groove.

Now, I must adapt in a number of ways. I can't wander around aimlessly and still find my way back quite the same way I could in Amsterdam. And now, my decisions often depend on two other people. I'm with M and L. I've been friends with L for years. L invited M along after I had committed, and I met her briefly when we began to book hotel rooms and travels between countries. So far so good, but I told L last night that I would probably be doing a lot more stuff on my own now that I've acquainted myself a bit.

I'm finding that when I'm on my own this city seems much more accessible. I'm able to get by and do stuff even with severely limited French. Most people know some English. But when I'm with the group L will speak in French and translate for me, but there's usually some laughing and uncomfortable moments that remind me of Elaine from Seinfeld, when she's in the Asian Nail Salon and she's convinced they are all talking about her.

I just found this cybercafe. It's the first I've seen. But now that I know my way around, my posts should be a little more regular.

I'll have to consult my tour book again for exact names, but among the places I've seen are Notre Dame and the gardens around the Lovre. Tons of walking around yesterday. Last night was really nice though....L and I took it easy and sipped a lot of wine while we explored new areas. M was jet lagged. She'd just met up with us that day and needed to get some sleep.

It's 1:21pm. Time to get some lunch. Big lunch. I'm really hungry and ready for more than croissants and cheese.

Random Paris Images- Days 1/2

Vices

Amsterdam Coffee Relapse

I gave up coffee three weeks ago. Maybe four. Sleeping was becoming a nightmare and something had to give. Problem was I tried a bunch of things at the same time that I gave up coffee. But I’m sleeping better so I continue to avoid it. Until now, that is.

I landed in Amsterdam this morning at 5:30 am. If you take the time difference into consideration, I pretty much landed at the time that I would normally be going to bed. I didn’t sleep on the plane at all either. I couldn’t if I tried. Even listening to music was difficult in the tiny little nook I occupied. I had one of those seats that’s right up against the wall and I couldn’t recline. But this didn’t prevent the person in front of me from leaning back all the way the entire time. The only thing that seemed to work for me was watching movies. So I watched two. Coming To America because I’m sort of on an Eddie Murphy kick, and Marie Antonette, because, well, I’m going to Paris.

So after landing I quickly figured out the train and got to Central Station. Then I walked around for what seemed like forever trying to find my room. When I found it the sign said that they were not open until 9. This was around 7. Then it started to rain. No problem, I thought, I’ll just find a coffee shop and surf the internet and kill a couple hours. Wrong. I could grab a croissant and eat it in the rain. That was about it. I couldn’t find a place to kill two hours no matter how many streets I walked down.

Then I met Anthony. I didn’t trust him at first. “Hey, are you an American?” Like I didn’t have tourist stamped on my forehead as I wheeled my suitcase down the brick streets- probably waking everyone up with sound. Anthony’s shtick is to give people tours. I needed someone to point me in the right direction badly. So I started walking with him. He’d go on and on about how I had to take a picture of this or that, and I think he described the red light district as being “like a football field, four canals and four blocks” about ten times. He gave me the lowdown on weed, even though I said I wasn’t going to smoke any, and he told me where the best girls were if I wanted to go window shopping later on. But best of all, he pointed me to a coffee shop. Something I desperately needed more than anything. And what was this coffee shop that I had missed during my three hours of walking around? McDonalds. That’s right. A real fucking tourist. But I didn’t care. Anthony kept going on and on how I needed a guy like him to show me around and how he lived in the states for 21 years, but I’ve never had coffee this good from a McDonalds. It came out of an espresso machine and it was great. Of course the finally being able to sit down might have had something to do with it.

Gradually Anthony’s stories became a little more outrageous. He served time for armed robbery in 1982….then something else happened that got him deported from the US. I didn’t want to know too much. But he seemed like a pretty decent guy. I gave him 7 Euros…he’s unemployed and this is how he makes his money. It was totally worth it for pointing me in the direction of the coffee alone.

But now I’m checked into my room. Minneapolis time is 3:28am. But it’s 10:28 here. I’d love to take a little nap. Let’s hope the tiredness can override the coffee.