Marshall Art Studio

Monday, September 4

We left Boston’s Logan Airport at 4:45 p.m. on Sunday. We arrived in Paris’Orly International Airport around 9:00 am (French time) the next day. During the long trip, it occurred to me just how huge this journey would be. After all, I’d be a foreigner who didn't speak the local language. What would I do? How would I get to all the sights, or even know which of those sights would be worth going to? How would I buy Twinkies? Luckily, some local friends gave me a list of fun things to see and do. Of course, I forgot to bring it with me. We’re off to a good start already.

Instead of packing properly -- which I had all of Sunday to do -- I hung out with my old pal, the beautiful Judy White. She’s the red-headed vixen who talked me into buying a camera to document my European Vacation. I’ve never taken photos before. It seemed that stopping whatever fun I would presumably be having, in order to use the camera, would be counterproductive to going on vacation in the first place. My freckled companion countered that by saying that her seeing a bunch of my photos would enable her -- or anyone else -- to “live your adventure vicariously.” That, and her threat to never speak to me again, was the final selling point. Besides, I’ve never even loaded film into a camera before, so who knows how the damn things will come out anyway? Computers I know. But this is the first 3 mm experience I’ve ever had (unless you count those “art” photos, taken back when I really needed the money), so good luck, I say!

Speaking of photography, I should dedicate at least one paragraph to my completely horrible passport photo. This is my first passport, so I didn’t know I’d be stuck with this damnable image for ten years. When it was just taken, I thought this was merely the ugliest photo of me ever taken. Now that a few months have passed, I’m convinced it is the ugliest photo of anyone ever taken since the first camera was built. I’m told that sucky passport photography is nothing new, but even most-traveled and passport-savvy among my crew were amused and shocked at how this image turned out.

As already mentioned, the flight proved to be pretty long and exhausting. Although the graceful Sophie Cohen-Solal-soon-to-be-Gordonized was my pal, I traveled with the groom’s entourage. The cast of characters: Michael (the groom, God help him) Gordon, as well as his brother William and sister Lisa, his parents Peggy and Walter, and his long-time buddies Tom and Walter Carr. Good pal Shohei would join us later on Thursday. The flight from Boston to New York’s JFK was pretty short and we had an hour to kill before heading to France. While still at Logan, we saw the New England Patriots’ come-from-behind victory over the Cleveland Browns, so airport entertainment was not an issue. At JFK, we were stuck between a bar and a Burger King, both of which would close at 7:00 pm. It was 6:30 pm when we arrived. You know, the help gets pretty serious about going home on time. Since we didn’t make up our minds to eat until 7:59:30, this proved to be an issue. We’re lucky to have gotten out alive.

So there we were, on this big-ass plane, heading to Paris. For some reason, we tacitly agreed to avoid talking for most of the trip. In fact, I actually managed to sleep for almost half of the 7-hour flight. This would play a major role in my inability to match my sleeping patterns to Paris time.

We all took the Metro to Sophie’s parents’ house. One thing that instantly struck me was the electronics. Sophie bought our Metro tickets through this machine that took her ATM card. This vending system was much more interactive and advanced that any transit system I’ve ever seen. Unlike the one in San Francisco, this one even works! Her father later showed me an on-line service that gives him access to local train schedules, ticket fares, shopping centers and more. The computer geek within me made a thankfully-brief appearance and was utterly amazed.

While traveling along the Metro, I noticed a couple of things. Being in a land where every single word -- both printed and spoken-- is in another language can make mere existence into a surreal experience. As far as direct contact with any native who wasn’t bilingual, we were at the communicative level of 2-year-olds. Where were all those convenient translator devices we saw on Star Trek? To say the least, asking for street directions was bound to be an adventure. Anyway, I now have a new-found appreciation for what foreign pals of mine went through when they entered the United States.

The buildings also caught my attention. Since most of the tracks between Orly and Paris are at least 40 feet above the Parisian suburbs, I could look, through the round-cornered windows of the train, down upon the rooftops. They were a collection of shapes, textures and sizes that I’ve seen in photographs,but never in this context. The buildings, roofs, pipes, chimneys, drains and tiles absolutely drew in all my attention.

The only similar experience I’ve ever had was when I first came to Boston at 17 years old.

It was 1980, my first year at Massachusetts College of Art. I was staying with family in Roxbury’s Dudley Square, which at the time was the last stop on the transit system’s Orange Line. The track was elevated high above Washington Street, between Essex Street and Dudley. In September of that year, my daily commute offered a bird’s eye view of all the tenements, gas stations and record stores. The view was so fascinating that I stared with all my intensity. Every fiber of my being tried to soak in all the details; memorizing every nuance, all the shapes, pipes, skylights, laundry lines and billboards. It seemed like a giant Lego village. Getting any artistic feelings from this new toy seemed like stealing. I ran straight from the station to my Aunt Linda’s house, frantically drawing as much detail as possible before my short-term memory would cause my precious mental snapshots to vanish. These trances would sometimes last for hours. The next morning, on the way back to school, I’d bring my sketches with me to compare them to the actual cityscape. This process went on until Christmas.

For Paris, I didn’t bother; looking was enough.

By the time Sophie and her parents got the tired, smelly, rag-tag lot of us into their home, we’d been up and on-the-road for 19 hours. My plan would have been for us to catch a quick shower and nap, then do the social thing later in the evening. But nooooo ... both parents decided -- no doubt based on their vast experience in international traveling -- that we should all try to stay awake until 10 pm to battle the jet-lag. 12 hours later. So there we all were, staring into space in the Cohen-Solal living room. There were more than a few pockets of silence. We must have come off as boorish Americans, but the truth is we were simply pooped. After comparing notes with the others later, I know now that any one of us could have fallen asleep the instant we thought we could get away with it.

Thank God Sophie’s mom is a great cook, but an even better host! She didn’t just make a terrific meal, she presented it one course at a time. Each dish was more elaborate and involved that the last. The food was wonderful, but I think the actual act of eating somehow gave us our second wind. And Sophie’s mom seemed to relish in the role of presenter, host and savior. She made us feel so comfortable.

After brunch, Sophie introduced us to the Metro, bought us week-long transit passes, showed us where and how to exchange our dollars into francs. Sophie and Mike took the rest of the entourage to the hotel to get situated. This left me alone with François, Monsieur and Madame Cohen-Solal. They were nice enough to let me sleep until Sophie could return to drop me off at my temporary residence Willy’s apartment, which is in the Belleville neighborhood (9 Rue Morand,right in between the Belleville, Parmentier and Couronnes Metro stops, the 20e arrondissement). Michael is fond of referring to the apartment (or “flat” as they say here) as “Das Boot”, because of the unique architectural design. The walls are white with thick stained-wood trim. The floorboards are wider than average and creek. Willy’s rafters have ancient-looking runes burned into them, presumably to ward off evil spirits.

This area is neat, but not as pristine as the more tourist-conducive Saint Augustin area where the hotel is. A mosque is just at the end of the block. There are a lot of Arab-looking dudes, so this must be a predominately northern-African ’hood. Having been raised in an American ghetto, and having lived in Boston’s Roxbury twice as an adult, I wondered just how safe this neighborhood was. Did I import American paranoia? Philippe later told me that this neighborhood used to be a red-light district that was full of crack dealers. From what I see tonight, quite a bit of money and a lot of spirit must have been put into rebuilding the area. There are no hoodies with beepers, no cars jacked up on cinder blocks and no winos. And I didn’t see one pregnant teenager. Belleville’s vibe doesn’t have the same unspoken, constant potential threat of danger I’m used to.

Mike and Sophie dropped me off around 9:00 pm. They split, I fed Clementine -- the cat -- and that was that.

Tuesday, September 5

Ahh, my first Parisian shower proved to be an adventure. With no shower curtain I flooded the entire bathroom. “Will I now have the unexpected opportunity to meet Willy’s downstairs neighbors?” I wondered. “Must remember to get a shower curtain. Come to think of it, I should also replace the fading fluorescent bulb in the bathroom as well. That’s blinking so badly it looks like a strobe light. I should either get a new bulb or the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack.” Perhaps I should have remodeled “Das Boot” into “Le Disco.”

Clementine didn’t touch her food. Is she sick, or merely finicky? With no way of knowing, I replaced the unappreciated food and took off. It took me 90 minutes to make a 30 minute commute from Willy’s to the hotel. The sudden rain of this day caused such a confusion with the street vendors and the trucks that it was impossible to visually find the damn Metro station. The fact that I misread the Metro map didn’t speed things up. Plus I got diverted when I had to make my first French purchase -- an umbrella from a neighborhood general store -- with no translator. With no way of speaking the local language, I was reduced to using cheap pantomime. This lead to an important discovery: the average Frenchman has no sense of humor. This salesman looked at me as if I needed to be locked up. Perhaps he’s right, but what would they jail me for? Exhibitionism with intent? Sheesh! Anyway, by the time I finally made it to the hotel, the others had already eaten and were just about to go.

The hotel is called “Cercle National des Armées” which is evidently reserved for people who fought for the French military and their relatives. Luckily, Sophie’s immediate family was more than qualified. It’s not listed in any tourist guide that I could find, which cut down the number of goofball American visitors. Obviously they didn’t count on Mike & Company being so well connected.

When I finally arrived, Sophie brought us up to Montmartre and Notre Dame. Physically speaking, Peggy Gordon had the hardest time. Days before, she broke her right foot in a boating accident and now had to run around either in a wheelchair or on crutches.It seemed odd that a city so old and sophisticated -- both in art and technology -- would be so behind the times in handicap accessibility. Amazingly, she was and is nothing short of graceful, humorous and strong-spirited.

Emotionally, the strain of hauling an army of loud, clingy Americans up the million-and-a-half stairs of Montmartre was finally getting on Sophie’s petite set of nerves. Who could blame her? We honestly had that “deer caught in the headlights“ awe at everything we saw. By the time we reached the top, ostensibly to eat crêpes, poor Sophie tried to ditch us.

I remember my dad doing something like this in a very similar situation. He was taking care of my brother Gabriel’s huge, hyperactive dogs one summer. They’d run all over the house and smash just about everything. Dad’s solution was to take them up this giant, steep and wooded hill on their walk. San Francisco has a lot of hills like this. By the time Lassie and Fido had finished their ritual of playing, pooping and climbing this monster incline, they were simply too tired to cause anymore havoc. Heck, they were too exhausted to do anything but sleep.

Did Sophie try this on us? If so, I think her little ploy backfired.

Once we got to the top, we made our way past the shops --after a quick crêpe break -- to buy post cards and see all the local artists hard at work. Watching the craftsmen hustle and peddle their portrait skills kinda made me want to draw. After all, I hadn’t sketched a thing in days. Since I was a visitor, I decided to walk around to absorb as much of their techniques as possible. Y'know, it’s quite possible that I forgot that France is one of the leading nations in the world when it comes to documentary realism. Guess I got jaded by all the incompetent portrait con-artists in Harvard Square. These Parisian cats were BAADDDD!! One draftsman-- working in pencils and crayons -- drew this young woman’s face one part at a time without sketching the whole face first.On this blank paper he rendered one eye in great detail. Then the other, more slowly than the first. It was as if he already had a photo of her on the paper, only no one else could see it.The act of drawing was only to translate his vision to the rest of us blind people.

Another portrait artist --an Italian dude -- even managed to hit on Lisa, who fell for his old-world charm (You are very beautiful ... you must sit down and let me draw you! Your eyes are very beautiful ...) like a ton of bricks. She was beaming for days. [Note: Drawing a really smooth and flattering portrait of a woman can really get to her ... heart.] While Michelangelo was working on the lovely Ms. Gordon, I finally decided to whip out my sketchbook and get into the act my own bad self. Trouble was that I felt a bit intimidated by the raw talent that was already up there. This feeling was all too familiar.

Back in high school, I was the best artist they’d ever seen. I could do no wrong. But when I got to art school in the big city, I was surrounded by other kids who’d been the best artists in their home towns. Suddenly, I wasn’t unique, the best or even cute anymore. The days of me effortlessly amazing the multitudes had come to a crashing halt. From then on I had to work at it. At worst, I felt like a charlatan, a fraud that finally got caught, a sham.

This is how I felt in Paris.

Perhaps this is why my attempt to draw Sophie didn’t quite work out like I’d planned. She hated it. Then again, she couldn’t sit still and was a terrible model. But I couldn’t help noticing how much better the professional portrait artists work was. However, a really attractive waitress named Caroline seemed to think my little sketches were worth noticing. Her every spare moment was spent looking over my shoulder. Since my confidence was not at its best, however, I simply let that opportunity slip away. Much like Sophie’s portrait.

This was a very long day,especially for Mike, Bill and Walter. They carried Peggy’s wheelchair up and down every flight of stairs we encountered. The rain returned, postcards were bought and Sophie -- with Mike -- finally ditched us. The rest of went back to the hotel, where I napped with the others. A few hours later, we all split in different directions. Bill and Lisa, along with their parents went off to dinner. Walter "If it’s not Scottish, it’s crap" Carr waited for a friend of his, a woman named Terry, to arrive. This left Tom and I to fend for ourselves.

I decided to leave my backpack at the hotel. It was so heavy with my books, camera, film and art supplies. I was sure I’d be around the next morning to pick it up, so why not leave it for the night? Once that monumental decision was made, Tom and I hung out until 10 pm, when Sophie and Mike would join her old pals Philippe and Laetitia at a pizzeria somewhere around Bastille. Did I mention how beautiful most of the women around here are? Somehow I imagine all the ugly folk being marched out to their deaths somewhere outside of Paris, perhaps in the east. (Are there concentration camps for cosmetically-impaired? This would explain the continued existence of Brighton and Somerville.)

The six of us had a lovely time. It is at this moment when I realize just how difficult it must be for anyone to speak English as a second language. Sophie is pretty fluent, but all my attention was focused on Sophie’s pal Laetitia, who’s English was a bit more of a struggle. Her conversations in French -- with Sophie-- was rapid-fire. Although flattered whenever she spoke with me, it hurt to have the discussion come to a momentum-crashing halt when she had to use English to communicate with us, Tom or I, the lazy or arrogant foreigners who didn’t come prepared.

After dinner -- my second one that night -- Philippe took us to this fashionable, nearby bar where a White Russian cost around 65 francs. I even got a beer spilled on me by a clumsy waiter. Sophie told me the others were planning a trip to the Georges Pompidou Art Center, and if I wanted to be part of it I should meet them at a designated spot at 2:45 pm. “Sounds like fun, count me in” I said. We wrapped up around 2:00 am, when all the bars in Paris close. For commuting reasons, Philippe stayed with me at Willy’s place. I asked him to wake me before he took off first. “Sure” he said. Oh, the damn cat was still not eating.

Wednesday, September 6

Of course Phil didn’t wake me. When I arose from my coma around 1:30 pm, this note was on the front desk:

“The cat didn’t touch her food. I think she decided to start a diet. Anyway, she’s too fat. I did not wake you up because you were sleeping like a baby.”

--Phip

Thanks pal. One quick shower/shave/dressing session plus another manic Metro ride later and I was there, right on time. The Art Center is a huge, ugly building that is designed to look like a ship. It houses a library, replicas of boats and one of the Modern Art Museums. There are a few courtyards around the building, and I was supposed to meet the gang in one of them. A detail or two might have escaped me, for the old crew was nowhere to be found. "“Great, my reputation for punctuality and dependability is showing itself once again.” In comparing notes later, it was deduced that I was standing in the wrong courtyard. Not only did I miss my fellow Americans and my dear pal Pascale, I had to put up with these annoyingly inept bongo drummers, portrait artists (not as good as yesterday’s crop) and other Parisian slackers. It was like any day in Harvard Square. I waited in vain for 30 minutes. Then thinking they must have gone inside, I did too.

While my American contingent was outside in another courtyard wondering where the heck I was, I was lost in a world of Picasso, Miro, Matisse and DeKooning. Time, punctuality and anything outside each painting was rendered meaningless. The museum was well-designed, huge and there were a lot of paintings to absorb. In Earth terms,I was in there for a good three hours. After that, I stopped at the hardware store to get the stuff for Willy’s apartment.

With all the sensory and cultural overload, it was a relief to be inside a Parisian hardware store. Somehow, being surrounded by power tools, light switches, cables, replacement doorknobs,wire cutters, electric drills and plumbing supplies made me feel right at home. “Arr! Arr! Arr! Arr! Arrrrrrrrrrr!” Buying things without knowing how to speak the language was tough, but somehow I managed.

By the time I got to the hotel, it was around 7:30 pm. The American crowd was amused,but not amazed at my latest screw-up in missing them. Bill even told me, in a tone usually spoken by teachers scolding a child, said “Dave, you just don’t work well with groups. ” Lucky for him, I decided to take that as a compliment. Once again we all went on separate supper plans. The immediate family --Sophie, her brother and parents; Mike, Bill, Lisa and their parents -- had their own dinner. Walter had another date with Terry, so it was Tom and I again. After retrieving my backpack, we hit the road. I felt far too dorky with all my stuff, so we decided to stop off at Willy’s first to unload my stuff. Then we’d find a restaurant, a bar and hit on French babes!

I forget that some people are not used to seeing a neighborhood dominated by dark-skinned folks. Our approach to Willy’s house was admittedly indirect, since I got lost from using an unfamiliar Metro station to start from. The walk from Belleville to Willy’s was more confusing than I thought. During the entire process of finding the house, Tom was getting more and more nervous. Ordinarily a cheerful and witty fellow, he got quiet and was wondering aloud about our safety. We finally got to 9 Rue Morand around 8:45 pm. Tom wanted to get out of this area as quickly as possible, so we ended up heading for Bastille again.

Only in the name of soothing Tom’s nerves did we eat at the Tex Mex place. That’s right: two four-eyed swinging single men eating at the same kind of place we could have found anywhere in America. Maria, a polish woman who knows many languages, was our spunky waitress. Imagine my surprise to find she spoke no Spanish. Considering her place of employment, this was rather odd. Nevertheless, she made an otherwise dull meal into a flirty -- if futile -- occasion.

We were still keyed up, so we found a bar just down the street. The blaring house music made this place a must for Tom. It was called “The American Cafe.” The Guinness was all right, but my attention was captured by this woman’s face. Her name is Jael, a waitress from Holland. The direction of my thinking must seem a bit obsessive, but this is Paris, dammit! Besides,I have it on good authority that women of Paris are used to getting approached by strange men. We managed to get her attention. Heck, she was leaving anyway, but she decided to spend a few minutes with us before leaving. We told jokes to each other, laughed and had a good time. I even managed to talk her into giving me her phone number. Oh, the intrigue! Mission accomplished, it was time to go home.

Thursday, September 7

At 10 am, Willy’s flat was hit by a “home invasion.“ Actually, it was only Mike and Sophie bringing Shohei from the airport. Having no warning, I was still soundly asleep when they arrived. I knew Shohei would share Willy’s apartment with me, and was due to arrive today. But no one told me what time he’d get here. While they were all perky and dressed, I carried on my part of the conversation in the bedroom under the sheets. Somehow I managed to put on some clothes to properly greet them, but I'll get Sophie back for this!

After dropping off his stuff, Shohei left with Mike and Sophie. I recovered, cleaned up and headed for Sophie’s. Before leaving, I managed to install the shower curtain (yay!) and accidentally break the bathroom fluorescent light fixture (boo!) Willy is gonna be pissed!

Deciding to move quickly, I made it to Sophie’s flat in record time. Shohei and I went to the Eiffle Tower, which is way over-rated. The weather was gray and windy, so they didn’t let anybody up to the top. It was also crowded by far too many tourists. Nonetheless we were determined to display our “purchasing power” by getting a lot of junk, presumably to pass off onto our friends.

We hung around at some cafe in Bastille before heading back to the hotel. The entire group got together for the so-called bachelor/ette party. I say “so-called” because we didn’t do the traditional rites, which usually involve each gender gathering and sinning separately. To fully realize the last night of single life for our soon-to-be-newlyweds, we went to a huge bar/cafe. In attendance were: Mike/Bill/Lisa Gordon, Sophie with her cousins Delphine & Laetitia (who has the same name as Sophie’s friend Laetitia), Shohei, Tom and I. Walter and Terry joined us much later. I spent much of the night asking Delphine to suggest a restaurant for me to take Jael. After a long session of goofiness,the royal couple left us to our own indecisive devices. We eventually wound up in -- you guessed it -- The America Cafe! My dutch Goddess was not working this night, dammit! We drank until the place closed, and that was that. Shohei and I split a cab to Willy’s. Oh yes, the cat is still not eating. Boy is this bathroom dark...

Friday, September 8

The big wedding is today! Shohei and I woke up around 1:15 pm and had to join the others -- at the hotel -- at 2:30. Two lightning-quick showers and a brisk Metro ride later and we make it exactly on time! Phillius Fogg would have been so proud.

Streaking to and through the Metro with Shohei perfectly illustrated our different methods of being strangers in a strange land. Where I would tend to wander, improvise and depend on memory, he studies with a deep concentration. I glance at the map and move; he never stops consulting the Japanese/English/French phrase book or the map. I wanted to make mistakes and then learn from the process; he never wanted to make a mistake. Which way of dealing was better? It’s truly hard to say. Shohei had half as many days as I did in Paris, but by Thursday I started Metroing around without the map; he couldn’t. Then again, he got much better in speaking French. My process method seems to be much more time-consuming. Check back with me in a year, OK?

We all Metroed to the city hall. Lisa Gordon points out that she never saw all the guys dressed up in suits at the same time, and that we looked like hit men from Quinten Tarantino’s “Reservoir Dogs.” Whatta wit on that babe. The ceremony was short, secular, but reverent. We in the back (Pascale, Philippe, Willy and I) felt kinda sorry for Mike when we saw that there was no English interpreter. The poor guy probably vowed to drink Sophie’s bath water on a daily basis.

After a long outdoor photo session, we were abandoned once again until the 7:00 pm reception. Bill, Lisa, Walter, Tom, Shohei and I walked around and wound up walking down Ave. des Champs-Elysées. This is the spot the Newbury Street in Boston desperately tries to be. The sidewalks are huge and spotless. There is a monster record store across the street from the cafe we eventually settled on. It’s called the Virgin Megastore. While we sat, we were spotted by a family of pan-handling gypsies. Momma gypsy weighed around 300 pounds of goo and wanted us to finance her eating habit. She had one infant in her right arm and a gang of 5- to 10-year old children with her. Unlike American beggars, this team would not take “no” for an answer. Why, they even thought your favorite Daveman handsome extra cash in his pockets! If only they knew.

It’s times like this when I remember the late, great Robin Harris saying “What the F*** is SPARE CHANGE? Have you thought of getting yourself a spare JOB? Then you would have some of your own spare change. Get out my face with that, or I’m'a give you a spare ass-whipping.” Unfortunately, I couldn’t deliver any of these precious views in French. Now learning this damn language is my top priority! Then I could tell Moms that her laying off the bon-bons for a day would’ve fed all of her humiliated brats for a week. As it was, my snappiest comeback was several shouts of “no” How witty.

The others made it back to the hotel on time. I, of course, had to stick around Ave. des Champs-Elysées and walk down to the Arc de Triomphe. It’s a magnificent looking building from the outside. I wanted to go inside, but the perpetual traffic, circling around the monument like a swarm of four-wheeled hornets, prevented me from crossing the street. The only way to get inside was to use one of the clearly-labeled underground entrances that somehow escaped my notice at the time; I wasn’t due to discover that fact for another 24 hours.

Speaking of the driving around these parts, I’ve noticed that the white lines on the roads are only suggestions. As such, they-- apparently -- are not intended to be followed strictly, or even at all. The same interpretive policy also conveniently applies to the use of turn-signals.

The reception itself was a lot of fun. The food and the vibes were so good I didn’t mind the music being too terrible. The French have a love/hate relationship with American culture. On one hand, it is very chic to trash crappy action movies, tourists, political theories or anything else coming from the good old U.S. of A. You should see the glee in their eyes when they talk about our crime-riddled, litigation crazy, Elvis/UFO-sighting society. Yet they deified Jerry Lewis, John Wayne and most recently Jim Carrey. The art of black Americans -- from Jazz to Hip-hop-- is very popular here. (The French don’t seem to be as enamored with black people from Africa. Black Africans get harassed by police and are blamed for the nation’s increased unemployment and crime. Kinda sounds like America.) Why then, was I surprised that the dance music of the reception was almost exclusively 1950’s Rock and 1970’s Disco? One ethnic stereotype was confirmed: the French can’t dance to save their lives.

One American tradition that won’t be making it to Paris anytime soon is the tabloid newspaper and talk shows. Pascale chatted about this just after the wedding, and we both noted that UFOs are always landing in the stupid parts of America. They are usually spotted by semi-literate hillbillies that live in swamps and trailer parks. According to Pascale, France has a few alien-abductees also. However, since they live somewhere east of Paris, they are not invited to talk shows and are easily ignored.

As mentioned earlier, the food was terrific! No, I can’t recall the name of anything I ate, so you'll just have to trust me. There was this wedding game where the bride, my pal Sophie, was up on a pedestal in front of the entire party. To say that she merely like being under the spotlight would be an understatement. The point of the game, as explained to me by the lovely and talented Ines Bravo, involved money. Ines is the daughter of a close friend of Sophie’s parents, so maybe she knew what this bizarre display was all about. The men would put francs into a hat to get Sophie to reveal a bit of her leg. The women would pay up to keep that wedding gown down. I didn’t figure out the object of the game until after I put up an apparently small pile of change in the hat. Since the number of men and women were about equal, Sophie escaped with her honor intact.

The party went on and on. I was getting a bit sleepy by 2 am, the Royal Couple disappeared and the group of Americans wanted to keep the flow going in their adjoining hotel rooms. Shohei stayed with the gang and this Daveman cabbed it to Willy’s.

At the wedding, Pascale invited us all to her birthday party on Saturday, the next night. Having no other plans, I saw no reason not to go. In retrospect, perhaps I should have stuck to that plan.

Saturday, September 9

I woke up around 1 pm. The game plan was:
1. Hang out with Jael (Miss Holland) from 2:00 pm until 4:00 pm
2. See the Marc Chagall show at the Musée D' Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris
3. Sketch
4. Get back to the hotel around 7:00 pm to join the others ingoing to Pascale’s.

Joining the others was important, since they had the address to the party. This gave me a little time to kill, so I decided to stake out the neighborhood that Delphine suggested I take Jael to. However, by the time I got her on the phone to confirm, she was too sick to move. Come to think of it, she didn’t invite me to come up to her place. Hmmm ... strike ONE! I called the lovely and talented Ines, but she was too busy studying linguistics and couldn’t come out. Strike TWO. My reputation as an American Gigolo was fading quickly. Oh well, I still had Chagall and Pascale. Off to the Musée!

It took at least 45 minutes to get into the museum. Part of this was the huge draw Chagall has for the popular art world. After all, this show covered his more obscure Russian period(Les Années Russes 1907-1922). The viewer really got to see the young Marc struggle, experiment and explore. The day he discovered Cubism (1910-1914, "Lumière-Liberté")was like a bomb, or a bookmark. The fact that security was searching every bag upon arrival didn’t exactly speed things up either.Considering the current bombing crisis, this was the only rational response.

Her name is Emmanuelle; I met her at the museum. She stood around 5' 6", had long wavy dark brown hair that gives her a Pre-Raphealite look. While standing in line, I noticed her. She wore an ankle-length black dress with a pink sweater over it, standing behind me unescorted. This would be around 3:30 pm. “Maybe she’s waiting for someone,” I thought. So it didn’t occur to me to bother her until 5:30 pm, which was about 30 minutes before closing time. After removing my watch, I sat next to her and said “Excusé moi,parlez-vous English? Oui? What time is it?” Not very original, but it worked. Sophie told me later how much she admired my attention to detail, since most men using that line often forget to takeoff the watch. When the security folks eventually kicked us out, I accepted her offer to walk her around outside.

Her English was a bit rough, but light-years beyond my French. We chatted about how over-crowed the museum became, exchanged second-language slang, art and life in general. Daveman is thinking “Hey, there’s a chance,” but the lovely Emmanuelle was giving off some verrrry mixed signals. She had a boyfriend, yet spending an open-ended amount of time with me -- presumably blowing off the fella while I blew off Pascale. She was very affectionate, but was also biting her fingernails whenever we got close. By midnight the poor lass had nothing left to gnaw.We were locked in a sustained, forever-present state of indecision and intrigue that lasted six hours.

During that time we walked up and down Ave. des Champs-Elysées,successfully got to the roof of the Arc de Triomphe, which had a lot of stairs. The view, much like the hike to get up there, was breath taking; much better than that of the Eiffel Tower. After taking some photos from the roof, we came back down and strolled over the Seine, around Notre Dame and the Louvre. She even sprung for dinner.

As we left the restaurant, I began to feel ashamed, misleading and mislead. Why would she neglect her boyfriend so blatantly? It was pretty clear to me why I chose to forget about the party, but was I premature in expecting a physical -- oops, I mean romantic-- encounter? Back around 7:00 pm, it did occur to me to call the hotel, in order to get the directions to Pascale’s party.Deep within me, I knew we were destined to part that night; denial can be so loud sometimes.

When I first arrived in Paris, all the cute couples walked about hand-in-hand, smooching and otherwise Publicly Displaying Affection. “They must really be in love” I thought. After spending the night walking around with Emmanuelle, I now know the truth: a woman who doesn’t have a guy holding her every second they're in public is fair game. Every horny guy in the city was boldly checking her out, with no fear or even acknowledgment of me. It was as if I were only a figment, or a bodyguard. Furthermore, the women don’t necessarily have to actively hold the guy. The definitive question is whether or not she lets him hold her. Men here don’t hold hands with their girlfriends purely because of deep love; it also keeps the wolves at bay.

We got to somewhere near her flat around 1:30 am. At 1:35 am I was looking for a cab. It had started to rain heavily and the Metro stopped running. Just my luck, I found the one cabdriver in Paris who didn’t know the way to Parmentier or Couronnes. He brings me to Republique instead. It was only one Metro stop away, but I didn’t know which direction to walk. I wasted 10 minutes waiting in the rain for another cab. Evidently, there are not a lot of cabs here.

Just one block down from the Republique Metro station was a taxi stand in the middle of the street. I joined the collective of other single travelers, all boxing each other out for the same cabs. The many bars in the neighborhood were closing, so the crowd was deep. A gorgeous young woman tried hailing a cabby herself, but was completely ignored. A man rushed right by her and got into the back seat of the taxi. She even tried negotiating a fare-splitting treaty, but the dude was not interested. After a few more minutes of failed diplomacy, the taxi took off. The woman sighed, smiled in the rain and threw up her hands as if to say “what are you going to do?” Her example helped calmed me down a lot.

Once walking seemed to be the only option, I stormed off in the wrong direction for 15 minutes. After spotting a Metro station that was nowhere near my destination, I corrected my trajectory and made it home in by 2:30 am. What a great way to cap off one of the most confusing nights of my life. The only message for me on Willy’s answering machine was Shohei saying he crashed at the hotel. I had no way of knowing where the big party was,or even if it was still going on. Therefore, I slept.

Oh yes, the cat finally started eating. The poor thing only had the half can of food I gave her the night before. It was still full when I split in the morning, so why continue trashing and replacing the food? Looks like she finally got the idea.

Sunday, September 10

I woke up around noon and hit the Louvre! Mona Lisa is the most over-rated painting in all of art history. Luckily, there are thousands of better paintings all around, below and above it.Art history classes taught me some things about the Louvre. Its architecture is ornate and orderly. There are a lot of painting, sculptures and other art objects in it. No one ever told me how big the damn building is. Is there another nation willing to dedicate this much physical space to the preservation of art? I had to focus my attention on only viewing paintings just to make the most of my four-hour visit.

That afternoon, I joined the rest of the gang at the hotel. This was our scheduled final dinner together, so we all went to this terrific Algerian restaurant. The crowd was made up of the following personnel: Sophie, her parents, her brother François,her “American parents” Jim and Karen; Mike and his parents, his siblings Bill and Lisa, his pals Tom and Walter,Shohei and my own bad self. We had couscous the way it was meant to be served. Sophie’s dad was nice enough to order our food for us. Is it my imagination, or does he speak and move like a really cool Anthony Quinn?

We “kids” left the parental units at the restaurant,so we could hang out with Philippe somewhere back at Montmartre. It was difficult to find a bar open on Sunday, but Philippe has extra-sensory super powers when it comes to matters like this. Since we had to get up at 6:00 the next morning, there was a limit as to how much drinking we could actually indulge in. On the way back, Philippe let me ride his newly-painted bicycle down a wet, narrow and really steep cobbled road. That’s another thing I'’l have to "“thank” him for.

We all went to our respective homes, packed, cleaned and crashed early.

Monday, September 11

Our plane was already in the field at boarding time,so we had to climb up a portable staircase just like folks did in the 1960’s. This is important, because after we were all buckled up and ready to go, we couldn’t go. The pilot told us some oil filter had to be changed and that it would take at least one hour to change. The plane couldn’t even be moved back to the gate, so we had to wait inside the plane. The filter change ended up taking two hours, which really screwed up our connection from NYC to Boston. Thank God the flight attendants were so terrific! A pretty young woman named Kat chatted with all of us, and then only me. She was small-framed, perfectly tanned and wore bright blue mascara. She even gave me two bottles of wine from first class. If only she didn’t live in Florida ... Another stewardess spoke, in Japanese, with Shohei for a very long time. Double hmmmmm ...

While listening to Kat, I got the idea that Paris is pretty much hated by the rest of France. Outside of Paris, everyone is friendlier, more humorous, rural and generally more pleasant. Can you tell that Kat is from the south of France? If I’m gonna kick it to the south next year, I’ll HAVE to learn this damnable language!

From this chat and others, I also have to review my stance on the social rules around here. Although the city is crowed,I was first amazed that every exchange between people -- strangers or not -- always included a “please” and “thank you.” While I first though this was fantastic. After being here a while, I’m now inclined to think this layer of manners is really thin. Lurking underneath that layer is an intense yearning to avoid being bothered. No one talks on the Metro. Folks around here seem just as antisocial as New Yorkers or Bostonians, only they engage in these rituals of surface-level niceties that are about as sincere as those used by high-society women who, when in public, kiss loudly without touching or smearing their carefully-layered makeup.

Before we finally took off, I took a brief stroll around the aircraft just to see how the different classes were handling the crisis. The first class people looked like they were drunk before boarding the plane, so they were in various forms of stupors.The business class people were either sleeping or working feverously on their laptops, trying very hard to turn this 2-hour delay into an opportunity. Such career dedication is an awesome thing to behold. The rest of us deadbeats in coach were chatting it up with the help.

Once we finally landed in New York, the connecting flight to Boston had to be determined. The kind folks at Delta (We Love To Fly, And It Shows) put us on some twin-engine Cessna that somehow got us to Boston in one piece. We said our good-byes, promised to attend the wedding after party in Jamestown R.I. later on in October, and that was that.

THE END