Stupid American In Paris

For The Eyes And Ears...

2010-01-06T21:36:00.000-08:00

Chapter 15: Pere Lachaise

2009-09-29T21:25:00.000-07:00

Today was a big day for me in some small respects. I spent the day off exploring on my own. I ordered and conversed with the locals completely in French. I got lost and found, then lost again sitting down in the most amazing city watching as it passed by me. It felt good. I felt good. I was finally beginning to let go and give in to the spirit of Paris. I was becoming a big boy in the traveler sense :)

I left Lotfi's mid-morning, walking past the cafe with all the cute Barista's working inside (we will no doubt remember them won't we buddy?!) I decided to take it easy today and not rush anything in hopes of seeing everything; I had come to terms with the colossal history of France and just being there for the moment was all I needed to experience. That said, I went down the street and got a crepe with champignons and fromage from the street vendor. Good eating. Then I decided to have myself an espresso and a smoke at the corner brasserie (rolled by hand of course--I was getting pretty good at this now!) When I sat outside I was greeted by a very friendly waiter in his early twenties with dark hair and chiseled features. He reminded me of myself at that age (minus the chisel) and some other people that I used to work with at Mr A's back in the day, except that we both didn't speak the same language, but we kind of did. I sat there for a while sipping and smoking, admiring the cute little glass of water they bring to you when you order a coffee and the little straw-shaped packet of sugar. The sun was shining amongst the clouds, the people passed by on their way and I was finally connected completely to it all. Rad as hell.

Afterwards I got on the metro and headed to Pere Lachaise, the biggest cemetery I've ever seen. When I got there I passed by the tourists loitering out front and walked down the cobblestone walkway, or rather up. The whole place weaved around like a sleeping dragon's body; what a place to lay your head down.

I realized that everyone had gotten maps of the cemetery--which was several square miles in size--everyone but me; I had missed the maps by missing the loitering at the gate. It was too late to walk back so I went upwards to get a better view of it all.

As the path leveled off I found myself at a clearing, a park with several benches and a view of the grounds below. There were numerous paths leading in all different directions down the slopes and disappearing into the trees. This was very nice. People were reading and couples were cuddling--not your average cemetery. I stayed for a bit and then headed off to find Jim Morrison’s grave--the one with all the people crowded around it--or so I'd heard. On my way there I found a nice little roundabout with a statue in its center. I sat a bit more, asked a British girl for directions and was on my way.

When I got there I was surprised at how simple it was: a squared headstone adorned with only flowers and candles. I wondered why he had come to rest in such a modest grave. Was it his own wish? Or did he fall victim to some bloodthirsty lawyer? I ended up wandering towards exit while trying to find Chopin's grave. When I heard the guards ringing their bells (think Monty Python's "Bring out your dead") I tried to slink into the shadows, but they gave me the look of death so I thought it best to leave quietly; I wasn't ready to join Jim just yet.

Pictures

2009-09-29T20:19:00.000-07:00

Here's the link to the full set of pictures: http://www.coirewalker.com/gallery/main.php

Chapter 14: Don't Look Down

2009-09-29T14:37:00.000-07:00

It was now Saturday, or Sunday, or Friday. No wait--it wasn't Friday. So being Satursunaday and with little time left to get all my touristy things put away, I knew I just HAD to get to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Good thing too because I got a lot of great shots.

The line was long and the weather was pretty hot for Paris in June. I noted a squad of France military in full dress and armed to the teeth, no doubt there for any possible terrorist threats. Something made me uneasy about knowing I had no citizens rights and that those were real M-16's with real bullets inside. I took a few steps back inside my mind. Kinda freaky...

Aside from the couple of assholes who cut the back half of the line and kept trying to muscle their way past me and the nice couple from Jersey in front of me it was all worth waiting for. I got a glass of wine when I was on the first level and spilled some... Seeing Paris from the sky is unbelievable. I caught the sunset and I didn't let it go.

I called Lotfi from the top; we met up later and headed to Cat's house for a little BBQ. She lived close outside the city in a pretty nice place with it's own backyard. I met Silva, Saul's roommate and talked a bit with William, Cat's boyfriend. I still remember the talks--that Silva was taking time-off from his job and that William was about to go on tour as Soulfly's sound tech, Silva's bad English, my worse French, and the laughs we had trying to converse. Great food too. They were all impressed with my consumption of hot mustard, which isn't something those boys have a pallet for. Good ol' SD taco shops are great primer...

Looking back I miss the passion they have. It's been a long time since I've found people who are truly passionate about punk music. I felt a bit like I was reminiscing with high school buddies. We watched some videos of Will's band on the Internet and headed out. Thanks for the ride Cat!

Chapter 13: Man Date

2009-09-29T13:46:00.000-07:00

Sometime between the party at Fab's place and the party at Cat's place Lotfi and I went out on a man date to this Ethiopian restaurant. We were a cute couple, haha. The place was small--kind of a converted office space or something turned quaint dining area--and surprisingly slow for it being a Friday night. Great food though, really unbelievable. The girl to my left was gorgeous. Lotfi and I both took note of her taking note of us. Never underestimate the power of the man date in full effect.

When we left we headed over to the Latin Quarter to catch some jazz via my request several days earlier. For those who live in San Diego the Latin Quarter equates to the Gaslamp on a Friday night. For those of you who live elsewhere just think Maxim Magazine VIP party meets Sharper Image Christmas Party meets your moms face. We couldn't stop laughing as we made our way through it all. I'm actually impressed that somehow these people thrive all over the world. Can we please buy them their own island the next time we vote for another stadium? Please?

Dip-shitism aside the Latin Quarter is very cool: lots of small cramped old buildings, basement bars, alleyways by lantern's light and tons of natural vibe. We ended up going down into the basement of Caveau des Dubliettes and catching this Latin jazz band. This place must've been a dungeon at a time--seriously. The stairs that led down from the ground level were carved out of solid rock, the walls were brick and the ceiling was a brick arch with a small grate in the top center where I saw the feet of those above us shuffling around in bar conversation. It was hot as hell in there and smelled like mold, but that made it all the more immersive. We sat down at a galley-style table made from an old barrel and ordered a round, watching the ladies salsa dance in front of us. I wish I'd taken a picture. I remember the band consisting of a female vocalist who shared duties with a guy who played a large hand drum, followed by stand-up bass, guitar and keys. Great vibes. I do not remember what happened after we left. True story.

1.	Man Date	169 up, 9 down
	Two "straight" guys doing something that would be your standard date, eg going to a film, out for a meal. JD: You know what, I'm going to take you out to night. We'll go for a meal, get a nice bottle of wine.. Turk: Dude, sounds like you're asking me out on a man date. JD: Why are you so afraid of loving me? get this def on a mug jd turk scrubs man date date gay by AJ_legend Feb 20, 2008 share this
2.	Man Date	62 up, 38 down
	When 2 stright men spend time together hanging out man-date Roberta's husband and my husband are going on a man date today. get this def on a mug by Angie May 28, 2005 share this
3.	Man Date	26 up, 3 down
	A social Interaction between two straight men. Joe: Hey wana go on a Man Date with me this saturday, were gona hit the game and then go to a bar. Bob: Sure Ill go on a man date with you.

Chapter 12: Tilted Buildings?

2009-08-13T11:27:00.000-07:00

It was now the final Thursday I was to spend in Paris and therefore my final practice day with the guys. Lotfi had gotten pretty sick on Monday, which had led to canceling the previous Tuesday's practice. I was pretty excited because we were going to try practice with some vocals in the mix this time. I think I am going to have to expedite these blogs because I feel my memory fading. I hate being old...

We stopped to get some water at the local monop and beer - yes, beer! rock n' roll bro's! The beer was Belgian, slightly warm and a perfect way to finish off an otherwise professional (aka sober) practice journey. The water was .24 euros - that's about 30 cents! - we are getting screwed for water here my friends! Nothing but smiles when we showed up to practice. Gotta love the Royal Club...

It was fun to sing a bit. I tried a Rancid cover or two and than we went into their songs. It's hard to sing and play at the same time! Pretty fun times. I spilled half my beer. Good thing I brought a back up. I miss the brief time I spend at their studio: hanging outside the studio smoking watching the passers-by, going up the rickety winding staircase to use the homemade bathroom with no light switch...the unused vending machine room...the bald guy who runs the place that made fun of my French and most of all, the music. Good times...

After we packed things up and got the studio ready for the next band we headed over to Fab and Marianne's house. He lived pretty close to the practice space so we walked there. I'll never get over the geography - how the city is built upon such a flowing landscape. We weaved our way up several blocks, through a black iron gate and up to the second floor of a traditional old Parisian building. I liked Fab's place; it had a lot of charm. And a really furry cat. That thing was crazy. We sat around his living room relaxing drinking wine and snacking on various vegetables, breads and cheeses. As I looked out the window listening to their conversation I felt as if I had lived in Paris forever. Even though most of that nights chatting was in French I didn't feel out of place. It was almost like I knew what they were saying by the way they were saying it, as if the words themselves, like in all languages, were more of a means to an end and I was going right to that end by listing with the eyes and not the ears. That night was also the first time I'd really gotten to get to know Fab. He had a charm all his own. We listened to Killswitch Engage and A Wilhelm Scream, two bands that I'd heard of before but had to go to the other side of the world to hear. Funny how that is. Later on we played a little acoustic guitar and sung a bit. Yes, the trip was at an apex and I knew that this night and the friendship I felt would be remembered forever.

We ended up leaving around 1:30am. I said goodbye to Fab, Marianne and Digo as we left and I knew somehow that even though I was going to be around for a few more days this was the last time I'd see them on my trip. Shit! I miss you guys! As Lotfi and I walked home we went through the oldest part of Paris where the buildings are actually tilted. That was so cool! It was amazing to look down a cobblestone alley and see buildings tilted like trees swaying in the breeze. The reflections of streetlights off the Seine cast ripples on the buildings...

Chapter 11: "Lisa? Is that really you?"

2009-07-18T09:50:00.000-07:00

Today was the day after the night I realized that in order to not forget anything important during my trip I would need to make a list of to-do's and forgo the slightly sloppy nature I was enjoying so much thus far; there was only so much time and really much more to see than time would allow. I fought hard against such reason but struck a healthy balance as things went on. It was a Wednesday and since it was looking like an indoor day I decided to go to the Louvre. Good call.

The Louvre is big - everyone knows that. What they may not know is that there is a metro stop dedicated for just the Louvre "Palais Royal Musee du Louvre." Actually there are two stops if you count the "Louvre Rivoli," a stop directly before the Louvre that is made up to look like the Louvre's inside. I got off there first just to check it out. American tourist strikes again. When I got off at the Louvre I went out the metro exit and directly into a mini-mall full of gift shops - the Louvre had been built around the metro stop so-to-speak, or maybe the other way around. Paris has the world's oldest metro system but which came first - the Louvre or the Metro? As I pondered ancient history the pain in my bladder beckoned me towards this high class looking bathroom that I had to pay 1 euro to use. It was kind of worth it in a (stupid American tourist) way. The super-sonic air dryer thingy was cool... I went up the escalator and bought my ticket from the kiosk - only 9 euros! Cheap! Back down and around, through a line that ended in an x-ray machine for my bag and I was in a hallway of more gift shops. Is there anywhere I won't find a Starbucks?! Actually, to be honest I kind of enjoyed a small piece of home away from home just this once ;) Through the hallway was a huge indoor promenade and in the center an info booth full of maps in seven different languages and a thoroughly linguistic staff there to assist all the camera-faces. The ceiling was a huge glass window made up of triangle panes. There were three main escalators - one for each wing the museum. The noise of a thousand tourists echoed off every marble surface as normal conversations at deafening volume. I realized immediately that what my mom had said was true: you really could spend an entire week in the Louvre! I had one main thing to do first: find the Mona Lisa.

Like any smart marketer knows, you put your prize attraction at the end of the maze so that everyone has to go through everything else to get to it. I swore many times that I had taken a wrong turn until I saw the familiar 11" x 17" photocopy of the Mona Lisa with the big arrow on it (pointing the way) attached to a metal stand. These were set out at every corner for us mice. The Louvre's architecture inside was equally impressive as it's outside (well, it was nice anyway) with high ceilings with tons of adornment, all marble floors and winding staircases. Very easy to get lost; I did numerous times. There was an incredible amount of work put into transforming the interior for each exhibit - definitely a prized possession of France. Good job dudes.

At the base of a huge staircase I found myself staring up at The Winged Victory of Samothrace. She stood upon a massive base of stone at the stairway's center like a diva holding the spotlight, perfectly complementing the stairways split upwards on either side. There's just something hard to understand about a sculpture over 2,000 years old. The brain no gets it. I went up the left wing and into the royal ballroom where napoleon and others once danced and drank. The ceiling was incredibly intricate with paintings on the walls themselves as well as some that hung in frames (which I think were actually part of the wall meant to look like frames) all adorned by sculptures of angels and grape leaves etc. So cool. Oh - and it was all gold. I forgot that part. That does say Royalty... After a few more twists and turns (and the feeling that this whole Mona Lisa thing was just an elaborate rouse to get me to fly overseas) I caught several flashes out of the corner of my eye from a small, pretty inconspicuous doorway. This had to be the place - I just knew it.

Sure enough: there she was surrounded by guards on either side and a sea of 100+ people all crammed together like the front rows of a rock concert. The room was medium sized and a bit more normal than I expected. Light came through a glass ceiling above like the one from the promenade I saw earlier. She hung inside a thick glass case (flash-proof I'm sure) that was incased in steel and covered to match the rest of the surrounding decor. It was it's own partition in the center of the room - a vault that was constructed to look not so vault-like if you know what I mean. It didn't matter either way; it was pretty rad to be a few feet away from the Mona Lisa. I tried to get closer but everyone was packed so tight and pushing and shoving that I had to do things traffic-style and wait until someone wanted to get out, then grab their bubble before someone else got it. Within 20 minutes I was front and center surrounded by cameras over each shoulder within inches of my head. Claustrophobic? Nah. I took some pictures and soaked up the moment.

After I squeezed out of there I went into the room beyond and saw some other nice paintings. It was all red and pretty. Haha! I visited the statues as well, some of which were sculpted by Michelangelo. I think I was there for a few hours but man I got tired fast! Something about the sheer overload of information since I'd arrived in Paris was starting to wear on me I think. What a great way to wear out!

I picked up a few things at the gift shop before I left and sat for a while at the Starbucks inside where a crazy lady made a scene. It felt good to sit and do nothing at all. I sat there thinking about the whole experience thus far: how crazy it was that I decided to just up and go and that right now for the first time ever I was on the other side of the world sitting in a coffee shop wondering what MY side was up to. Well, sometimes the grass is greener and sometimes you really do find the best patch.

On the way home I was looking out the window as the metro came to a stop and I saw mon petit shu (my little cabbage.) All dressed in black (and she's so pale, she's waiting there for me!) she stood there looking down as she balanced on the outsides of her feet while waiting for her metro. She looked just like Amelie! So Cute! We waived goodbye as I departed. That marked the second farewell to beautiful women I had seen that day. How else would things end up in the city of romance?

Later in the evening Lotfi and I jammed a bit. I think I was on the second bottle of wine I had bought since I'd arrived and it was very nice. Jams in the finest wine country can never go wrong...

Chapter 10: Pigalle

2009-07-12T17:22:00.001-07:00

Pigalle is kind of the Hollywood district of Paris. I like to think of it as the fresh gum on the sidewalk that you don't want to step in (as you glance down at the last minute and almost break your ankle trying to avoid it.) Yeah, it's cool though. I got off the metro in my traditional fashion of "this looks good, I'll take this stop" and headed uphill where I found a one-legged pirate. No joke; this guy was a one-legged pirate. At least he looked like a pirate. Actually I think he was homeless and much nicer than any pirate you'd ever see. I found a little gift shop that had some cool things and I got a present for a special someone. The guy who owned it was an older Frenchmen who smoked cigarettes inside (there was a haze throughout the store) and had enchanted forests coming out of his ears with gnomes sneaking peaks at the outside world. He spoke very little English but he did his best to translate the meaning of the text on the cover of my present. I enjoyed our attempts for common ground. It began to sprinkle outside. I pretty girl popped her head in to say hi and then went on her way. I felt good. I wished him well and continued upward. Europe is so rad.

Up top I found a lot of Brasserie's (cafe's) and other stores. I sat on the corner of one and ordered a beirre blanche and tried my best to roll a smoke. Prologue to cigarette saga: I had purchased a bag of tobacco a few days prior because I wanted the full European experience. I'm not your habitual smoker (nor will I ever be) but that's how they tend to do it in Paris because it's much cheaper and every penny counts. Plus it's kind of fun - if you're not sitting on a windy corner fighting the rain drops splashing off your table anyhow - and if you actually know HOW to roll one...

After my beer I followed the street west to find a pretty cool old church and then a marketplace with all sorts of good looking foods. That was only a few blocks long and I shortly hit the end where I had a decision to either head uphill to who knows where, or turn back and head down to the Moulin Rouge. I chose wisely. When I got there I thought I’d at least find out what going rate for a show was these days. Turns out it’s dinner and a show for $150 and another late show (no dinner) for $99. F- that. No girl is that pretty. Most of Pigalle’s main drag consisted of porn shops and strip bars with hustlers outside trying to get you to come in and check out their girls. No thanks man, I got cigarettes to buy. These people would even follow me down the street for half a block after I told them I wasn’t interested. I guess we’re all feeling the depression nowadays haha. There was a good amount of cops around which was nice. Towards the lower end of the strip I found myself taking a panoramic photo and I noticed a lady across the street (one of those “hustlers” I warned you about) who was getting agitated. I was pretty far away so I thought there was no way she was actually getting angry at one of the 300+ tourists who take pictures in her general direction everyday, but I was wrong. She was yelling and throwing up her arms and then she spit at me! I was across street - way across – and she was acting like I was going to have to dodge her or something. I was pretty scared but hang on, it gets better. She went back inside and I figured I must’ve broken the law or something and that she must be calling the cops since I remembered about the sign they tore down the other day that said: “NO PHOTOS OF GHETTO STRIP BARS WITH TORN UP BITCHES OUTSIDE.” She came back out with a bottle of Perrier (thank God because I was parched) and started flinging the water out of it at my direction. I have that effect on people :) Stay off drugs kids.

I went off the strip and into the back alleys where I found a surprising amount of guitar shops – I mean a lot – every other store was a guitar store or a piano store of some kind. I wondered how these places didn’t drive each other out of business and why this was the first (and only) area in Paris I’d seen that had them. Then I wondered if the American cliché of sex drugs and rock and roll was the reason for it. Hmm...

In all honesty it was a bit to sexy and druggy and rock n’ rollish for me. I preferred my other adventures over Pigalle, but it was still fun - where else can I see chicks on PCP? I wandered south and caught these two trumpet players dressed as bullfighters doing a call-and-response from across the street to each other. I thought I was in Spain for a running of the bulls. Cool sounds. I ended up walking about a mile downhill to this huge church and took a few pictures. I met a girl in the park who was pretty nice too. This is about the end of my recollection for the day. I remember going back to the Eiffel Tower again towards the evening and staring up into the sky. That still topped it all.

Chapter 9: Montmartre

2009-07-11T14:13:00.000-07:00

Montmartre is an interesting area. Kind of urban-meets-tourist-meets-flea market all crunched together. It felt a bit faster paced there than in the other parts of Paris (and Paris in general is pretty fast paced.) It was too crowded and I felt a need to separate myself immediately before I got pick-pocketed. Yes, it was that part of town. Another weird thing that added to the flea market vibe was the large amount of Nigerian immigrant peddlers there. I'd seen them around the Eiffel Tower selling their light-up plastic souvenirs, but this part of town seemed to be a bit more comfortable for them. It was a little intimidating at first for me. Because they were direct immigrants they would forgo certain etiquette that I'd come to expect from living in the states (and big city living in general) and act as they would in their native country: yelling and running around crowded areas, pushing each other (in fun) without regard for the surrounding people and shouting in groups at attractive women as they walked by. Go with the flow Coire heh... Once on my way out of the metro station I was blocked by a crowd of Nigerians blocking the exit and beyond that (although I could not see) I heard large firecrackers going off in front of the local newsstand to which they roared in celebration. These were large explosives - not for sidewalk use - and I wondered how the poor newspaper guy was taking things, where the cops were, and if they were even coming or what. A little weird, that's all. But back to Montmartre: as I got past the first couple blocks I headed uphill and it felt a bit like SF. There's something about a city built on a hill that's complimentary to both man and nature. It makes you feel small, humbled. Looking down the winding streets and alleys was spectacular.

I stopped in a cafe and got myself a mushroom and cheese quiche. The girl behind the counter spoke pretty good English and helped my find the right way through all the twisted roads and odd-shaped intersections to the Sacre-Coeur. I really wanted to stop at a cafe and have a beer but I decided to continue onward; I was too excited to wait. I walked up this back-alley that was in fact a front side path for many apartments and met this sweet old lady and her dog. They complimented each other perfectly. She spoke little English but I appreciated the desire she had to learn about me. I found this kind of openness often during my stay. I looked back down towards the cafe feeling the breeze from above and taking things in for a moment.

The farther up I went the cooler it was to look down. What a view! When I finally got to the top I found several flights of stone steps that weaved up to a winding driveway and the backside of the Sacre-Coeur. I really enjoyed my half-assed (or as I like to call it "unplanned") approach to sightseeing. I liked being one of only a couple people when I got there - nothing worse than meeting a sea of tourists. It began to sprinkle almost immediately so I tried to get a few shots in before I got my umbrella out. Somehow the rain fit the energy perfectly. When I got to the front I saw what the big deal was; I felt like I was in Amelie! It stopped raining a bit and I got a picture or two. Inside was pretty intense as well. They didn't allow pictures, but I remember rows and rows of pews divided at the pillars that supported the sides, and a large path straight down the center leading to a giant gold alter directly under the onion dome that I'd seen from the outside - that was amazing to see inverted sitting underneath it! The alter area had six or so mini-alters each holding a statue, flowers candles and such. The light came through stained glass windows on all sides. I recall the smell of stale musty air, which I thought added to the charm of it all. What isn't charming about a place like that?

Back outside I stood looking out upon the city at the top of a giant stairway (another fun thing about coming up the backside was that I'd saved this part for later!) Midway down the first level a guy that looked a bit like Lenny Kravitz played covers of Bob Marley songs through a PA for the tourists. Can't win 'em all I guess. The rain began again and I headed down the steps, which curved around to the right and made my way to the bottom. Past the shops and bars I found the metro and headed back to Lotfi's place. Side note: It only rained five out of the 14 days I was there, but I really enjoyed it- there's just something about the rain in Paris...

After I got home I went down the street for a walk and ended up in a really cool marketplace that was in fact in an alleyway. It was filled with restaurants, vegetable stands, fresh fish, pasta - you name it. I bought some fresh hand-made pesto ravioli to take home. Yumm.. It started raining again and I stopped just east of the pasta stand under an awning and had a smoke. I felt at home in a European alley surrounded by rain.

Later that night Lotfi and I worked out a few songs, but decided it best if we went to Digo's house to get his guitar in trade for the one I was using. He lived just south of Paris so we walked it. Interesting how things change almost immediately after you leave Paris - it's hard to describe. Anyway, we hung out at his place for a bit, which was interesting. My how I love the smell of hops...

Chapter 8: New Morning

2009-07-08T19:02:00.000-07:00

I spent the next day hanging out with Jeanne. I had met her through Craigslist emails a few weeks earlier when I was apartment hunting on the off-chance I'd end up actually moving to Paris. I read her ad for a flat-mate and responded on it's merits alone; she wanted an artsy, vegetarian, native English speaking musician to join her house crew of such folks and I was certainly just that. I figured why not hang out while I was in town and get a taste of the other side of the music scene, plus get to know a pretty French girl. Lucky me.

The way we met in person was also funny. I was supposed to met her at some street and I had gotten off the metro, so therefore I was lost (again) and looking at my trusty wrinkled map against a building at the corner. I couldn't make any sense of the map so I pretty much used it as an excuse to people watch 70%, find said-street 30%. During my studies I heard a voice: "Coire? Is that you?" I looked up and there she was: short and cute with an accordion in hand. Will wonders never cease ;) She was also lost and just happened to recognize me while she was standing there. Funny right?! After asking a passer-by I carried her accordion (the case was filled with lead bricks for the gig later) and we walked to her friends art show.

Now although I haven't traveled much I can still attest to the rumors firsthand that say Paris is the artistic Mecca of the world. Absolutely. The whole city is such, and the coming show was to be no exception. A few blocks walk and there we were: a gallery show in a building which inside could've been a barber shop, a retail store or something equally aged and eclectic. It was filled with all sorts of wonderful items - another sensory overload from the Parisian mindset I was growing to appreciate so quickly. Everyone inside the show was super nice and most of them spoke enough English for me to converse comfortably. Some guys were dressed as you might imagine (think lofty) with berets, shirts with huge ruffles, sashes, pantaloons...you get the picture. Pretty cool to see. There was free box wine so I decided to have my very first glass; afterall, I'd been in Paris 3 days now and hadn't had a glass of wine - What gives?! Umm... Not so good. Downright gross to be honest. I guess the finest French plastic bags can only instill so much character sometimes... I met Jeanne's mother there (she was very nice!) and they exchanged some words in French that I translated in my head to be something like this:

Jeanne: "This is the guy who answered the ad that I was telling you about."

Mom: "Oh, he seems to nice! And cute! You should see if he wants to get married someday soon!"

Jeanne: "I was thinking the same thing!"

Not true I'm sure, but I was happy to be in good company nonetheless. I went upstairs to the rest of the exhibit and found myself in the buildings attic which had been converted into a whole experience of its own: covered in odd hangings from ceiling to floor and everything in-between. There was a small circle of four people sitting cross-legged on the floor chatting in French as they looked through some paintings that they must have made. It felt good. Kind of a bit like some old movie I can't quite place at the moment. I took a few pictures outside (mostly secretly as to not offend the party-goers) and caught a few gems for the scrapbook.

We took off shortly after that and Jeanne, her mom and I walked back to the metro stop, me carrying my still unfinished glass of wine - it's bad luck not to finish your first glass right? After walking a block and a half it hit me just how cool that was: I was walking down the street in broad daylight with alcohol in hand for the first time ever. I finished my glass in thanksgiving. We all got on the metro and split midway; mom went home and Jeanne and I went to a really nice jazz club (world famous from what I've heard) New Morning. She knew the headlining band so we got on the guest list. That's how I roll. She met up with a friend from the band (this guy from the UK who played the strings) and we all went for a drink before the show. Guess who ordered a glass of wine instead of a beer. Yup, batting 1,000 this time around...

We were on the corner of a surprisingly ethnic neighborhood (or surprising I thought for my expectations of Paris living) and I think I can honestly say that I was the only tourist there with the exception of my Brit friend. Finally a real taste. Yes...

After the drinks we went in and I caught the opening band. By the way: what a cool place! It was the perfect balance of gritty and cool, class and character, beauty and wear. Ah the things I am missing now that I live back in the states! Alas my poor eyes and ears! The music of the opener Blancheneige Bazaar Orchestra, a local band, fell within the borders of gypsy jazz but believe me: it was far beyond anything I've heard. Fuckin-A! Her friends A Hawk and A Hacksaw were fabulous as well. Think what it would sound like if The Decemberists got lost for six months sailing on a pirate ship with the guys from Primus aboard while only drinking absinthe - that's what I'm talking about. Pretty hefty tunes. I remember the bartender working that night: she had a pretty smile.

After the show Jeanne, strings-man and I went back to her place and she made us some pasta for dinner. She lived just outside the city limits (or "the door of Paris" as they call it) where the rent is much cheaper. I listened to the both of them catch up on old times. They had known each other since childhood and I felt as if I was standing across the room looking in on their conversation - on there entire lives - even though I was sitting right there at the table with them. We were all vagabonds (we travel without seat belts on) and I had grown up in England and moved to France several years back. Jeanne was a close friend, this other fellow was an old friend from college and we were catching up on things. They were near and far to me like the way I felt before and I was beginning to understand the power of traveling, that ultimate drug called "experience," that immersion that fuels the human spirit.

I think that was the first real nights sleep I'd gotten since I'd arrived, or maybe the jet lag was finally wearing off - take your pick. Jeanne was up about the same time so we had breakfast together and talked a bit more. I met her roommates on my way out who seemed very nice and indeed "artsy." I thanked her for letting me crash there and asked if she'd like to meet up the following day. She invited me to another show later that same afternoon but I had other things planned: I was off to Montmartre to see the Sacre-Coeur.

Chapter 7: Walker, Parisian Ranger pt. 2

2009-07-04T21:44:00.000-07:00

We took a path through a rich part of Paris that filled my camera up with lots of nice nighttime pictures. They have public toilets in France that are essentially porta-potties. Weird I know. I never used them and that is why I am typing this today. We got to this large square that was centered around a tall stone rod erected by Napoleon after he conquered Germany. My, how that sentence was worded haha... I found it eerie: the stone had a bleeding texture to it and the eagles on the corners looked more like gargoyles. At the base was a creepy pair of double doors and an equally creepy gate surrounded it. Pretty cool at night.

After viewing Napoleons rod we headed back the way we came and hopped on the metro. At least I think we did - my memory is fading and like I said before: random thoughts as organized as possible. When we got off the metro and cleared the building at our side there she was burning in the distance: the Eiffel Tower. Between it and I was a promenade (a great lookout spot) and two staircases about 15' wide leading down to a park. In the park's center there was a fountain which flowed from one pool to the next in steps as the ground descended. I heard the sound of acoustic guitar and singing from some kids and others were sitting on blankets. Beyond the park there was a bridge that led over a river filled with ferryboats and trees at its border. At the end of this stood the Eiffel Tower. I'll never get over the epic movie-like scope of it all.

We went down through the park and across the bridge. I can't explain how awe-struck I was standing at the base of the Eiffel Tower. THE EIFFEL TOWER. What?! Trust me: there are some things you MUST do once in your life and this is one of them. I stood there reveling in how man could have constructed something so massive and so beautiful. I loved the way the beams bent, how every curve was complementary esthetically and structurally, the rivets, the accents of the latticework and how it had a certain path to its overall shape as it climbed up into the night sky. It really was perfect in every way.

I couldn't pull myself to leave easily but I knew that my gracious host had to be getting home soon so we started walking alongside the river where we passed a street crepe vendor. We each got one. Mine was strawberry and delicious. Walking and eating is a Paris pastime I hope to relive someday soon. I don't remember if we walked home or not, but I do know that I walked for around 12 hours that day and when I got home I was grateful to sit down. Sure enough: blisters on the bottoms of both feet. Worth every step I promise you. I sat there that night with another feeling I can't begin to describe.

Chapter 7: Walker, Parisian Ranger pt.1

2009-06-27T20:38:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-26T21:49:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-06-26T18:27:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-25T00:48:00.000-07:00

Coire, Digo, Lotfi, Fab.

Chapter 4: For Those About To Rock

2009-06-21T17:52:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-20T21:44:00.000-07:00

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?"

2009-06-20T13:33:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-06-19T17:22:00.000-07:00

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.