Fall Paris: Erin

But first, a kebab.  I'm fuckin' starving.  The closest doner place is closed though, so I stomp back up the hill towards Sacre Coeur, back up the road we came because I know we passed one on the way down.  I remember looking in with longing eyes as we shuffled by.  I don't think the girls realized how far the opera house was when they threw all their eggs into frat boy's basket and romped off to this mystical crepe place.  Good luck, ladies.  Me, I got some fresh euros in my wallet because I need some weed, but what's more pressing is this grumbling tummy of mine.

"Je voudrais un hamburger du poulet et des frites sil vous plait," I say.  The motherfucker's only 3,50.  It's a no-brainer.

"Sauce?" asked the middle eastern fellow behind the counter.

"Uhm, ouai, spicy."  and he spices it up.  He takes his time, and I take a piss in the wash closet and text Guive for the weed.  He tells me to meet him at the University cafe in two hours.  So I wolf down my hamburger and fries and hop on the closest metro, Trinite d'Estienne d'Orves, some monstrous name of a metro station, and start trekking south.

It's an hour and a half ride.  I wish I'd brought my journal with me, mais non, I am journal-less.  With nothing but an iPod to keep me company.  Truthfully, she's not a bad companion.  I listen to her, and what's more, I like listening to her.  She's always saying something I want to hear.  She whsipers gentle every Cotton Jones song I know.  Every LCD track.  Every Cat Power croon.  Racing away on the lonely underground.   When the train finally comes out and takes a high rail, the sun's in it's setting minutes and pink orange is splashed on the scattered clouds.  City is turning to red-roofed suburbs before my eyes as the sky darkens.  Twlight seems to linger just long enough to light my walk from the last stop to the school grounds.  It's just too cold to sit outside, and they're no chairs inside so I pop up onto a long table by the wall and sit cross-legged and wait.  Guivre should be here any minute. 

But he's not.  After thirty miuntes I call him, and he tells me he's running a little late.  "Maybe thirty more minutes," he says.  Thirty minutes?  Fuck.  Well, it's not like there's anything else I can do.  Nothing else to do but wait.  I'm going to be late for Erin's showing, but that's none of my fault so I can't really feel bad about it.  I feel badf about waiting though.  I hate waiting.  It leaves the mind guessing at what could've been with this wasted time.  I wonder if there'll be any more wine left when I get back to the Seventh.  Will the cheese be gone?  Are all the crackers left going to be smashes and forlorn?  Fuck waiting.  But what else am I going to do.  I play silly games on my iPhone.  I pace.  I walk around outside with my hands deep in my pockets because the night air is absolutely frigid, and before long it starts drizzling.  Where's Guivre.  I almost don't want this weed anymore.  It's almost not worth it.  Almost.  Besides I've come this far, and I've only seen futility in giving up.  Quitting's for the weak.  I think my father told me that.  "If I'd a wanted to raised quitters, I'd a tried a lot less," he'd say when I'd thought the going got tough.  Looking back, the circumstances were always so pithy.  But when you're a little kid, the pithy things seem so damned important.  It's silly.  And so, I think, is this frustration brewing.  I have to wait, so what.  Roll, roll, roll with the punches.  "It keeps you pretty," I say to myself.  Adaptation.  It's the root of true charm.  It keeps me intriguing, and at the same time constantly intrigued.  And that's worth a smile.

[stop]

I soak in the surroundings, trying to catch the minutest details.  Try as I might, I can't understand a lick of what's being said by the healthy mix of college-aged French youth in the room.  Must be strange to see, if anyone even notices the strange quiet kid set on the table with what I imagine is a look of rapt focus on his face, pretending to fiddle on his phone, but in reality, just desperately trying to make out what the hell's going on around him.  I probably look like some woeful degenerate wallflower without any thought or interest in social interaction.  It's sad to say in my head because the yearnings burning around inside are only the opposite.  All I want is to talk to everyone, to the magnificently beautiful women that grace this campus, speaking their fast French.  It's unintentionally alluring, and like watching foreign films without the subtitles on it's just a sequence of expressions.  But one mustn't stare so I watch with a sideways glance that's always shifting and unfocused whenever I look up.  I catch a word here and there on occasion.  Some phrase I remember, half a sentence.  Mostly though it's just sounds like pretty birds singing to each other.  Some lovely song that sounds so beautiful, but means nothing to someone who doensn't speak bird.  I could listen to it all day.  But my legs are getting antsy, and the night outside's getting cold now as I go for a circular stroll.  The sky starts drizzling, and still no Guivre.  I call him, and he doesn't pick up.

In five minutes he calls.  "I am so sorry, bro.  I got caught up with some other business, you know?"

"No worries, mate."  I try to hide the exasperation in my voice, it's been almost two hours.  "How much longer you think?"

"I will be there in ten minutes, I promise you." 

"Cool, see you then."  Ten minutes, huh?  I tell myself it's for real this time.  And I laugh at myself a little for all the ridiculousness I've put myself through just for a measly little sack of weed.

You fucking fiend.

Eh, it is what it is.  I enjoy a good spliff.  The satiation of it.  The deep breath, then the calm nerves.  It's a feeling well worth it in my mind.  Especially when one's all alone in a tough city.  And trust me, Paris is a tough city when you're all alone and your French is shittier than the food at the shittiest Chinois (there's definitely some questionable ones).

[stop]

How did I get here?  These situations always seem to so horribly sneak up on me.  Rachel was here a second ago it felt like, but she isn't here now.  We're all shit-housed.  Wasted.  I vaguely remember her saying something about walking back to her place.  It's honestly all a haze haze though.  A spinning haze that stinks of spliffs and red wine and cigarettes.  The hour's late.  It has to be.  It certainly feels like it.  My eyes are heavy, but they're afraid to close for fear of everything taking a tilt towards nausea in the dark.  So I blink quick, and I take my breaths with a deep inhale.

Lili and Victor are busy making eyes at each other on the bed, whispering with their faces coming just close enough so as not to touch.  She's a perpetual romantic, that girl.  She looks most alive, she smiles the most, in the throws of some new romance.  She thrives off the feeling and, fortunately for her (and unfortunately for some) she carries herself with the manner that every man wants.  Or should I say more specifically that any man can't help but want, which is strange to see because it's so discreet.  She's a hopeless flirt, a quick talker and a free spirit with a curious eye that always wanders and is infinitely intrigued.  She holds a gaze with rapt focus, and since high school has developed not unlike myself from another perspective.  She comes by men quite easily and she's only gotten better at it.  But such a blessing is so cursed sometimes.  She sees a pretty portrait and if she can, she must have it, which doesn't take much on her part.  This breeds sticklers, I know that too well.  A pretty picture come unraveled often times when one gets close enough to see the details.  They're demystifying most times, especially to a seasoned eye.  The one exception is a true masterpiece.

Quote of the Day: My Dad Is Real

“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.” “Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit. “Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.” “Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” he asked, “or bit by bit?” “It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

~from The Velveteen Rabbit

Growl a Little

In the spring of 2010 the Growlers were touring up the California coast and they stopped for a spell in the small surf town of Santa Cruz, just an hour south of the City and the Bay.

"The Growlers?"

"They're a couple of friends of mine from high school," Grant said.  "And they're good.  And crazy."

"I like crazy."  Which I do.  A lot of good things come from crazy people.  Like art and words and especially music.

Grant could hear the intrigue in my tone, and he was excited. "Good!  Because they're playing tonight at the Crepe Cafe, and then they're comin' over after and shit's gonna get weird."

To say the least, it got weird.  It got weird walking to Crepe Cafe.  We parked down the street that dead-ends at the Rio and delighted in pulls from a handle of whiskey and shotgunned cans of Coors Original because hell, why pay for drinks at the bar when you can drink  your face off right before.  That was Santa Cruz.  And some of us were definitely strolling on a spliff high, which makes strolling all the better.  But before we could get to strolling an old fucked-up van pulled up and parked right in front of us.  It was a jolting, sputtering jalopy of a ride and out came stumbling a tattered-rag, crazy-eyed band of psycho-lookers and they was carrying instruments, and even though they were swaying it looked to me that they knew how to use them.  Like seasoned vets they were.

Grant greeted them with the handle of Jameson.  "What's up, mutha-fuckas."  He said it slyly with a hunch and a devilish grin and the boys mirrored his moves and swigged heartily with raucous laughter and we all walked in varying degrees down Soquel to the Crepe Cafe.

The Crepe Cafe is this not so big bar space in the middle of Santa Cruz, a little south of downtown.  The drinks are good and cheap and so it fills up easy with a rowdy crowd of mountain men set on the sea.  Some of these men and their fair-skinned lassies were our friends and we smash into them with hugs and familiar ways while the band sets up.  Grant talks to his friend who's the guitarist or bassist or whatever; all I know is that the front man's (quite recently by the look and smell of it) bleached his hair, and the drummer's face is painted with diamonds and stripes of color, and while they set up they laugh and swill beers with a bottle swing and sink shots of whiskey by the double and slam them on the amps, and they all have the same wild thunder in their eyes like the distant focus of eagles on prey.  They cock their heads likewise for inflection, but for the most part they have a mild-mannered disposition at cloud level while were all still stuck on the ground.

There's no stage, they play on the floor of about a third of the bar.  Eye level.  Monster's dancing with Brooks' mike stand because the mike's in his hand and he's in a gruff nasal hark, stumbling from one foot to the other in tired high cowboy boots, and his eyes squint and close and the chords come out in perfect unison and drawl.  The whole bar is swaying in dance and mad drunk so the swaying swings into falling on top of and over one another.  We're pressed in at the shoulders and the windows fog to the cold of the outside night.  Layers of clothing come off and the bright dusted fabrics are tied over one shoulder.  My jacket's over in a sweaty corner somewhere and when a camera comes around, I growl at it because the music makes me do it.  I'm drunk on the twang of the the strings and the vocals.  And the drums keep my legs knocking, and everyone around is a friend and their legs are knocking too, and we're all knocking into each other.  Do I know the songs?  No.  Well, maybe one.  But hell, it doesn't seem to matter.  It's a fucking time to be had, it is.  That's one thing for sure.  And when Brooks tells us they're done, we yell, "Hell no! One more! No, three more!" It's all to no avail though.  That damned bleached-haired satyr's had enough, and the diamond-eyed striped drummer throws his sticks in the air and tries to make his way to the bar for another shot of whiskey.

We pour out of the Crepe Cafe when it closes, and Grant says the band's coming back to King Street for the night.

"What the hell?! Okay."  I don't remember the rest.

Fall Paris: Diane

Lindsay's with a slightly older woman when we meet her outside the grad lounge.  The sun's sinking if it hasn't already sunk.  It's tough to tell in Paris since most every street is like being at the bottom of some concrete ravine.  The whole city's a maze of ravines really, and there's now horizon to be seen lest you find yourself on the river or in a garden or on one of the great main thoroughfares.  Where we are is neither of these things though.  The grad lounge is on a skinny street in the 7th, down a cobblestone driveway closed off to cars by a trio of concrete waist-high pillars that Lili and I sit on like low stools while we smoke cigarettes.  The older woman seems alert and aloof at the same time under blonde locks and an artful smile. She carries herself like a relaxed professional.  "This is my mom," Lindsay says.

"Diane," says Lindsay's mother. "It's nice to meet you." And she shakes both our hands.  First Lili's, then mine.

"Diane, Brian. It's a pleasure," I say.

"Whatcha guys drinking there?" she asks.

"Oh, these?" Lili waves around the clear plastic cup in her non-shaking hand.  In her shaking hand she now holds a cigarette.  The pink liquid inside the cup sloshes just close enough to the rim without spilling. "You wouldn't want any of these..." Maybe she's a little drunk.  Just a little tipsy at least.  Maybe we both are.

"Well, what is it?" ask Lindsay prying.

"Drunk juice," I whisper motioning at Lili.

But she interjects. "Cosmos, actually.  They're in the grad lounge, and there's a lot."

So it's to the grad lounge we go, for strong cosmos and more small talk with the other grad students.  Diane keeps pace and tells us she isn't even that jet-lagged. She's in sales she tells us.  It just comes with the trade, this professional wherewithal through heavy boozing and time-zone changes.  She's a champ, and has the charm and flair of a woman one immediately wants to know more about.  She's intriguing and very much impressive.

"Did you want another one, Diane?" Lili asks.

"Uh, yeah," she retorts with a gaffe.  "I'm on vacation."

It brings a quick laugh and I say, "All-righty then. This is going to be a good night, I think."

"I expect nothing less," she says, and then turning to Lindsay, "Speaking of which, where were you telling me we're going for dinner again dear?"

She catches Lindsay mid-sip and makes her tilt her head back to quickly gulp.  "Mmm. Yes. So this girl in one of my classes is singing and playing jazz piano at a little restaurant bar in the 3rd."

"Ooo. I likey."

We each pour ourselves another plastic cup of cosmos and head back out into the cold city nightscape and make steps towards the metro.  My scarf's not drawn so tight around my neck anymore.  Not like I'd been doing when I'd first arrived, when I'd been younger and so much dumber. So stupid as to think that this thin California scarf would do any good out here.  I wear it loose now, wrapped around to the full length, just trying to make it as bulky as possible.  It's in some ways futile.  I'm still freezing, but on the same token, any little thing helps, and I tuck my chin into the folds and stand upright as I walk.  Talking helps too, and the conversation's ripe.

Lili rifles through her bag and procures a half pack of cigarettes.  She's smoking Marlboro No. 27s.  "Moi aussi?" I say.  "Sil vous plait?"

She shoots me a look incredulous before saying, "Fine," and tossing me the pack and lighting her cigarette and tossing me the lighter too.  She blows out her first puff slow and turns to Lindsay.  "So what class is this chick in that we're going to see?"

"She's in my creative writing class."

My eyes spark with the lighter at the mention, and I pull one deep and say with a smile, "I didn't know Olivia played jazz piano."

"It's not Olivia," she says short and flustered. "Jerk."

"Who's Olivia?"  Diane's intrigued, and it's funny to me.

"Oh, Olivia? Well, umm... she's just a girl, I suppose," I say. "One of those writer types and Lindsay's in love with her."

"I'm not in love with her," says Lindsay. "She's in my writing class and she's just... Ugh, she's amazing.  I wish I could write like her."

"I'm probably better," I say with an obnoxious chest puff as I look down.

"Ha! You wish.  She writes so well."

"You mean good?" I'm prodding now.  It happens when I'm drunk.

"No. Idiot."

"Hehe. Well, this idiot's gotta get coffee with her later and, you know, talk about writing things."

"I hate you."

"Wait." Diane's lost track.  "So how does Brian know her?"

"It's ridiculous," and Lindsay tells her whilst we stroll down Rue de St. Germaine.  "He just picks it up and is like 'Oh, I know her, I think' like that's normal," and so on and so on.

"Huh. Random," says Diane after.

"More chancely romantic I like to think, mais c'est la vie" I say smiling at Lindsay, and she wrinkles her face in a pout.

[works done]

Lili's a bit more cynical. "It's cool Diane, he'll get what's coming to him. We're pretty sure the girl he's really infatuated with, who he's over the moon for, head before heels like a little school boy - he's to death in love with her he tell me - and we're pretty sure she's a lesbian."

"I never said that," I quip back.  "And no, she is not a lesbian."

"Dude. Yeah, she is. Or at least bisexual. I've got a certain feel for these sort of things," she says with a twisted smile. "And I'm gonna hook up with her before you do."

"Ha! That's right," says Lindsay looking at me, then to Lili.  "Do it, Lil!"  She's got a taste for retribution now.

"Um... I will. She's beautiful."

"God, yes. She is. But please don't," I plead. "Please?" I hate the game this has become, especially with that rare gem of a girl that genuinely piques my heart's interest.  That dear sweet Rachel.

Meanwhile, Diane can't get enough of it.  She can barely get a word in edgewise between our squabbling and her bouts of laughter. "You guys are all ridiculous," she says finally somewhere by the Seine near Pont de l'Alma. "It's like you're living your way through some... some Woody Allen movie over here! I love it!"

And we love her.  Me and Lili because she's a fast-talking cool wino of a mom, and Lindsay because, well, she has to.  It's not so much of a chore though as it is an amiable admiration of the most precious kind.  She's wonderful, and as we board the metro headed for the 13th, I can't help but think about what a Woody Allen sort of meander I've blown through out here.  I'd left LA to get away from all the craziness, all the distractions of the opposite gender, but life's dramatic as ever in Paris.  Woody would be proud.

[closing time]