25 Nov, 22:06, Charles de Gaulle
24 minutes tll boarding. 69 minutes til departure. This is the end of my french sojourn.
So tired, and looking forward to home. But also know i’m gonna miss this faraway land that has in some ways felt like my home. Each time i left paris, i longed to return.
Today was a bit special. I walked and walked, and looked and thought, and soaked it up. A couple of times i reached for my camera, but stopped myself. No photos today. Just enjoy the moments.
I visited proust at Pere Lachaise cemetery. I looked at the names of many dead people, etched into stone.
I made my last purchases, ate my last food, took my last look.
I don’t exactly know why i love paris. A combination of things, i guess. One of those being that it’s new, different, exciting. I wonder if i would love it as much if i were here for 6 years and not 6 weeks. I can’t help thinking that i would. Plenty of films, good food, nice people, and much to inspire me to be creative and to do things. I think i would be fine.
Not to say i’m going to move here. Well, not immediately. I can’t think of this now – I have so much waiting for me in Australia. My favourite people live there. The ones i need around me. The ones i’ve missed. And in my tired worn out state just now, i need to be home. I need to know that home is just 24 hours away.
Maybe i can only move to places if there’s a time limit, for I have difficulty committing to anywhere indefinately. I can’t live in Newcastle. I can live in Sydney, but Sydney is 2 years, for now. Timed with the completion of my degree. And after that, who knows. Maybe Melbourne, maybe paris, maybe somewhere that i’m yet to visit or imagine.
And i quite like not knowing. It’s unfortunate that others may not. But i can’t promise anyone anything if the question involves ‘where’.
Charging my ipod. Playing mine sweeper, watching people, and now writing. Internet is 6 euro per half hour. Ridiculous. So i do these other things to pass the time. I’ll check my email in Singapore. Might even update my facebook status.
I bought the herald tribune to read on the plane. After sleep. It reminds me of jean seberg in ‘a bout de souffle’ (breathless, by godard). There was a shop in Bordeaux named after this film. it mostly sold film scripts and books, but i bought a jean seberg postcard. Another Parisian etranger. Another mirror. But it seems i won’t be witnessing a Parisian street death. Well, not for now.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Monday, November 24, 2008
blog review
i just read my entire blog so far. interesting. i think i like it for its occasional shimmer. i also think i whinge too much. sorry about that.
i could make a pact with myself that i will whinge less, but it's unlikely to happen.
in the words offered by bananarama, and many of people i've loved (but certainly not for this reason), "i can't help it".
i could make a pact with myself that i will whinge less, but it's unlikely to happen.
in the words offered by bananarama, and many of people i've loved (but certainly not for this reason), "i can't help it".
le retourn á paris
train got into paris-montparnasse close to midday. my room wouldn't be ready for another hour, so thought i'd explore montparnasse. it was cold. trés trés froid. and there were specks of white in the wind. snow? really?
went to a café for lunch, and sure enough, the specks of white grew in size and number. it was snowing in paris. it was pretty.
though by the time i left the café the snow had changed to liquid. it has been raining since. not such a nice welcome after all. now in my hotel room, drying my shoes and pants, and have showered to thaw out. waiting for the sun that won't arrive (it's 4.30).
after today - 2 days left here. and so many things to do. makes me more annoyed about the rain.
but i compensate with patisserie goods. when i arrived at the hotel my room was not ready, so i walked the streets hoping to stumble upon a patisserie oasis. it's sunday, so most shops are shut. it was not looking good, so i decided to just get something from the average looking place near the hotel. thankfully i lost my way. and voila! the oasis! rhubarb tart was my choice. but it was a tough decision. and i need to return tomorrow for the almond cake. or one of many other things. the rhubard was trés delicieux.
my room is very small. very ugly too. it's called hotel modern. it doesn't feel very modern. doesn't even appear to have a lift. i guess, as always, it depends on the context in which you use the word 'modern'.
bordeaux was a bit dull. i think i would have enjoyed it more if i was a middle-aged wine and antique collector. lots of fountains and big stone buildings, but i'm least impressed by those now. not that i ever really was. though maybe in marseille i was. i ended up shopping for some french cds i've been meaning to get. i got:
les shades - my favourite french rock band so far. kinda punk-pop. heard them on the radio a lot, downloaded a few tracks, and yeah, i felt it necessary to have this album. they are playing in bordeaux next week, but i was a week too early for that.
second sex - any band naming itself after the beauvoir book (as i hope they've done) has got to be good. again, heard them on the radio. a bit similar to les shades, perhaps. retro pop-rock. the cd came with a free poster and bandana (black with red 'second sex' written all over it).
les vedettes - unlike the others, i didn't yet know this band. but the cover looked interesting, and i listened to it on one of those sampling booths, and yes, it was trés bon. perhaps a french version of cansei de ser sexy?
went to a café for lunch, and sure enough, the specks of white grew in size and number. it was snowing in paris. it was pretty.
though by the time i left the café the snow had changed to liquid. it has been raining since. not such a nice welcome after all. now in my hotel room, drying my shoes and pants, and have showered to thaw out. waiting for the sun that won't arrive (it's 4.30).
after today - 2 days left here. and so many things to do. makes me more annoyed about the rain.
but i compensate with patisserie goods. when i arrived at the hotel my room was not ready, so i walked the streets hoping to stumble upon a patisserie oasis. it's sunday, so most shops are shut. it was not looking good, so i decided to just get something from the average looking place near the hotel. thankfully i lost my way. and voila! the oasis! rhubarb tart was my choice. but it was a tough decision. and i need to return tomorrow for the almond cake. or one of many other things. the rhubard was trés delicieux.
my room is very small. very ugly too. it's called hotel modern. it doesn't feel very modern. doesn't even appear to have a lift. i guess, as always, it depends on the context in which you use the word 'modern'.
bordeaux was a bit dull. i think i would have enjoyed it more if i was a middle-aged wine and antique collector. lots of fountains and big stone buildings, but i'm least impressed by those now. not that i ever really was. though maybe in marseille i was. i ended up shopping for some french cds i've been meaning to get. i got:
les shades - my favourite french rock band so far. kinda punk-pop. heard them on the radio a lot, downloaded a few tracks, and yeah, i felt it necessary to have this album. they are playing in bordeaux next week, but i was a week too early for that.
second sex - any band naming itself after the beauvoir book (as i hope they've done) has got to be good. again, heard them on the radio. a bit similar to les shades, perhaps. retro pop-rock. the cd came with a free poster and bandana (black with red 'second sex' written all over it).
les vedettes - unlike the others, i didn't yet know this band. but the cover looked interesting, and i listened to it on one of those sampling booths, and yes, it was trés bon. perhaps a french version of cansei de ser sexy?
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
"i always rely on the kindness of strangers"
in three days i have traveled from high to low.
early morning sunday in marseille i walked alleyways and streets to meet Renaud at Vielle Port. we walked up the hill, him with bike, and took many stairs towards the church above, built upon rocks. we can see all of marseille as the sun rises.
he insists i see inside the church, so we take a look. old people are praying and lighting candles. a high handpainted ceiling with lots of gold. Renaud points up and says, 'and see, there is the gay flag' (the image of a rainbow). it's funny because of his accent, his cheekiness, the context of the situation - two fags in church on sunday morning, tip-toeing around the believers. he says if he knew all things, and discovered that god did not exist, he would keep it a secret, because so many people depend upon that single belief.
he makes coffee and we eat the pastries that he made me order at the boulangerie. we talk. life, languages, the world. he's young, beautiful, wise. we talk without touching, except for goodbye kisses. one on each cheek - my first real french kiss.
i check out of my hostel, browse street markets, stop for coffee in a small bar. as i'm leaving a guy starts to chat. he doesn't speak much english, but tries for me, and i speak french for him. he tells me he's from algerie, but also france. he has dual citizenship. he shows me his residency card. he's proud. i ask if he goes back much, and he does. i assume he goes via boat, but he flies. it only takes 1 hour (pauses to think) 20 minutes. i say goodbye, tell him 'enchanté' and leave. it's the first time i've used this expression, but in this situation it's valid. i was. a pleasant chat with a stranger, finding out a bit about the other. meanwhile, the woman who made my coffee chats to other patrons (all algerian, i suspect), and r'n'b music videos play on the tv in the corner.
i walk to the water where i sit on a wall and make camembert and tomato sandwiches. the sun is out. i write and reflect upon my day so far, my realisation that conversation is the new sex. the buzz, the high, from talking to strangers and meeting new people seems extraordinary. i'm smiling. i'm the happiest person on the planet. but soon to become the most frustrated.
the first train is late, i miss my connection, i board another to port bou. the conductor tells me to go to barcelona i must get off at perpignan not port bou. so i do. i ask when the next train to barcelona is, and the snfc woman points to the train i just got off, says to change at port bou. it starts moving. i explain that i was told to get off here. she says she doesn't understand, and nor does she speak english. she says no trains to barcelona until the morning. tells me i can't use my ticket again and need to buy another. i'm telling her that the snfc man on the train told me to get off here. i suspect she understands, but is disinterested. she tells me to go to the ticket machines because they speak english.
so i spend a night in perpignan. it's late, there's not much to see. i find a hotel and a net café. my hotel room is big, with 2 double beds, one pink, one yellow. someone has painted green vines all over the yellow walls, around doors, on the furniture. i eat cous cous, brush my teeth, wash my face, have a cry.
next morning the couple in the room over the hall are screaming at each other. i shower, dress, leave. i get a new ticket (with 'exceptionally' no charge), some croissants, and board the train. the coastline around the border is impressive, and i start to think missing the train was possibly worth it, for this. passports are checked on either side of the border. in france the guy asks where i'm from. 'australie'. 'oh, c'est bien'. he doesn't need to see it. i'm safe, insignificant.
barcelona-sants. is this my stop? i wanted to go to barcelona-franca. perhaps it will go there too. but the woman behind me says 'this is your stop' and a man has a ticket for my seat. and i have to grab all my bags and fight my way through all the new passengers. and the woman behind me is on the edge of her seat, giving me a look of 'you can do it. go! go!' and i make it off the train.
i find information. find the trains that can take me to the other station, queue to buy a ticket, go to take my wallet from my pocket. but there's no jacket and no wallet. my jacket is still in the train, in the overhead compartment. fuck!
tears well as i wait for the woman to return from her break at the lost and found desk. when she does, i discover she doesn't speak english. she asks a few colleagues, but none of them speak english. fuck!
through sign language, and finding a few words we can understand each other by, and referring to my phrase book, she makes a note of the missing items, my train number and seat, my hotel number. that's all she can do. she tells me 'one to two days'.
i walk onto the street. get out my gay map*, start walking in the direction of my hotel. tears in my eyes. i walk past a large Miro sculpture. i don't care. i love Miro and that's partly why i'm interested in barcelona, but i really couldn't care. i want to be home. to be able to speak to somebody. to cry, alone, not on these streets.
i find the hotel but there's a sign saying to phone the manager. i have no phone. i have no change to use a public phone. i wait, but nobody is passing through this door. i finally ask a passer-by if they speak english. they don't. after a while i try another. he does. i explain my situation, but cringe as i hear myself say i've lost my phone and wallet. sounds like such a lie. i show him my booking invoice and ask if he might phone the number for me. he does. i thank him again and again, tell him he's very kind.
i'm in the hotel. turns out the manager doesn't speak spanish, so he was confused by the guy who made the call for me. i tell him my situation. i have to stop him from speaking several times, because he keeps cutting in. talking about money, my booking, my being late. i say 'please listen' and explain delicately what has happened. he understands. he says i can pay the remainder owing tomorrow, shows me the room, lets me use his phone. he says his friend can call the station for me, because his friend speaks spanish.
so many details. so many frustrations. so many tears. i fax the australian consulate thinking they might be able to lend me a few euro to get by. no response. the station says phone back in the morning. the phone cannot make international calls. i'm online, waiting for someone in australia to wake up, so they might phone mark for me, tell him to get online. no money, no food, but a plush hotel room with clean linen, a tv, toaster...
more tears than i have shed in a long time. thankfully i have the internet. i chat to Renaud and he convinces me that it's not so bad. i'm hungry. i try my luck with gaydar. sure enough, someone wants to chat. they ask what i think of barcelona. i tell them i hate it, but not because of barcelona, because of my situation. he says don't take this the wrong way, but how about i buy you dinner. sure.
mark appears online and we organise money wiring. i dine with a stranger, eduardo. he's nice, but we don't have much in common. he's mexican. he tells me about the spanish languages, spanish history, gives a bit of local knowledge. i learn that i'm staying in the dodgy part of town where there's muggings. i laugh and say, well they're not going to have much luck getting my wallet. i don't think he gets why it's funny.
dinner was goats cheese salad, mushroom ravioli, creme caramel with raspberry coulis, lambrusco. so cheap compared to france. i tell him i'll repay this favour.
it's past midnight. back to the hotel, to emails from mark, and all is on track.
this morning i pick up the money. the cashier is jovial and she laughs with the other cashier about something. keeps on laughing. it's comforting. the feel of cash between my fingers is also comforting. and back at the hotel the lost'n'found person is on the phone. they have my jacket. it's 6 hours away. they will have to mail it to me, but i have to phone the place where it is. i do, but they don't speak english. the manager's friend will call again later.
so things are on the up. i walk back into the streets and start to actually see them, and like them. gritty streets with an interesting blend of people. grunge, colour, punk, elderly. the alley ways are slim, tall, and busy with people. i drink coffee for the first time since sunday, to ease the slight throb in my head. a croissant - but it's bad. what's with the sugar syrup coating? a walk by the water. a seat by the water. a bit of grocery shopping. and back here for tomato and goats cheese sandwiches.
*i picked up a gay guide to barcelona while in brussels. they had them for most european cities. i'm so glad i did, as without it i'd be even more fucked. it has a map with ads of half-naked men around the outside, so i've self-consciously folded all the edges over.
early morning sunday in marseille i walked alleyways and streets to meet Renaud at Vielle Port. we walked up the hill, him with bike, and took many stairs towards the church above, built upon rocks. we can see all of marseille as the sun rises.
he insists i see inside the church, so we take a look. old people are praying and lighting candles. a high handpainted ceiling with lots of gold. Renaud points up and says, 'and see, there is the gay flag' (the image of a rainbow). it's funny because of his accent, his cheekiness, the context of the situation - two fags in church on sunday morning, tip-toeing around the believers. he says if he knew all things, and discovered that god did not exist, he would keep it a secret, because so many people depend upon that single belief.
he makes coffee and we eat the pastries that he made me order at the boulangerie. we talk. life, languages, the world. he's young, beautiful, wise. we talk without touching, except for goodbye kisses. one on each cheek - my first real french kiss.
i check out of my hostel, browse street markets, stop for coffee in a small bar. as i'm leaving a guy starts to chat. he doesn't speak much english, but tries for me, and i speak french for him. he tells me he's from algerie, but also france. he has dual citizenship. he shows me his residency card. he's proud. i ask if he goes back much, and he does. i assume he goes via boat, but he flies. it only takes 1 hour (pauses to think) 20 minutes. i say goodbye, tell him 'enchanté' and leave. it's the first time i've used this expression, but in this situation it's valid. i was. a pleasant chat with a stranger, finding out a bit about the other. meanwhile, the woman who made my coffee chats to other patrons (all algerian, i suspect), and r'n'b music videos play on the tv in the corner.
i walk to the water where i sit on a wall and make camembert and tomato sandwiches. the sun is out. i write and reflect upon my day so far, my realisation that conversation is the new sex. the buzz, the high, from talking to strangers and meeting new people seems extraordinary. i'm smiling. i'm the happiest person on the planet. but soon to become the most frustrated.
the first train is late, i miss my connection, i board another to port bou. the conductor tells me to go to barcelona i must get off at perpignan not port bou. so i do. i ask when the next train to barcelona is, and the snfc woman points to the train i just got off, says to change at port bou. it starts moving. i explain that i was told to get off here. she says she doesn't understand, and nor does she speak english. she says no trains to barcelona until the morning. tells me i can't use my ticket again and need to buy another. i'm telling her that the snfc man on the train told me to get off here. i suspect she understands, but is disinterested. she tells me to go to the ticket machines because they speak english.
so i spend a night in perpignan. it's late, there's not much to see. i find a hotel and a net café. my hotel room is big, with 2 double beds, one pink, one yellow. someone has painted green vines all over the yellow walls, around doors, on the furniture. i eat cous cous, brush my teeth, wash my face, have a cry.
next morning the couple in the room over the hall are screaming at each other. i shower, dress, leave. i get a new ticket (with 'exceptionally' no charge), some croissants, and board the train. the coastline around the border is impressive, and i start to think missing the train was possibly worth it, for this. passports are checked on either side of the border. in france the guy asks where i'm from. 'australie'. 'oh, c'est bien'. he doesn't need to see it. i'm safe, insignificant.
barcelona-sants. is this my stop? i wanted to go to barcelona-franca. perhaps it will go there too. but the woman behind me says 'this is your stop' and a man has a ticket for my seat. and i have to grab all my bags and fight my way through all the new passengers. and the woman behind me is on the edge of her seat, giving me a look of 'you can do it. go! go!' and i make it off the train.
i find information. find the trains that can take me to the other station, queue to buy a ticket, go to take my wallet from my pocket. but there's no jacket and no wallet. my jacket is still in the train, in the overhead compartment. fuck!
tears well as i wait for the woman to return from her break at the lost and found desk. when she does, i discover she doesn't speak english. she asks a few colleagues, but none of them speak english. fuck!
through sign language, and finding a few words we can understand each other by, and referring to my phrase book, she makes a note of the missing items, my train number and seat, my hotel number. that's all she can do. she tells me 'one to two days'.
i walk onto the street. get out my gay map*, start walking in the direction of my hotel. tears in my eyes. i walk past a large Miro sculpture. i don't care. i love Miro and that's partly why i'm interested in barcelona, but i really couldn't care. i want to be home. to be able to speak to somebody. to cry, alone, not on these streets.
i find the hotel but there's a sign saying to phone the manager. i have no phone. i have no change to use a public phone. i wait, but nobody is passing through this door. i finally ask a passer-by if they speak english. they don't. after a while i try another. he does. i explain my situation, but cringe as i hear myself say i've lost my phone and wallet. sounds like such a lie. i show him my booking invoice and ask if he might phone the number for me. he does. i thank him again and again, tell him he's very kind.
i'm in the hotel. turns out the manager doesn't speak spanish, so he was confused by the guy who made the call for me. i tell him my situation. i have to stop him from speaking several times, because he keeps cutting in. talking about money, my booking, my being late. i say 'please listen' and explain delicately what has happened. he understands. he says i can pay the remainder owing tomorrow, shows me the room, lets me use his phone. he says his friend can call the station for me, because his friend speaks spanish.
so many details. so many frustrations. so many tears. i fax the australian consulate thinking they might be able to lend me a few euro to get by. no response. the station says phone back in the morning. the phone cannot make international calls. i'm online, waiting for someone in australia to wake up, so they might phone mark for me, tell him to get online. no money, no food, but a plush hotel room with clean linen, a tv, toaster...
more tears than i have shed in a long time. thankfully i have the internet. i chat to Renaud and he convinces me that it's not so bad. i'm hungry. i try my luck with gaydar. sure enough, someone wants to chat. they ask what i think of barcelona. i tell them i hate it, but not because of barcelona, because of my situation. he says don't take this the wrong way, but how about i buy you dinner. sure.
mark appears online and we organise money wiring. i dine with a stranger, eduardo. he's nice, but we don't have much in common. he's mexican. he tells me about the spanish languages, spanish history, gives a bit of local knowledge. i learn that i'm staying in the dodgy part of town where there's muggings. i laugh and say, well they're not going to have much luck getting my wallet. i don't think he gets why it's funny.
dinner was goats cheese salad, mushroom ravioli, creme caramel with raspberry coulis, lambrusco. so cheap compared to france. i tell him i'll repay this favour.
it's past midnight. back to the hotel, to emails from mark, and all is on track.
this morning i pick up the money. the cashier is jovial and she laughs with the other cashier about something. keeps on laughing. it's comforting. the feel of cash between my fingers is also comforting. and back at the hotel the lost'n'found person is on the phone. they have my jacket. it's 6 hours away. they will have to mail it to me, but i have to phone the place where it is. i do, but they don't speak english. the manager's friend will call again later.
so things are on the up. i walk back into the streets and start to actually see them, and like them. gritty streets with an interesting blend of people. grunge, colour, punk, elderly. the alley ways are slim, tall, and busy with people. i drink coffee for the first time since sunday, to ease the slight throb in my head. a croissant - but it's bad. what's with the sugar syrup coating? a walk by the water. a seat by the water. a bit of grocery shopping. and back here for tomato and goats cheese sandwiches.
*i picked up a gay guide to barcelona while in brussels. they had them for most european cities. i'm so glad i did, as without it i'd be even more fucked. it has a map with ads of half-naked men around the outside, so i've self-consciously folded all the edges over.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
je suis fatigué. je suis libre.
fatigué = tired. libre = free.
another day of train travel tomorrow. 6 hours to barcelona. finally booked accommodation after several hours looking. many websites to search, a short memory of which are the best ones to use, a lot of wading and checking maps and weighing up price and distance. finally found something quite central.
barcelona scares me. it's so unfamiliar and i can't speak a word of spanish. i guess it's touristy, so i may not need to. i haven't had a chance to look at my phrase book. though i don't think i have the space to grapple with another language just now. perhaps i won't speak at all, or will speak english and expect to be understood. it's only 4 days i guess.
i'm getting lazy and have been speaking english with the staff at the hostel i'm staying at.
french tires me. i know i've improved, but i still have a long long way to go. when i next visit france i hope to be able to engage with people here. trying to find the words to express such simple things can be draining. hence, i'm in bed, having a nap, at 6pm.
when i bought my ticket to barcelona the woman was rude to me. the booking fee was more than usual, so i asked why. she said that's what it is, do you want to make a reservation or not. i said well i'm just not sure why it's 13 euro when it's usually 3. and she says if you're not sure then you shouldn't buy the ticket. but... fuck! do i have a fucking choice? just give me the fucking ticket and take the 13 fucking euro! of course, i did not say it like this.
strange that a small incident like this can have a big impact on my day. as though i've had a falling out with a good friend.
and just prior to this was the man who served me cous cous with a vegetable soup that had meat in it. i point out the 'viande'. it's there, on my fork, and he tries to tell me it's 'legume'. he replaces it with another dish, which i suspect was the same dish with the meat and liquid removed. i find a smaller piece of meat. i eat around it a little, feeling bad for being a fussy whinging middle-class white boy, but at the same time, the thought of the vegies being cooked in a meat-based stock makes me feel ill and unable to eat. meanwhile, he is occasionally feeding family members around me, when they call in. it's like i'm eating in the family home. so rejecting this food (good, edible food for most people) seems really wrong.
i don't eat much, mostly the plain cous cous, and then go to pay. he asks if everything is ok. i say there's still meat in it. he refuses to accept my money. i feel bad, and leave a 2 euro coin on the table (half of what the meal was supposed to be).
i like marseille. though it's a tough place. the canadian guy says it's 'sauvage'. i agree. but it's so interesting at the same time. more than any other place it has got me thinking about borders, human traffic, and how most people don't have the freedom to travel as i'm doing now. could it be that the issue of national security is the new (and acceptable) xenophobia? the words sprayed on the walls of this city seem to suggest that this is the case.
another day of train travel tomorrow. 6 hours to barcelona. finally booked accommodation after several hours looking. many websites to search, a short memory of which are the best ones to use, a lot of wading and checking maps and weighing up price and distance. finally found something quite central.
barcelona scares me. it's so unfamiliar and i can't speak a word of spanish. i guess it's touristy, so i may not need to. i haven't had a chance to look at my phrase book. though i don't think i have the space to grapple with another language just now. perhaps i won't speak at all, or will speak english and expect to be understood. it's only 4 days i guess.
i'm getting lazy and have been speaking english with the staff at the hostel i'm staying at.
french tires me. i know i've improved, but i still have a long long way to go. when i next visit france i hope to be able to engage with people here. trying to find the words to express such simple things can be draining. hence, i'm in bed, having a nap, at 6pm.
when i bought my ticket to barcelona the woman was rude to me. the booking fee was more than usual, so i asked why. she said that's what it is, do you want to make a reservation or not. i said well i'm just not sure why it's 13 euro when it's usually 3. and she says if you're not sure then you shouldn't buy the ticket. but... fuck! do i have a fucking choice? just give me the fucking ticket and take the 13 fucking euro! of course, i did not say it like this.
strange that a small incident like this can have a big impact on my day. as though i've had a falling out with a good friend.
and just prior to this was the man who served me cous cous with a vegetable soup that had meat in it. i point out the 'viande'. it's there, on my fork, and he tries to tell me it's 'legume'. he replaces it with another dish, which i suspect was the same dish with the meat and liquid removed. i find a smaller piece of meat. i eat around it a little, feeling bad for being a fussy whinging middle-class white boy, but at the same time, the thought of the vegies being cooked in a meat-based stock makes me feel ill and unable to eat. meanwhile, he is occasionally feeding family members around me, when they call in. it's like i'm eating in the family home. so rejecting this food (good, edible food for most people) seems really wrong.
i don't eat much, mostly the plain cous cous, and then go to pay. he asks if everything is ok. i say there's still meat in it. he refuses to accept my money. i feel bad, and leave a 2 euro coin on the table (half of what the meal was supposed to be).
i like marseille. though it's a tough place. the canadian guy says it's 'sauvage'. i agree. but it's so interesting at the same time. more than any other place it has got me thinking about borders, human traffic, and how most people don't have the freedom to travel as i'm doing now. could it be that the issue of national security is the new (and acceptable) xenophobia? the words sprayed on the walls of this city seem to suggest that this is the case.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Nice Ville does not translate to nice city
i'm struggling to like Nice. from the moment i got off the train (perhaps even earlier) i knew this was going to be difficult.
it's a world away from Paris. there's an abundance of bleached hair and bronzed bodies. way too many poodles for my liking. lots of old people. and way too much rollerblading along the esplanade. it's another version of Miami (or rather, how I imagine Miami). last night i walked past a tacky café with Wham! playing very loudly (wake me up before you go-go). it seemed perfect, but not in a good way.
the beach is pebbles. signs advise you not to swim there.
it feels like this place was special many decades ago. now it's full of people on the edge of life, still trying to be beautiful. and poodles.
maybe i'm not trying hard enough. maybe i need to stop comparing everything to Paris.
i did have an amazing food experience though, improving my vision of Nice. Went to a bakery and asked the woman if what looked like croissant aux amandes was in fact that. she said yes, but pointed to a tray of brioche aux amandes, saying they were bigger (plus grande). the croissants were pretty small, so i opted for the brioche. it was warm, just out the oven, and pretty fucking unbelievably good! crisply on top and soft and warm in the middle. i was tempted to return for more. but that would make it less special. thinking about it now is having a strange effect on me. so good.
i walked around for a bit this morning, and will head out again soon to explore some more and to buy my train ticket out of Nice. i was eager to do this earlier, but forgot my Eurail pass.
bought a few supplies from a supermarché and the woman at the check out was rockin out to Bob Marley. that was pretty cool. she was quirky. looked at my mandarin and said 'une clémentine!' and giggled. to which i replied 'oui!'.
it's a world away from Paris. there's an abundance of bleached hair and bronzed bodies. way too many poodles for my liking. lots of old people. and way too much rollerblading along the esplanade. it's another version of Miami (or rather, how I imagine Miami). last night i walked past a tacky café with Wham! playing very loudly (wake me up before you go-go). it seemed perfect, but not in a good way.
the beach is pebbles. signs advise you not to swim there.
it feels like this place was special many decades ago. now it's full of people on the edge of life, still trying to be beautiful. and poodles.
maybe i'm not trying hard enough. maybe i need to stop comparing everything to Paris.
i did have an amazing food experience though, improving my vision of Nice. Went to a bakery and asked the woman if what looked like croissant aux amandes was in fact that. she said yes, but pointed to a tray of brioche aux amandes, saying they were bigger (plus grande). the croissants were pretty small, so i opted for the brioche. it was warm, just out the oven, and pretty fucking unbelievably good! crisply on top and soft and warm in the middle. i was tempted to return for more. but that would make it less special. thinking about it now is having a strange effect on me. so good.
i walked around for a bit this morning, and will head out again soon to explore some more and to buy my train ticket out of Nice. i was eager to do this earlier, but forgot my Eurail pass.
bought a few supplies from a supermarché and the woman at the check out was rockin out to Bob Marley. that was pretty cool. she was quirky. looked at my mandarin and said 'une clémentine!' and giggled. to which i replied 'oui!'.
Lyon, pluie*, and the kindness of strangers
(written Tuesday afternoon on the train from Lyon to Nice)
Lyon is bigger than I thought. I arrive at the station. It’s called Lyon Part-Dieux. I thought Dieux meant God. And part is ‘to leave’. Has Lyon abandoned God? It’s times like these that I realise I've far to go with my translations. I look around for an info desk, ready to ask for ‘une carte de la ville’, but can’t see one. Perhaps I won’t need one. So I find a door with a sign indicating the direction of the city. I walk the streets, there’s a few shops, but doesn’t seem like the city. I take note of landmarks, particularly the tall ones, so that I might find my way back.
Most of the shops are closed. I start to question if it's really Tuesday; a weekday.
There’s signs pointing to the city, but I follow them and it’s looking more lifeless than ever. I give up and start heading back to where I think the station might be. Perhaps I’ll just stick around this particular area for today, for the sake of not missing my train to Nice, and avoiding the *rain.
It rains softly at first, but grows heavy. I start to eat the cheese sandwich that made my bag smelly, and made me hesitant to open my bag on the train. My left hand drags my suitcase, my right holds a sandwich and umbrella. Frustrated, I stop in the doorway of a closed supermarket, to rest and eat. A woman is unpacking her car across the road. She crosses over, approaches me. I get ready for my usual line. “Pardon, mon francaise est mauvais. Erm... pas se vite?” She asks if I know English, then asks in English if I can help with getting her bike out of the car.
I leave my suitcase in her foyer as I help her. She thanks me. I ask her if the station is nearby. I was almost right in the direction I was heading. She asks if she can offer me a coffee. I look at the rain and contemplate. Sure. First I have to help her load up the lift with her stuff. It’s a tiny lift, but everything fits in, and us too.
She apologises for the mess. I ask if she’d been on holidays. But she has broken up with her boyfriend. They were only together for a year but she thought he was the man of her dreams.
She only has instant coffee, so I opt for mineral water instead. She offers me some citron syrup to add, says it’s a local thing. At least I think that's what she said. She speaks mostly in French, but clarifies things in English when I don’t understand. I’m getting good practice. She clarifies the water thing. It’s d’eau, but if you say ‘a glass of’ it’s ‘de l’eau’. Oui. D’accord. Merci.
She calls her parents to let them know she’s home. I ask why the shops are closed, and she starts to say it’s a public holiday when I remember that it’s November 11. Of course. She asks if I mind that she smokes. Not at all.
She has lived here for 12 years, but grew up in/near Geneva, studied at Grenoble. I tell her I thought Lyon was smaller than it is, but she says it’s the largest city after Paris. Oh. I guess it pays to do your research and read those guidebooks. I have 2 hours to kill and ask if she has recommendations. She suggests the Opera house as a nice spot with interesting architecture. And a couple of other places that are further away. Suggests that it will only take 15 minutes on the metro (2 trains) to return. I mention my past difficulties with the metro, including this morning when I ended up catching a taxi to Gare de Lyon. She points out that the crayon building (it’s round with a pointy top) is a good marker of where the station is.
I go to get pen and paper to draw a map, but she has a printer that photocopies, so runs me off a copy. The rain has stopped. Time to go. But it starts again when I'm crossing the bridge. I get wet and my 2 Euro umbrella from Augsburg keeps folding out on itself. I see the opera house. It’s nice, but not spectacular. I like walking by the river though. I like that there’s a river snaking through the centre of Lyon. Just like Paris. Only wider. And with less honeymooners taking photos of each other on the bridges. I have a coffee, check my map, walk back.
I have to walk through a mall which is crazy busy. This is where all the people are. I guess it's crap weather outside, and most other shops are closed. This mall, its shops, its shoppers, could be anywhere. All of a sudden I’m in Westfield, Australia. I search for the exit.
I finally find the station. Find a chair. Sit and eat yesterday’s leftover pasta. The train is late, the platform is cold. Moving towards Nice now, though it’s a big trip at about 4.5 hours. PC battery is about to die, and it seems there are no power points here, which is odd. Tired anyway, so will sleep. And hope that Nice is nice. Going by the other people on this train, I imagine everyone there looks more Italian than French. My kind stranger tells me that Nice is very small. She says her geography is bad, but I point out that it’s not, if compared to mine.
Lyon is bigger than I thought. I arrive at the station. It’s called Lyon Part-Dieux. I thought Dieux meant God. And part is ‘to leave’. Has Lyon abandoned God? It’s times like these that I realise I've far to go with my translations. I look around for an info desk, ready to ask for ‘une carte de la ville’, but can’t see one. Perhaps I won’t need one. So I find a door with a sign indicating the direction of the city. I walk the streets, there’s a few shops, but doesn’t seem like the city. I take note of landmarks, particularly the tall ones, so that I might find my way back.
Most of the shops are closed. I start to question if it's really Tuesday; a weekday.
There’s signs pointing to the city, but I follow them and it’s looking more lifeless than ever. I give up and start heading back to where I think the station might be. Perhaps I’ll just stick around this particular area for today, for the sake of not missing my train to Nice, and avoiding the *rain.
It rains softly at first, but grows heavy. I start to eat the cheese sandwich that made my bag smelly, and made me hesitant to open my bag on the train. My left hand drags my suitcase, my right holds a sandwich and umbrella. Frustrated, I stop in the doorway of a closed supermarket, to rest and eat. A woman is unpacking her car across the road. She crosses over, approaches me. I get ready for my usual line. “Pardon, mon francaise est mauvais. Erm... pas se vite?” She asks if I know English, then asks in English if I can help with getting her bike out of the car.
I leave my suitcase in her foyer as I help her. She thanks me. I ask her if the station is nearby. I was almost right in the direction I was heading. She asks if she can offer me a coffee. I look at the rain and contemplate. Sure. First I have to help her load up the lift with her stuff. It’s a tiny lift, but everything fits in, and us too.
She apologises for the mess. I ask if she’d been on holidays. But she has broken up with her boyfriend. They were only together for a year but she thought he was the man of her dreams.
She only has instant coffee, so I opt for mineral water instead. She offers me some citron syrup to add, says it’s a local thing. At least I think that's what she said. She speaks mostly in French, but clarifies things in English when I don’t understand. I’m getting good practice. She clarifies the water thing. It’s d’eau, but if you say ‘a glass of’ it’s ‘de l’eau’. Oui. D’accord. Merci.
She calls her parents to let them know she’s home. I ask why the shops are closed, and she starts to say it’s a public holiday when I remember that it’s November 11. Of course. She asks if I mind that she smokes. Not at all.
She has lived here for 12 years, but grew up in/near Geneva, studied at Grenoble. I tell her I thought Lyon was smaller than it is, but she says it’s the largest city after Paris. Oh. I guess it pays to do your research and read those guidebooks. I have 2 hours to kill and ask if she has recommendations. She suggests the Opera house as a nice spot with interesting architecture. And a couple of other places that are further away. Suggests that it will only take 15 minutes on the metro (2 trains) to return. I mention my past difficulties with the metro, including this morning when I ended up catching a taxi to Gare de Lyon. She points out that the crayon building (it’s round with a pointy top) is a good marker of where the station is.
I go to get pen and paper to draw a map, but she has a printer that photocopies, so runs me off a copy. The rain has stopped. Time to go. But it starts again when I'm crossing the bridge. I get wet and my 2 Euro umbrella from Augsburg keeps folding out on itself. I see the opera house. It’s nice, but not spectacular. I like walking by the river though. I like that there’s a river snaking through the centre of Lyon. Just like Paris. Only wider. And with less honeymooners taking photos of each other on the bridges. I have a coffee, check my map, walk back.
I have to walk through a mall which is crazy busy. This is where all the people are. I guess it's crap weather outside, and most other shops are closed. This mall, its shops, its shoppers, could be anywhere. All of a sudden I’m in Westfield, Australia. I search for the exit.
I finally find the station. Find a chair. Sit and eat yesterday’s leftover pasta. The train is late, the platform is cold. Moving towards Nice now, though it’s a big trip at about 4.5 hours. PC battery is about to die, and it seems there are no power points here, which is odd. Tired anyway, so will sleep. And hope that Nice is nice. Going by the other people on this train, I imagine everyone there looks more Italian than French. My kind stranger tells me that Nice is very small. She says her geography is bad, but I point out that it’s not, if compared to mine.
Monday, November 10, 2008
chocolate, street art, and many beers
I have a big crush on Bruxelles.
I arrived at 10H47, left at 22H13. I had no idea what to expect. Picked up a free map from the information desk and went out into the day.
Walked through a market. Looked, but nothing grabbed me. Lots of clothing, some produce and plants and plastic junk stuff. Funny how markets are always the same. Dodgy clothes and jewellery. Cheap but uninteresting. Puffy jackets, racks of tracksuit pants, synthetic hats and scarves...
I keep walking. Searching for a café as I need to piss. There are no free toilets. I spot a rainbow flag down a side-street. It's a bar called Homo Erectus. Amusing. Then I spot more and more rainbow flags. Bars mostly, but nothing is open yet. And a queer bookshop that I will return to once open.
It's Sunday, so most shops are closed. Though there doesn't seem to be a lot of shops. Or there are, but they seem more discreet. Maybe there are mega-malls in the suburbs. Lots of winding paved streets. The buildings seem more gothic than Paris. More varied.
I get some frites from the friterie, but sans mayonaise. I can't go there.
I buy chocolates. I walk. I happen upon the Palais de Justice. It's incredibly huge. Someone has written 'rage pour l'etat (rage for the state) on it. And further on there's more graffiti. I'm walking around it, taking photos, there seems to be no-one else around. Just me and this monolithic building sprouting weeds and stained with words of revolution.
I keep walking, find a garden, sit and eat chocolate truffles. A few kids are kicking a soccer ball, a woman lets her dog run around, the occasional map-toting tourist couple walk through. One of the boys kicks the ball over the high fence. Etched onto the seat where I sit is "M, let me love you".
More walking, more photos of street art, some eating.
There seems to be more street art here than in Paris. Definately more tags, scrawl, stickers and postering. It gives the place a more gritty feel. No one is scrubbing these walls. The graffiti stays, the posters are in various states of disintegration. I like trying to make out these words. As with street/shop signs, some are French, some Dutch, some English. Mostly French though.
I find a nice bookshop and browse for about an hour. Books in various languages, not just French or Dutch. It's attached to a gallery, so there's a lot of art/design coffee table books. Lots of kids books - I mostly look at these.
The queer bookshop doesn't have a lot. Though it does have gay maps of Bruxelles, and most other European cities.
Honey and goat's cheese sandwich for dinner, with a beer blanche. Dessert at another café: coffee and a slice of nutty flan (hazelnuts, walnuts, pecans... very yum). I read the paper. Sarkozy organised a big do for November 11 (tomorrow) but the Germans pulled out at the last minute. It has been a year in the making. It'll go ahead without the (seemingly ungrateful) Germans. At least, that's what I understood of the article.
I buy some beer to take home. The guy in the shop (and his customer friend) tell me that Lindemans is where it's at for Kriek (cherry beer). I mention that you can get Bellevue in Australia, but customer man scoffs and says it's the worse one. He says it's like the Cote d'or of chocolate - the one marketed to the non-Belgian world. I buy some Lindemans kriek, and one of their raspberry beers also.
Time for a drink at a bar. I walk past several queer ones, and some non-queer ones. Many are getting noisy with crowd and music. I want something a bit quiet. I brace myself and enter Homo Erectus. It's fairly quiet. Full of regulars. Men, but a couple of women. Most people are smoking. I ask for a Hoegaarden, but the guy behind the bar doesn't work there and points out the guy who does. A petit, young, dark-skinned boy. He is all smiles and loveliness. He asks where I'm from, welcomes me, shakes my hand. He spends more of his time among patrons, kissing cheeks, taking orders, delivering beers, taking coins; his arms resting on shoulders, his slender body gracefully weaving through people. He brushes his hand down my face, asks if I'm okay, says to ask him if I need anything. I want to marry him.
I don't talk to anyone else. I make eyes with a couple of boys, and exchange smiles, but not ready to attempt a French conversation. And not wanting to speak English.
The bar man leaves, says goodbye. Gives kisses (real or blown) to everyone in the bar as his friends drag him away. When i finish my second beer, I leave too.
Strolling the dark streets, keeping track of time. I walk past the pissing boy fountain. I'd only seen it as statues and chocolates until this point. It's not that exciting. But lots of people take photos.
More graffiti, more walking, and time to head back to the station.
I buy a blackcurrant beer for the walk. I ask the boy in the shop if he can open it, and he does. I can't tell if it's forbidden to do so, but it was a sly gesture on his part, so I guess maybe it is. I don't know if it's illegal to drink on the streets, and don't see others doing so. But it's Sunday, and there's few people around.
I feel slightly uneasy due to this. I always feel safe in Paris because I'm never alone on the streets. But here I'm heading to the station. Quieter and darker. But it's fine, and the journey is quicker than I imagined.
Time to kill. I succumb to vending machine beer (Juliper - I hadn't tried that one yet) and some paprika crisps. I send a text to my beloved. I'm interrupted by a man with outstretched hand. I give him a few coins. I finish my text, my beer, my crisps. I board the train, make a soundtrack for the journey, close my eyes.
I arrived at 10H47, left at 22H13. I had no idea what to expect. Picked up a free map from the information desk and went out into the day.
Walked through a market. Looked, but nothing grabbed me. Lots of clothing, some produce and plants and plastic junk stuff. Funny how markets are always the same. Dodgy clothes and jewellery. Cheap but uninteresting. Puffy jackets, racks of tracksuit pants, synthetic hats and scarves...
I keep walking. Searching for a café as I need to piss. There are no free toilets. I spot a rainbow flag down a side-street. It's a bar called Homo Erectus. Amusing. Then I spot more and more rainbow flags. Bars mostly, but nothing is open yet. And a queer bookshop that I will return to once open.
It's Sunday, so most shops are closed. Though there doesn't seem to be a lot of shops. Or there are, but they seem more discreet. Maybe there are mega-malls in the suburbs. Lots of winding paved streets. The buildings seem more gothic than Paris. More varied.
I get some frites from the friterie, but sans mayonaise. I can't go there.
I buy chocolates. I walk. I happen upon the Palais de Justice. It's incredibly huge. Someone has written 'rage pour l'etat (rage for the state) on it. And further on there's more graffiti. I'm walking around it, taking photos, there seems to be no-one else around. Just me and this monolithic building sprouting weeds and stained with words of revolution.
I keep walking, find a garden, sit and eat chocolate truffles. A few kids are kicking a soccer ball, a woman lets her dog run around, the occasional map-toting tourist couple walk through. One of the boys kicks the ball over the high fence. Etched onto the seat where I sit is "M, let me love you".
More walking, more photos of street art, some eating.
There seems to be more street art here than in Paris. Definately more tags, scrawl, stickers and postering. It gives the place a more gritty feel. No one is scrubbing these walls. The graffiti stays, the posters are in various states of disintegration. I like trying to make out these words. As with street/shop signs, some are French, some Dutch, some English. Mostly French though.
I find a nice bookshop and browse for about an hour. Books in various languages, not just French or Dutch. It's attached to a gallery, so there's a lot of art/design coffee table books. Lots of kids books - I mostly look at these.
The queer bookshop doesn't have a lot. Though it does have gay maps of Bruxelles, and most other European cities.
Honey and goat's cheese sandwich for dinner, with a beer blanche. Dessert at another café: coffee and a slice of nutty flan (hazelnuts, walnuts, pecans... very yum). I read the paper. Sarkozy organised a big do for November 11 (tomorrow) but the Germans pulled out at the last minute. It has been a year in the making. It'll go ahead without the (seemingly ungrateful) Germans. At least, that's what I understood of the article.
I buy some beer to take home. The guy in the shop (and his customer friend) tell me that Lindemans is where it's at for Kriek (cherry beer). I mention that you can get Bellevue in Australia, but customer man scoffs and says it's the worse one. He says it's like the Cote d'or of chocolate - the one marketed to the non-Belgian world. I buy some Lindemans kriek, and one of their raspberry beers also.
Time for a drink at a bar. I walk past several queer ones, and some non-queer ones. Many are getting noisy with crowd and music. I want something a bit quiet. I brace myself and enter Homo Erectus. It's fairly quiet. Full of regulars. Men, but a couple of women. Most people are smoking. I ask for a Hoegaarden, but the guy behind the bar doesn't work there and points out the guy who does. A petit, young, dark-skinned boy. He is all smiles and loveliness. He asks where I'm from, welcomes me, shakes my hand. He spends more of his time among patrons, kissing cheeks, taking orders, delivering beers, taking coins; his arms resting on shoulders, his slender body gracefully weaving through people. He brushes his hand down my face, asks if I'm okay, says to ask him if I need anything. I want to marry him.
I don't talk to anyone else. I make eyes with a couple of boys, and exchange smiles, but not ready to attempt a French conversation. And not wanting to speak English.
The bar man leaves, says goodbye. Gives kisses (real or blown) to everyone in the bar as his friends drag him away. When i finish my second beer, I leave too.
Strolling the dark streets, keeping track of time. I walk past the pissing boy fountain. I'd only seen it as statues and chocolates until this point. It's not that exciting. But lots of people take photos.
More graffiti, more walking, and time to head back to the station.
I buy a blackcurrant beer for the walk. I ask the boy in the shop if he can open it, and he does. I can't tell if it's forbidden to do so, but it was a sly gesture on his part, so I guess maybe it is. I don't know if it's illegal to drink on the streets, and don't see others doing so. But it's Sunday, and there's few people around.
I feel slightly uneasy due to this. I always feel safe in Paris because I'm never alone on the streets. But here I'm heading to the station. Quieter and darker. But it's fine, and the journey is quicker than I imagined.
Time to kill. I succumb to vending machine beer (Juliper - I hadn't tried that one yet) and some paprika crisps. I send a text to my beloved. I'm interrupted by a man with outstretched hand. I give him a few coins. I finish my text, my beer, my crisps. I board the train, make a soundtrack for the journey, close my eyes.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
up with dead people
it was sunny, but now there are clouds.
i sat in the Jardin du Luxembourg and read the paper. finding out what the socialist party is up to. wondering what's with the 'frigidaire' references to Segolene Royal.
i'm falling more in love with the gardens. i like that people go there to do stuff. to play tennis, to play chess, to read, to stroll, to play with boats in the fountains, to make out, to jog, to work. there's a lot going on. there's a lot of solitary strolling. there's chairs everywhere for people to set themselves up in groups big and small. and there's brown leaves falling from trees and skirting along the ground. eventually they're collected, by men in overalls, driving tractors, and dumped into cages of dead leaves.
was feeling a bit down after germany. i had to re-adjust to being alone, to lots of silence, to having to motivate myself to do things. spent a few days studying, which is necessary, yet feels like a waste of my time here.
things improved yesterday, and part of that was seeing otto; or up with dead people - a film by bruce la bruce which screened at the gay and lesbian film festival. it was quite hilarious. bruce was there to take some questions afterwards. i then felt less shy, so went to a bar.
i went to Raidd and witnessed a shower performance. it was disappointing. upon hearing about this, i imagined a purely voyeuristic experience in which men would simply shower for the visual pleasure of patrons, without interaction. but this guy was all about working it for the audience. a stripper, no less. with soap and water, and a pair of underwear that ended up around his ankles. he had a huge cock, and unfortunately, that's what it was all about. soaping and thrusting his erection to the open mouthed boys on the other side of the glass. and girls. there were plenty of girls there too, which was nice to see. but yeah, the audience response was far more interesting than the performance. if it was my club there'd be no cock-thrusting, no eye-contact, just some simple everyday showering. and maybe some other bathroom cleansing and grooming activities. like shaving. and the brushing of teeth.
off to see another film tonight. considering a day trip to brussels tomorrow. yet to plan my movements post monday, in which i will head south to warmer climates and strange unknown destinations.
i sat in the Jardin du Luxembourg and read the paper. finding out what the socialist party is up to. wondering what's with the 'frigidaire' references to Segolene Royal.
i'm falling more in love with the gardens. i like that people go there to do stuff. to play tennis, to play chess, to read, to stroll, to play with boats in the fountains, to make out, to jog, to work. there's a lot going on. there's a lot of solitary strolling. there's chairs everywhere for people to set themselves up in groups big and small. and there's brown leaves falling from trees and skirting along the ground. eventually they're collected, by men in overalls, driving tractors, and dumped into cages of dead leaves.
was feeling a bit down after germany. i had to re-adjust to being alone, to lots of silence, to having to motivate myself to do things. spent a few days studying, which is necessary, yet feels like a waste of my time here.
things improved yesterday, and part of that was seeing otto; or up with dead people - a film by bruce la bruce which screened at the gay and lesbian film festival. it was quite hilarious. bruce was there to take some questions afterwards. i then felt less shy, so went to a bar.
i went to Raidd and witnessed a shower performance. it was disappointing. upon hearing about this, i imagined a purely voyeuristic experience in which men would simply shower for the visual pleasure of patrons, without interaction. but this guy was all about working it for the audience. a stripper, no less. with soap and water, and a pair of underwear that ended up around his ankles. he had a huge cock, and unfortunately, that's what it was all about. soaping and thrusting his erection to the open mouthed boys on the other side of the glass. and girls. there were plenty of girls there too, which was nice to see. but yeah, the audience response was far more interesting than the performance. if it was my club there'd be no cock-thrusting, no eye-contact, just some simple everyday showering. and maybe some other bathroom cleansing and grooming activities. like shaving. and the brushing of teeth.
off to see another film tonight. considering a day trip to brussels tomorrow. yet to plan my movements post monday, in which i will head south to warmer climates and strange unknown destinations.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Farid
i'd just been to the Gare de l'Est to pick up my ticket for Augsburg (and buy a return) and was feeling pleased with myself. i spoke in mostly French, but some English, and managed to get it all done. even asked about the Eurail pass i wanted, but seems i have to go to Gare du Nord for that.
i had a few items to buy from the supermarket, but thought i'd head in the direction of Culture Rapid café, where i could grab a drink and see what's on. i did my shopping, but the café was not where i thought it was. i was walking and searching when this guy stops me to ask the time.
he then asks if i live around here. i explain that no, i'm staying in the 5eme, and that i'm from australia. he tells me he speaks english, almost excited by the fact. i ask if he's english, but he's french, he just spends a lot of time in england. he wants to chat. but so do i, cos chatting is a rare occurrence for me on these streets. we speak half french, half english, but i try to keep it fairly french for the sake of practice. he tells me about his love of london for the fashion scene. he asks if i like discothéques. tells me he likes discothéques. asks me if i go to The Marais (obviously sussing out if I was gay or not). i say i've been to a couple of bars there. he points out that there's discotéches for gay boys there, then asks me if i'm a gay boy. i say yeah. he tells me he likes my style (pronounced 'steel').
he asks if we can walk and i say sure. he wants to go somewhere 'discrit' but i say no, i'd rather just talk. so we talk about who we are and what we do. i learn that his name is Farid. i guessed he's about 40. he lives in the 9eme, works in a shop, and likes fashion. he starts listing fashion designers, some of whom i recognise. he likes it when i recognise them - it seems to affirm our commonality or something. he asks me if i like cologne. i say yes and hold up my wrist for him to smell. he likes issey miyake, has some of his own. he starts reeling off positive adjectives to illustrate how much he likes Issey Miyake. he says that Miyake is a very important man.
he keeps thinking i'm from england, and tells me many times how much he loves london, the fashion there, picaddily circus, and other places that i forget.
he asks about Mark and what he does. he asks about what i do. i tell him research and he says "you work in a shop?" and something about bijouterie (jewellery). no, i work at a university and i study. he seems eager for me to be like him.
he then starts asking more specific questions about what i like to do sexually, whether i sleep with girls also, and how i define my sexuality. i respond honestly. it's not as though i'm offended by these questions. though i do realise there's a likelihood that i'm fueling certain desires of his. and sure enough, he again suggests a discrete place. i say no.
all this time we're trying to find the Oberkampft metro. i'm checking my map because i don't trust his directions. he seems keen to walk in any direction, presumably on the lookout for a somewhere discrete. but we stick to the main streets. he asks a passer-by for directions at one point, which is helpful.
We find the metro and it's time to say goodbye. he signals for me to step into a side street to say au revoir. i do. we kiss each cheek and then he waits for a kiss on the lips. i lean in to kiss him. unfortunately he's very sloppy and wets my face with his tongue. i wonder how someone can be his age and not yet know how to kiss.
he wants me to call him. i tell him maybe. he gives me his number. he says the best time to call is between 7.30 and 8.30. is he married? why all this talk of discretion and now this small window for phone calls. but he had mentioned that he's only ever slept with men, that he's had boyfriends. yet, he doesn't know how to kiss. at least his failed kiss confirmed that he didn't just want me in a discrete place in order to stab me and take my money. though i'd sensed that early on. he was genuine. lonely, but not a psychopath. i wasn't particularly attracted to him, but i wasn't not attracted either. and i was lonely too. when i looked him directly in the face there was a spark of something there. i think it was his smile. and his confidence. but i knew that i didn't want to have sex with him. and i know that i won't call him. he probably knows this too, as i was reluctant to take his number. but who knows what he makes of our encounter.
i do admire his bravado for stopping someone in the street (asking for the time, no less) on the basis of attraction. i doubt that's something i could ever do. instead, i rely on the bravado of others for such experiences.
he walks down his side of the metro and i walk down mine. he steals another quick kiss before we part. i see him across the platform, then realise there's no ticket machine, so i can't get through. i go back up to the street. i walk home.
i had a few items to buy from the supermarket, but thought i'd head in the direction of Culture Rapid café, where i could grab a drink and see what's on. i did my shopping, but the café was not where i thought it was. i was walking and searching when this guy stops me to ask the time.
he then asks if i live around here. i explain that no, i'm staying in the 5eme, and that i'm from australia. he tells me he speaks english, almost excited by the fact. i ask if he's english, but he's french, he just spends a lot of time in england. he wants to chat. but so do i, cos chatting is a rare occurrence for me on these streets. we speak half french, half english, but i try to keep it fairly french for the sake of practice. he tells me about his love of london for the fashion scene. he asks if i like discothéques. tells me he likes discothéques. asks me if i go to The Marais (obviously sussing out if I was gay or not). i say i've been to a couple of bars there. he points out that there's discotéches for gay boys there, then asks me if i'm a gay boy. i say yeah. he tells me he likes my style (pronounced 'steel').
he asks if we can walk and i say sure. he wants to go somewhere 'discrit' but i say no, i'd rather just talk. so we talk about who we are and what we do. i learn that his name is Farid. i guessed he's about 40. he lives in the 9eme, works in a shop, and likes fashion. he starts listing fashion designers, some of whom i recognise. he likes it when i recognise them - it seems to affirm our commonality or something. he asks me if i like cologne. i say yes and hold up my wrist for him to smell. he likes issey miyake, has some of his own. he starts reeling off positive adjectives to illustrate how much he likes Issey Miyake. he says that Miyake is a very important man.
he keeps thinking i'm from england, and tells me many times how much he loves london, the fashion there, picaddily circus, and other places that i forget.
he asks about Mark and what he does. he asks about what i do. i tell him research and he says "you work in a shop?" and something about bijouterie (jewellery). no, i work at a university and i study. he seems eager for me to be like him.
he then starts asking more specific questions about what i like to do sexually, whether i sleep with girls also, and how i define my sexuality. i respond honestly. it's not as though i'm offended by these questions. though i do realise there's a likelihood that i'm fueling certain desires of his. and sure enough, he again suggests a discrete place. i say no.
all this time we're trying to find the Oberkampft metro. i'm checking my map because i don't trust his directions. he seems keen to walk in any direction, presumably on the lookout for a somewhere discrete. but we stick to the main streets. he asks a passer-by for directions at one point, which is helpful.
We find the metro and it's time to say goodbye. he signals for me to step into a side street to say au revoir. i do. we kiss each cheek and then he waits for a kiss on the lips. i lean in to kiss him. unfortunately he's very sloppy and wets my face with his tongue. i wonder how someone can be his age and not yet know how to kiss.
he wants me to call him. i tell him maybe. he gives me his number. he says the best time to call is between 7.30 and 8.30. is he married? why all this talk of discretion and now this small window for phone calls. but he had mentioned that he's only ever slept with men, that he's had boyfriends. yet, he doesn't know how to kiss. at least his failed kiss confirmed that he didn't just want me in a discrete place in order to stab me and take my money. though i'd sensed that early on. he was genuine. lonely, but not a psychopath. i wasn't particularly attracted to him, but i wasn't not attracted either. and i was lonely too. when i looked him directly in the face there was a spark of something there. i think it was his smile. and his confidence. but i knew that i didn't want to have sex with him. and i know that i won't call him. he probably knows this too, as i was reluctant to take his number. but who knows what he makes of our encounter.
i do admire his bravado for stopping someone in the street (asking for the time, no less) on the basis of attraction. i doubt that's something i could ever do. instead, i rely on the bravado of others for such experiences.
he walks down his side of the metro and i walk down mine. he steals another quick kiss before we part. i see him across the platform, then realise there's no ticket machine, so i can't get through. i go back up to the street. i walk home.
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