Monday, April 20, 2009

The Night of April 18th (Epic. Glorious.)

Saturday night the bar, (the Red Unicorn, the only pub in town), belonged to me and Ruth, NOT Olivier (read: next-door neighbor) and his posse of motherfuckers, Jean-Guy excluded. It was especially sweet because unless I'm planning on dragging my mom there next weekend to show her the seedier side of my life here, it was Ruth and my last time there together, (at least for the near future...never say never)! There were so many beautiful moments, beginning with the choicest:
  • Suzy (Olivier's 17-probably-actually-just-16-or-maybe-even-just-15-year-old current lover? I could care less) storming off and out of the bar, just a few minutes after we arrived, really, never to be seen again, because I flipped her off. I also flipped off Carla and Jean-Guy. They didn't leave. Delicious. ;)
  • Me singing Imagine with the singer guy, and another French song I didn't know, but could manage the chorus. On a mic, in front of my adoring fans, and Olivier, etc. Classy. Drunk.
  • Me getting drinks bought for me, including once when two different men (a Dutch and a...Moroccan? Tunisian? Some sort of North African) each bought me a round and plunked them down in front of me at the same time!!! As Alison would say, Fierce!
  • Ruth seeing Olivier and Carla dancing real close and Carla giving me the evils, as if to say: "I've got him now and you don't," as if I care! As if I even noticed, (maybe more accurately: as if I can even remember! Ruth had to remind me)!

We owned. We killed. The night ended with me talking to the hot guy in black across the bar I'd been making eyes at for a good portion of the night, realizing even through my very drunken haze that he was definitely not worth it, and leaving, no numbers or names exchanged. Nothing. Then Ruth walked me home and I slept a glorious night alone. It was amazing. I didn't get out of bed the next day until 4-something. I loved it, even with a hungover headache. I'm off the men for awhile, except the gloriously hot Latin ones who come in my dreams...imaginary men are something I can deal with.

Tuesday, April 07, 2009

Written on a bench on one of the islands in Paris proper

Paris is the city of lovers. I think for this reason I will pointedly never bring or have (take?) a lover here. Casual sex, maybe (if I haven't already decided that I'm already over that, that is).

I am awesome and capable. Of getting myself to Paris. Of taking care of myself while Daniel's at class.

Before I came today I was thinking I was over Paris. I guess I thought living in a tiny town in Provence (population: approximately one city block in Paris) had gotten me over those old romantic ideas of Paris. But now I'm here again and it's...Paris! And I'm jealous of Daniel's casual use of the Jardins du Luxembourg as the place where he runs, of his Paris metro commute, of his nonchalant discoveries of places to eat in his everyday walks through the city. Neither of us would want to live here, in the big, permanent, install yourself sense of the word, but for a time, (6 months for him, now; a year or so; a post (!) in the Foreign Service) it would be positively delicious. I found myself completely annoyed with a girl, upon her emergence from Shakespeare and Co., gushing that she'd checked off "buy an old book in Europe" from her bucket list. Annoyed that she called this 'Europe;' annoyed that she feels the need to have a 'bucket list' at her age (probably about 17); annoyed that she used the term 'bucket list' (damn facebook notes); annoyed that she probably didn't do the buying, as she was with two older ladies, one presumably her mother. But then I thought about my first time to Paris, with Miles and madre, and I shouldn't be mad at stupid tourists for being...stupid tourists. They should be allowed to be completely bowled over by this place (Paris, in this specific sense; anywhere, in general), without assholes like me walking around feeling superior to that. We're all tourists at some points. And I'm not saying that I'm not loving this (Paris); I was just revelating (musing) that Paris still has this magical hold and power over me, 'still' I use so flippantly, like a handful of times and days here makes me an expert, a one 'in-the-know.' What I am saying is that I want more: more than just a week-end here and there, but less than a lifetime. I want Daniel's experience: Paris, (and France, and anywhere popularly revered that's not your home) doesn't become less magical the longer you're here, but it does become different, deeper. Memories get layered on top of each other as you walk by famous buildings and monuments not just once, on a week's vacation, but everyday, or often. Experiences in the place are less singular, more habitual, but no less fantastic. There's the key: to keep the awesomeness always at the forefront of the experience, letting things become everyday but still being awed by the whole thing. I guess we shouldn't just do this when living in ridiculously fabulous places like Paris or Provence, but when we are living everywhere, becuase we are living, and that is fantastic. Live everyday, but don't become a robot. I soulnd like some sort of poet (lyric? that guy who wasn't married to Simone de Beauvoire? Daniel informed me: Jean-Paul Sartre? beatniks?) but whatever. Maybe it takes living somewhere other than your home, being alien, to realize this and other things.

Some books (think beatniks, Kerouac, Burroughs, Alan Ginsberg, Hunter S. Thompson) shouldn't be bought new, in some new, un-original, packaged-for-the-masses, publisher's paycheck bullshit copy. It just doesn't seem right: it doesn't fit their spirit. Am I right here? (I'm not sure). And unrelated, I'm really glad my budget prevented me from being (going) weak and buying the current New Yorker at Shakespeare and Co. for 7,90€. I would have enjoyed the shit out of it, and at the least it would have made a good story, but now I'll just have to settle for the good story of what could have been, and read what I can (for free) online. The newspaper/magazine industry is on it's last legs anyways. I'll use the money to buy a drink and toast the industry. (I spent 10,90€ later for one pint of beer later that night...who won there? The cafe? The beer distributor? Definitely not. The print industry? No, not that either. Me? Hell no. I got had, in all every tourist sense of the word. But I liked it. Sort of).

I'm not well-read. I could be better-. Working on it. Sort of. Always. Unfinished. Work in progress. We're complete when we're dead.