Chapter 7: Walker, Parisian Ranger pt.1

Lotfi had to get some work done today so I decided to go off exploring on my own for a change. Somehow I decided that I was going to get off on whatever metro stop had the coolest name at that particular moment and see what would happen. Now it wasn't that my choices were bad per se - by comparison to San Diego they were still spectacular - but I ended up in weird financial districts or places that were more in-between places rather than hang out places. What fun it was to get lost though! I ended up really needing to find a bathroom (always a problem in Paris if one isn't careful) so I walked along the Seine and stopped at a tourist bar that happened to be across the street from a gigantic building taking up two entire blocks on it's own. This building was the Louvre.

I took a bunch of pictures before crossing the street, then crossed the street, then realized that I couldn't get anywhere near enough of the building in the shot and went back across the street again. The Louvre sat on a bed of fine white sand that kicked up into the breeze like a beach. What class she had! When I went around the side - the walls of which stretched for another 4 blocks at least - I felt like I was walking along the Great Wall of China. I finally found the side entrance, which led me into a large courtyard with a fountain in its center. I sat on a stone bench, rested my feet and watched some children play.

When I passed through the west side of the courtyard I came into another that was open-ended and had the same stone floor, several fountains and some glass pyramids. At the ending of all of this there was a small stone arch topped with some bronze statues. I thought that this might be the Arc de Triomphe. It seemed quite small for a guy like Napoleon; maybe he was tired from all that conquering and wanted to take a break from building gigantic stone structures? Most certainly not - this was in fact the Arch du Carrousel. Stupid American strikes again.

I stood looking west and saw a long open walkway bordered by trees and paved with the same soft white sand. I could see how it weaved up and down over terrain for miles into the distance. This was the Gardens of Tuileries, the oldest park in Paris. I passed a large fountain bordered by groves in either direction with pale stone statues of men on horses bordering its walkways. I really wanted to linger when I saw that everyone around me was smiling. It was such a great energy. I watched couples holding hands as they walked into the sunset. Sigh... At the end of the road I saw the Arc de Triomphe - far off in the distance several miles out - it stood like a castle on a hill divided by only sand and time. I continued west hoping to make it before sunset.

On my way there I passed the government buildings of Paris (many of which were adorned with gold) and headed towards Champs Elysees, now a famous shopping strip. Before I got there I had to stop because guards had barricaded the sidewalk. Obama was on his way through to visit with the President of France. After a few minutes they opened the street back up and I was on my way again. It was really weird in a comforting yet slightly disheartening way to see that Banana Republic is as alive and well in Paris as America. Or maybe it was Macy's. Whatever, I try not to look around too much these days haha. The walk was long - really long - but nice (incredible actually) and the breeze was refreshing and becoming more so as I got further uphill and closer to the Arc. I made it there just after sunset, mildly freaking out because light was fading rapidly and I wanted some good pictures. The Arc sat on the center of all intersecting roads as it's own gigantic roundabout, one that I couldn't figure out how to get to because it lacked proper crosswalks and I didn't want to piss off the guards out front that were undoubtedly waiting for jaywalkers like me. Once I found the entrance it took me underneath the street level and up to the base of the Arc. Freaking huge man. Unbelievable.

The view from the Arc was amazing by night; all roads extend outwards from its center creating a clean view down every avenue, the dips and turns highlighted by streetlights. In the distance I saw the Eiffel Tower shining bright above the city as the last of the twilight cast a deep blue behind it. Again, unbelievable. I met Lotfi there and after a ton of pictures we headed back down Champs Elysees on our way to - you guessed it: the Eiffel Tower.

Chapter 6: Notre-Dame de Paris

The following day I had band practice. We practiced from 2:30 till 8pm Tuesdays and Thursdays, their usual practice days. I remember the songs being good, but finding my niche within them was taking some time. It's hard coming in and writing within certain perimeters. We had some fun funky jams and melodic metal improves throughout the day - I remember that much. I enjoyed the smoke breaks quite a bit not because I liked to smoke (although that was enjoyable from time to time) but because we were all hanging out together. Plus the sunshine was nice. What can I say, I'm a Californian.

After band practice Lotfi and Digo opted for us to walk home so I could see the city a bit by foot. It's funny how much more you see when you walk anywhere - and I assure you that in Paris it was a sensory overload - it was worth every step. The three of us left the studio and caught the last hour of daylight as we headed west down the avenue. I saw patches of flies hovering together silhouetted in the fading sun ahead of me (unusual I thought) as we chatted a bit about my life back home and my musical past. I loved it. We walked through the commercial area through all the department stores, turning our heads at the frequent Parisian woman passing by. How could we not? After passing a very famous museum that I thought was pretty modern/ugly we started to approach Notre-Dame. I really had no idea what was about to hit me - I'll enforce that right now - holy shit. But until I saw it I'll continue with the storytelling process...

Over the tops of the buildings you could begin to see a needle-like tower; something almost demonic-looking, dark colored and obviously massive and far aboveground - even from our vantage point. This was part of the backside tower and by far the least spectacular thing I was about to see. Digo knew well what was about to happen to me; I remember the look in his eye.

It's hard to describe how I felt when I first saw the face of Notre-Dame. Some feelings in life you experience only once in a lifetime and this may very well have been one of them. It was far beyond a movie or a dream or anything to date. I felt dwarfed by time, by the history of those who lived and died before me and humbled by the awesome power of mans creation, of his desire and love for spirituality. Even the guys felt it - I knew. We sat there outside for some time and watched the sunset glow upon the surface.

Then I went through the 15' wooden doors and into the worship hall. If God lives then he certainly lives in Notre-Dame. I'm not a spiritual person, but I understood why and how and why again; it's all so simple sometimes. I sat there for a little while in amazement. I felt close to everything I cared about, somehow so near and far at the same time. That's about as well as I can say it.

After standing on the bridge over the Seine we left Notre-Dame and headed south through the Latin Quarter where I saw the Pantheon. Wow. The amount of history in Paris never ceases to amaze me. I still can't get over that fact looking back on it. I didn't have my camera so I took a few pictures with my phone (thus marking the day I would always carry my camera.) In view of the Pantheon was St. Etienne du Mont standing in the background. I really should've gotten a closer look, but there was so much to take in at that moment. We headed through the tourist part of the Latin Quarter, a part that structurally looked really cool and would've been if it weren't for the "I love Paris" t-shirt stands everywhere. There were lots of narrow back-alleys and lanterns that I bet cast really nice lighting if we had been there a bit later. The sun had set and everything was starting to glow in the twilight.

As we started to walk uphill and out of the Latin Quarter we passed the church of Val-de-Grace - an old military hospital and one of my favorite looking buildings. Like all things on my trip I wanted to stay a bit longer, but we had to keep heading home. Shortly after the hospital we passed a cool looking jazz bar - small, cramped with a rocking band - just my style. I wish I'd gotten a picture. Past that there was a sandwich shop where I was to order the best Panini of my entire life. I ordered it all in French and the clerk was impressed - that's two for two. As we ate them walking home I remember the full moon and a feeling of friendship. What a bitchin' sandwich.

Chapter 5: Are these string beans?

So after taking the metro to my room, almost locking myself out of the building and sleeping sporadically throughout the night I woke up around 2pm the next day feeling pretty good. Things were getting better for sure. I went across the street and bought some fruit for myself (I had consumed one meal the entire 2 days since I boarded the plane) and a bottle of wine for Murielle to thank her for being so nice. I used my extensive knowledge of French wines that I learned through Trader Joe's to pick out the perfect bottle: Cotes Du Rhone. Always a winner. Even figuring out how to cross the street was a task in itself - I impeded a cluster (dare I say gang?) of motorcyclists who cussed at me in French. I really should've learned all the swear words before traveling. Isn't that protocol? I remember thinking how weird it was that people just do whatever they want, or rather that the laws of everyday life seemed so much more liberal. Took a bit of getting used to. Somewhere after those events (and the blank spot in my head following them) I ended up hanging out with Lotfi who was kind enough to put me up for the undetermined amount of time that was my visit. I cannot thank him enough for his hospitality. There's always a couch in America for you buddy. We went to the supermarket around 5-ish to get groceries before the concert we were scheduled to go to. He was right in saying that eating at home is the way to go; Paris is not cheap at all. The market was a few blocks away. I really liked that. I liked how everything was close: fruit stands - fresh fruit stands - cafes on every corner, all so walkable. I miss that lifestyle.

Inside the Champion (market) I found an overload of things I'd never seen before: so many different fruits, vegetables, sauces, snacks - you name it - and not just the packaging lacking English. I found a different approach to many things we did have in the states, but with a French twist to them. So rad! I love eating! I brought my camera (I am such a fucking tourist!) but felt a bit out of place taking pictures of giant beets and cabbages so I put it away. This might seem weird, but there was a certain smell to the air inside also - crisp and different, kind of funky too. There were these giant string beans over a foot long. Strange. Anyway we got home, ate a bit of randomness (cooking later) and headed for the metro.

It was really cool: I was going to see Me First and the Gimme Gimmies for the first time - in Paris! I'm really glad I got to see a punk show in Paris, and it being who it was made it even cooler. If you're not familiar with Me First (especially in concert) think of your favorite pop hit (the cheesier the better) redone as a satirical, hilarious punk song. We got in on the guest list since Lotfi was longtime friends with the opening band Useless ID. That made me feel a bit like a rock star. I have such a long way to go haha... We went outside to socialize in-between bands and I met some really nice people one of which was their old guitar player, Saul. I guess it could have been awkward for someone else, but I was pretty excited. We had a cool conversation and he told me how to order a beer since I'd forgotten already (some use those flash cards I studied back home turned out to be!) I promptly went inside and busted out the skills. I don't know if it was the trip or what, but I swear to this day that the Heineken in Europe tastes way better than in America. Hooray for capitalism right?

Since Lotfi and I got lost wandering through the park on our way to the show (for some reason the venue was a big bright red building, just like the other six big red buildings scattered throughout the park space) we got there too late to see Useless ID play. I did enjoy the wandering though. Paris is beautiful beyond description. At least when Me First came on stage they were dressed to the nines: stark white slacks and shoes, berets and bright red Hawaiian shirts (no relation to said venue.) I have to give to Fat Mike: he's got his own style. Then they cut right into it. Great tunes. Great show. Somehow a little different from the shows back home. Not just that the crowd was smaller - around 300 fans tops - and I can't really put my finger on why, but it was different, it was cool. They played a lot of songs I knew which (to be honest) was a bit weird since I hadn't been following their discography all that much recently: "Country Roads", "Down By The Schoolyard" and "I Believe I Can Fly" were a few. The energy was relaxed, yet direct and powerful. They were very comfortable on stage and enjoying every moment of it. I had a surprisingly great time that night. I didn't want anything more than what was right then and there.

After the show we hung out back for a bit since Leivan wanted to say hi to the guys. I found it odd that even though the venue had been closed for 45 minutes or so we still had beers in our hands (well Leivan did) and that hanging out in the parking lot in the middle of the night was no big deal to anyone. Yes, Europe is rad alright. We walked to this mini-mart afterward and got these really good pre-made sandwiches and ate them by this old opera hall that looked kind of like a train station. The ground was entirely cobblestone and the breeze was clean and cold, but not to me. I loved that night.

My favorite picture

Coire, Digo, Lotfi, Fab.

Chapter 4: For Those About To Rock

Getting to the studio was not as easy as it seemed. Especially when staring at the rather simple metro map became more like staring into a bowl of spaghetti: the routes mish-mashed and intertwined like old shoelaces. Actually I would never eat shoelaces. I knew it would make perfect sense the following day, but for the moment I decided it best to shut my eyes and put the map away lest I look anymore like the tourist that I already was.

I love the metro in Paris. There's so much involved in the experience that is different to me - a native Californian who has been driving everywhere since graduating high school and prior to that was taking the bus. Well this is nothing at all like the bus. I think most of my love for it lies in the people and having to associate with the city around you. I like that feeling of being connected, even if others riding the metro may desire escape from that same feeling. Through my daily commute I always found someone who would look me in the eye and smile. I miss that now actually. I miss all the little things like flipping the handle of the sliding door and feeling that click of the lock as it disengaged - that was one of my favorites. Even the walls of the stations were amazing, extending upwards in a concave fashion creating a domed ceiling that was covered in porcelain tiles shimmering in the fluorescent light. Such charm. Such a romantic place in your untraditional romantic sense. Probably why I liked it.

When I finally got off at my stop and up to street level (two hours late I might add) I gave Lotfi a call. I think this is a good time to talk a bit about a crucial part of the story that has been missing:

Half the reason I decided to visit Paris in the first place was to audition for a band called Straightaway. Fast melodic Parisian punk rock and I wanted to see just how far things could go. I found out on the net that they were looking for a guitarist, messaged them and exchanged a bit of info with their front man Lotfi. He really liked the song on my website so the both of us talked a bit, we sent some demo riffs back and forth and things progressed from there. You never know what the future brings these days.

I remember Lotfi and Digo (drums) meeting me on the corner by the metro stop. I also remember them both being way taller than me in person: two friendly Europeans towering above me like Vikings dressed in black band t-shirts resembling so-cal skateboarders. I knew that you loose an inch of your height for every day that you don't sleep (or something like that) so I wasn't too worried about it. We walked to the studio around the corner and inside I met Fab, the bassist (who actually did remind me of a Viking thus rounding out the whole experience for me) and Leivan, who was the roadie of sorts and also comedy relief that I would experience later that evening. And so we jammed...

The first few songs went good. They (the band) were good. Really good. Shit man, I'm out of shape with this punk stuff! They opened with a few new songs that I found very melodic, heavy and intuitive. Good tunes. We played a couple songs off the record and I immediately realized how important it would have been if I had gotten better computer speakers back home; there was a lot I didn't hear when I sat figuring out the songs earlier. I felt below the standard of professionalism I hold myself to, and that sucked. We had a nice improve jam in A minor for several minutes and then moved on to a new song. They wanted to see what I could come up with over the top of it. This was the question I had traveled so far to have answered. Could we write music together? Here I was and it was all about to happen...

Something happened anyway: jet lag. It hit me hard. I was totally plowed off the beers I didn’t get to drink on the plane. I couldn't focus whatsoever, let alone try and recreate all the cool things I heard myself playing over the songs when they played them earlier. I stumbled through, doing my best to keep smiling despite the failure I began to feel. For all you who are not versed on certain musical terminology, we refer to the style I was demonstrating as "blowing chunks." Yes, it was naptime for sure. It would be many hours before I got my wish.

After practice we went to a café around the corner. Kat, a longtime friend of the guys had joined us so we were six-strong. Now it was time for me to see what Europeans do best: socialize. Perfect! What better way to get over a terrible practice performance! We got a table outside and Digo rolled some nice cigarettes for the both of us. I tried a fabulous biere blanche (white beer) and midway through I was beginning to feel better about the practice. I tried learning a bit of French firsthand from Lotfi and it didn't go unnoticed by the pair of girls sitting at the table next to us giggling from time to time. Who doesn't love a rock star tourist?

A few things I can recall as we sat there:

A guy riding his moped at full speed up onto the sidewalk and back without thinking twice.

Mercedes ambulances. Weird. I guess I was pretty close to Germany…

So many people coming and going. A mass of life being lived right in my face.

"Ou sont les toilette Sil vous plait?" “Merci.”

Great beer.

Leivan was drunk. No one was surprised.

The girl on my left had pretty brown eyes.

Ordering what I thought was a glass of water. Getting another beer instead. Stupid American strikes again. Such laughter…

Chapter 3: Gare du Nord

According to Louie I was supposed to take the RER B to Gare du Nord (a colossal train/metro interchange station in the north-east part of Paris that happened to also be an indoor mini-mall at the same time) then I was to take the metro #2 blue line and get off on Alexandre Dumas. Sounded easy enough.

Walking into Gare du Nord was intense. So many sights and smells, from the grime-coated steps of whatever color they must have been the day they were painted to the intriguing smell of ancient urine from times long past. I wanted to stay in Gare du Nord forever and sink into the walls, sleep under its benches and peddle in it's hallways. I wanted to become the white noise of the thousand unintelligible conversations that filled it's halls and pecked at my ears. It made my heart race in a way I'd never felt before. Simply awesome.

The speed that governed this massive underworld was just nuts. All these people were on their way somewhere - knowing where, racing towards it and caught up in the energy - and I was lost amongst an entourage of different colored signs (80% of which were in apparent hieroglyphics) and remembering only "blue" and something about being a Dumas. I was also starting to feel really shitty - my very first dose of jet lag - only I didn't know it yet. Oh, and another thing: in France the arrows that point upward actually mean backwards and the arrows that point down mean forwards. That made things fun when standing at the base of a staircase. Once I got to the blue line I bought a one-way ticket and (although I have no recollection of this) must have gotten off at my stop just fine. I do remember leaving the station, going up the steps and staring at the 4x5 foot map of the metro system somehow lacking the ever-valuable "you are here" symbol. This where I met a young woman equally lost. When I asked her where she was visiting from she said that she had been living in Paris her whole life. I felt good and bad about that statement. Once I finally found my street I dropped off the money and got my keys from my landlady Murielle. There was one key for the entry door plus a code to buzz through the lobby door, then another for the 6" thick steel-plated bank vault of a front door five floors above. Did I feel safe? Hmm...

Murielle and I went back to the metro and she helped me buy a weekly metro pass. I thanked her, we parted ways down different corridors and I was off to the studio - it was practice day and the guys were all excited to meet me. Indeed, the feeling was mutual.

Chapter 2: "Ou sont les toilettes?"

Well, through all the delirium, baby trauma and beers I didn't get to enjoy (save that for the trip back) I finally safely landed in Paris marking my first time standing on Foreign soil - and on another continent no-less - in 32 years. I am so kick-ass.

Once I got off the plane they herded us into the customs area where I saw just how diverse the plane's populous was. Pretty interesting. I had my passport in hand along with a paper I had filled out on the flight to give to the French government stating that if I got the swine flu while visiting France they would be able to find me and I would be cooperative with their authorities. It was the basics: name, address and the place I would be staying - since I didn't actually know where I would be staying that night I made that part up (our little secret.) When I got to the front of the line I witnessed a man who must've been denied access because he was yelling in French at the authorities and throwing up his arms. Sucks to be him. After that I walked forward and handed my passport to the inspector. He scanned it smiled, I said "merci" and that was that. I walked through the gates and I was home free. Or rather un-home free.

This is the time between what I call the "really cool excited phase" and the "reality smacked you upside the head knocking you into a puddle of your own blood and naiveté" phase. So I guess things are cool for now...

When I got to the main part of the airport I had to get some euros. Keep in mind that I had slept little the last few days and that the flight itself was another day in itself, so this was not the easiest task. I found a really nice guy working the info booth who spoke English and told me where the ATM was and where I could catch a train. Now I could get the money to pay my landlord for the apartment I had found on Craigslist the night before (once a slacker still always a slacker dad) and hopefully get there to give it to her in person. I got the money - the euros looking much cooler looking than dollars I must say - and I was off to get lost almost immediately around the corner. Think old person lost in a mall food court: this was me. On my path to find what the attendant called train "RER B" I found another lost American who said in passing "At least we're not in Tokyo. You can’t read anything in English there.” True. We shared a laugh and I realized how great it was that we both were lost together. Somehow I already missed home a little and felt a bit of comfort, although this quickly faded when I realized that the level of his alertness compared to mine was going to get him to his hotel long before I would. Food courts are destined for a select few.

Then I think it hit me. Not the terror part (saving that for later) the part where all of a sudden I knew that I was very VERY far from home. All I heard was French. Everywhere. Janitors, pilots and stewardesses, passers-by - it filled my ears and started to replace all the comfortable little bits of culture I had slept on my entire existence. This was nuts for a San Diegan like me. I was lost and I knew I had to jump into this experience with both feet so I remembered a phrase to ask for where something is, practiced it a few times in my head, and then approached two Frenchmen airport staff chatting about God knows what. "Excusez-moi Monsieur, Ou sont les RER B Sil vous plait?" Did it work? Did he understand? Apparently so because I was given a smorgasbord of French words and the all-familiar hand-pointing “that way” technique followed by something in question form to which I responded with a Stupid American In Paris look that only I could do. He smiled at my talents (how could he not?) and his friend replied "He said that you speak very good French." Still kick-ass. "Merci. Au revoir."

I followed the pointer-finger down an escalator and around a corner, down another and somehow ending up in front of a massive screen displaying 50 or more trains, their arrivals, departures and what-not. I finally realized that I was supposed to buy a ticket at one of these green kiosk machines, so I got in line and asked the guy in front of me if he "parlez-vous anglais?" He was a Frenchmen and lucky for me also a DC native, so yes he did speak English. His name was Louie and he helped me buy a ticket using my debit card. Good thing because the menu was all in French. Funny thing about my other card - a credit card, a Visa - it didn't have a microchip inside it. In order to work in Paris (and most parts of Europe from what I learned) cards need to have what's called a Euro chip, so my Visa card was pretty much worthless throughout my stay. So I guess Visa really isn't "everywhere you want to be.” There's also a fun story about my debit card but that one's for the trip back. Louie was on the same train as I was and he sat across the aisle so we ended up talking a little bit. Cool guy. I might have to make it out to the east coast just to experience the energy in full someday. Definitely will.

When the train took off and left the airport the beauty of France became apparent. It was all you could ever imagine: lush green fields, flowers, blue skies and really REALLY cool old buildings. As all of this was beginning to sink in: that I was now in FRANCE - a foreign sovereign nation – alone and at the beginning of something immense holding a feeling of weightlessness like the point between the height of the toss and the free-fall to follow, just then at that very moment a guy with an accordion started playing and singing inside the train car. I was smiling from ear to ear.

Chapter 1: Bonjour!

Hello everyone! Apparently this is not working out how I originally planned. In fact, this is not actually chapter one - in the sense that it is the beginning of many posts I will be writing regarding my adventures in Paris yes, it is chapter one, but being done after my return to the states it is a bit of an epilogue. Or an epilogue trying to be a prologue. Or just a bunch of random thoughts as organized as possible. Sounds good to me...

Ok, here we go:

Thanks to my dad for the best advice ever: always keep a journal when you travel! Now, according to my first journal entry there had been several days before I got a chance to write down even the simplest thought (once a slacker always a slacker right dad?) I will include those events shortly. For now I'll do my best to start at the beginning and set the stage for the adventure that follows.

I remember feeling a grand sense of freedom while going to the airport. For those of you who don't know my history this was my first time ever traveling outside of the country with the exception of Tijuana (which doesn't count) and Victoria B.C. (which also doesn't count.) I was traveling alone, going plenty far, and upon my arrival may or may not have had a place to stay once setting foot upon foreign soil. That is if I were to get through Customs. So again: grand sense of freedom (fueled by grand sense of terror.) Plus not knowing more than a few French phrases to communicate with such as "Where is the toilet?” "I'd like a glass of red wine please" (still didn't get that one right apparently) and "My head has been broken open by a pitchfork. Where is the hospital?" I was less than comfortable in some respects. Lucky me. Actually that is true. I am plenty lucky.

Ok, so the flight itself (or airport experience rather) was actually very nice going in. Especially since I was flying to Paris stand-by. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that part. See how fun life can be! So the departing flights looked promising, security was friendly and unobtrusive, and I was at the gate relaxing at a promenade table in no time. I made the first flight to Atlanta no problem, having a nice chat about my adventures ahead to the guy next to me. It's nice to inspire people. I love my life.

Four hours, 18 minutes to Atlanta: no big deal. Eight hours, 30 minutes to Paris: big-ass deal. Or so I would find out shortly. I am thankful I flew Delta though; soft seats, televisions with comedy central (I was too excited to sleep despite my exhaustion anyway,) free eye-covers and headphones and - wait for it: beer. Yes, free beer! Life is good :) Unfortunately I didn't discover the free beer law until the flight back. Also unfortunate was the free baby opera/chorus sing-along I was set in the center of between baby #1 on my right three seats over and baby #2 two directly in front of me. Just turn up the Chris Rock Coire, everything will be ok. Oh and by the way: I got the last seat left in the whole plane in the very back row, far left. The engine was vibrating my butt I swear. See, crazy story right? And I haven't even got off the plane!

Average speed of 550 mph, 4,400 out of 4,600 miles and a little monitor showing a plane icon flying upon a yellow line charting it's path over seemingly endless ocean. When we passed over the western beaches of Normandy I felt the same freedom from earlier, only stronger and more unbridled. I was on my way and nothing was going to stop me.