Holed up in a little room with a toilet overlooking Avenue de Châtillon. The girl who's place it is, Kelsey, is a friend of a girl I met yesterday whilst I was humping around Paris with two bags - a backpack and a huge Samsonite shoulder bag that I swung in front of me to keep balanced - packed full and hanging heavy on my shoulders without any idea of where I was to sleep that night. I had no phone that worked. Blaring Bo Diddley in my earphones is the only comfort that came from my iPhone that day, and it was soon losing it's luster. I couldn't find any internet, save Starbucks, and it kicks you off after thirty minutes. A fact unbeknownst to me. They give you a card with a login and a password and I'd been to tired to read, much less look at anything else. It was all in French anyways. So the thirty minutes in Starbucks was wasted out of stupidity, and I left not knowing any more about my immediate future than when I'd arrived. I needed to eat something cheap, and there was none of that to be had at Starbucks Paris on Rue St. Germaine. Just the tall tea to get wi-fi was almost three euros. Non, I must find a doner place stat. Or hell, I just might loose it. But I keep walking and walking, and it's only nice cafes and expensive boutiques and the little captain at the helm in my head's groaning, "Fuuuck." Bo keeps me up though, even though I feel each tap of the bag to the beat dig into my shoulders. Worth it, I think. I like a rhythm in my bones. But my strengths fading fast. And there's this saturating disparity growing at the very core of me, clinging to my bones like a winter night's chill.
Something queer catches my eye in a little yellow, wood-framed shop as I pass. I almost bowl right by it, but I step back. There's no one inside, save the two girls behind the counter, and it looks like they're speaking English, slow lips, and they shift their weight American. And when I pull the buds out of my ears, they are speaking American. I flutter through the threshold in a daze, near delirium, and it's angels singing to my soul. "American?" "Yup," one of them says, and I smile with relief. I miss bubbly American girls. "Whereabouts?" I ask. "Well, I'm from Iowa," says the one with glasses. "And I'm from Seattle."
They're both so pretty "That's awesome. Hey, you's all wouldn't know a cheap doner place around here, would you?" "There's one right next door, actually," Iowa laughs, smiling. Ha. I look into the wall towards where she's pointing like an idiot. "Ah, well all right-y then, thank you kindly." I wanted to say more and sit and small talk in English, but tummy was a lion now, a Leo, and he was in control. So I pop out and around and sure enough, it's a doner cafe. I feel silly for even asking now, but who cares. I found it, and I throw my bags off.
"Bonjour. Un, uhmm, doner sil vous plait?" It's not much of a struggle through the rest of the order, I'm not really paying attention though. All I see is the pita in his hand, and as he moves from one sauce to the next, over onions and lettuce, I just keep nodding, "Oui, merci." There's not much to be said about the next couple minutes, other than it was a glaze-eyed feasting on doner and French fries, each bite a savory explosion on the tongue, each swallow slid into that lurch in my gut that had been howling for hours. The lion had his pacifier. And my stomach stretched and held that heavy meal to content, cradling my famishment with that deep, mystic doner-lullaby. Now to more pressing matters. The hours have sunk into the late afternoon, and tonight, still, I am homeless. And phone-less. And all by myself.
But, ah, a thought. A hope, rather. Maybe I'm not all alone in this rut. I take my bags back up and, once again, find myself in that yellow shack shop next door with all the American shit lining the walls; The Real McCoy's. "D'ya get that doner you were looking for?" "Oh, did I. I ate so much doner. You don't even know." I smile. Iowa's alone behind the counter now, and she smiles back. "So this is going to sound a bit desperate, but you wouldn't happen to know anyone able and perhaps willing to put up a worn, weary traveling Californian for the night, would you?" And I give her my spiel about being between places to stay at the moment and without a phone. A desperate hope's quivering in my voice, and I can see she's flushed at the question, but there's a look of excitement in her eyes, and I grasp for it with mine. She perks up, "Well, I don't have any room at my place, or else I totally would. But let me call some friends, I'm sure there's someone." What a darling. Such an angel, she is. I'm already so much in love with her. "Wanna come back in an hour? I may have some news for then." She says it all with the most charming smile. "Wow, thank you so much. Yeah, I'll just be wandering around these parts anyways." That's the best I've got. All I have to say back to my heroine in the Paris afternoon. That and my silly, slack face of relief. As I turn to leave, I turn back, "And what's your name by the way?" With girls so adorable, I always savor every detail. She looks down with a grin, then back up at me, and there's a warmth from home in her look as she says, "Carly. My name's Carly." "Thank you, Carly."
An hour to kill. I'll just romp around the block, I suppose. Maybe find someplace to sit for a bit, just not right here. The bags are still heavy, still cutting their grooves in my shoulders. But there's a new spring in my step. A new hope that keeps me on my toes. Eager. And Bo Diddley's right there next to me ramblin' on. There's a surf shop (yeah, in Paris, go figure) on Rue de Grenelle, and when I realize what it is, I almost laugh out loud and go inside. It's a small store-front, and I only notice it because of the board-rack inside near the door. A leathery, old French dude is in the back helping woman put together a skateboard for her young son, who's just jumping up and down beside her, so excited about everything that's happening. So I put my bags down and sit down in a little French chair and crack open a copy of Waveriders: A Guide to Europe I see lying around, and try to take myself away for a few moments. It's not hard. Especially with lots of pictures. Mundaka. Biarritz. Hossegor. Portugal. Morrocco. Italy. Israel. I didn't even know they got waves in Israel, but apparently they do, and the surf looks fun in the pictures. I miss the feeling already. After the woman leaves with her son and his new skateboard, old leather-face comes over to talk to me. I tell him I work in a surf shop in Los Angeles. And we dive into that casual shop talk, like back at the Boarding House. He's like one of those old, regulars that'll come into the shop and chat your face off with that far-off nautical look in his eyes. Except he was French. His English was all right though, definitely better than my French.
When I go back to the Real McCoy's, Carly has good news. "So my friend said you can stay at her place for a night or two. Her name's Kelsey." She explains that I'm to meet her at the Starbucks right by the Alesia metro stop. And just when I thought I'd said, "au revoir" to the 14th for good. "Now let me show you how to get there," and Carly pulls out a map. "I actually just came from there," I chuckle. "Oh, well okay then. Good luck!" I can't thank her enough, Carly, my guardian angel.
I meet Kelsey and her French boyfriend, Julien (he's a nuclear physicists, no big), at Starbucks, and they walk me over to her place, maybe six blocks from Marie's. It's just a room on the second floor with a bed and a desk and a toilet. The kitchen is down the hall, and the shower's upstairs. Like American dorm living, only with no internet. It's quaint and simple, but it's nice. There's a balcony with big windows, but I can't smoke inside. Not a problem. She leaves me the key and gives me an old extra phone that will receive calls and texts, but won't dial out. At least people can reach me now. Kelsey tells me she'll just stay with the Frenchman the next two days, so the place was all mine. Two days, with nothing to do but eat and write and drink red wine. And play loud music. And roll spliffs and smoke them as I walk around the big city blocks. It's everything I wanted. Everything I needed. How such hospitality finds its way across my path is beyond me, I'm ever thankful.
It's a hell of a life, this path I've put myself on. But right now I'm only sitting at a desk, looking out over Avenue de Châtillon, stretching and flexing my fingers because they're tired of typing. I need a break. Time for another go around the block, I think. And a scarf, it's cold out. And a lighter and a spliff. Why not? I want to hear the wind nipping at the trees by the tracks and whipping up the fallen leaves. I want that tunnel echo of the concrete canyon streets. That grit, city smell of Paris sucked deep into my lungs so that I never forget.
