Catching up

I am writing this in my journal. Putting a felt-tip pen to the surface of the paper in my little black journal engenders a much more confidential, intimate feeling than typing directly into the "Publication d'un message" window on the blog website. I worry that the distorted sensibility of this medium will lead to me writing some hyper-introspective, self-analyzing absurdity that I will not be able to bring myself to post on the blog. In any case, if you are reading this right now, it means that I decided the bull-shit to decent-shit ratio was low enough to type up this entry and post it online.

I am at a cafe at the bottom of la butte de Montmartre. My first week in Paris, I ate a croque-monsieur here. I was at a two tables away from where I am right now. Sacre Coeur looms above me. I just went to mass. Four days ago, Dave and I visited Sacre Coeur, and ate sandwiches at the bottom of the hill. I can see the bench where we sat. It is unnerving how quickly your reality becomes your memories.

This morning, a pale gray sky covered Paris, but noontime has seen a triumphant sun break through the blanket of clouds. For the first time in three days, there is blue up above.

Dave should be taking off right now.

I have neglected my blog, and I apologize for that, but life beckoned.

I slept for three fitful hours last night, and I am exhausted, but I feel the need to recap the past week or so, at least perfunctorily (if perfunctorily is not a word, it should be).

A few words on each day:

Sunday: up early, blinding sunshine. the lingering effects of le greve gave me no problems, and I made it to Charles de Gaulle on time. Dave. Walking tour of the neighborhood and Bastille; crepes and cheap cans of beer.

Monday: Class for me in the morning. Back to Reuilly-Diderot to get Dave, who emerged from his hotel, smiling, somehow eluding the oppressive, insipid clutches of jet lag. To Ile de la Cite. Coffee and Notre Dame. A tour of St. Michel, a picnic in the Jardin de Luxembourg. Pain, fromage, raisins. Une grande pomme pour moi. Du vin rouge--a bottle of screw-top Spanish wine (we had no bottle opener) that we left, with a few rancid gulps remaining, in Hotel Mistral yesterday morning. Beaucoup de soleil, mais les palmiers n'etaient plus là. C'est vraiment l'automne.

Walked to Denfert-Rochereau, malgré l'orteil blessé de Dave. What a trooper. Dave liked the big lion at Denfert-Rochereau. Cemetery Montparnasse. Le tombeau de Maupassant. Met Hugo at Trocadero. Dave and he reunite. Two California boys at heart, both born in the wrong place. Stroll under the Eiffel Tower, past l'Ecole Militaire, Les Invalides. Coffee again. Bon Marché. Goodbye Hugo. Late dinner in Bastille. I ordered a disgusting drink and forced myself to finish it. Don't let all those Parisian billboards fool you--un Ricard is disgusting.
Tuesday: Class again for me. A "test." C'est une blague. Long, late lunch in a sun-saturated cafe between Denfert-Rochereau and St. Michel. Croque-monsieurs pour nous deux. Stroll by the seine. Eiffel tower, up to the top. Freezing. Beautiful. But really, fucking freezing. Cans of beer in my apartment to warm up. Jazz club in Montparnasse--le Petit Journal. An American all-female quartet. I used my charm and French prowess to bring the cover charge from $25 to $15. Champagne. We ride line 1 back home--the line where all of the cars on the train are connected so you can see forever--and nobody else is on it, so I take off my shoes and run through the cars and spin on poles and it is fun. Very un-French, I think.
Wednesday: Sunshine and croissants and cafe au lait. Montmartre. Dave ate the best eclair of his life. Sacre Coeur. A French man strumming on his guitar on the steps out front, singing songs like "Torn" by Natalie Imbruglia. He has a lisp. He winks at me. Dave loves the basilica as much as I do, and I am happy. We decide not to drink the wine we brought. Sacrilegious? Out to a bar with Olivier and other French friends to watch a soccer game. We order a giraffe. See below if you do not know what a giraffe is.

Thursday: Louvre. Ancient Egyptian wing. Overcast. To Saint Germain des Pres to pay a visit to La Rhumerie. Finally my dreams of hot alcohol materialize. Dave gets a grog and I get a Cafe Creole. We discuss what, exactly, Creole means. It gets heated. A large old man in a tweed coat and a scarf sits in the corner booth puffing on an impressive looking cigar. He grumbles that there is to much ice and not enough alcohol in his drink. He is great. Shakespeare and Co. I read about the gospel according to Dostoyevsky, Dave reads old history books. Out to dinner at Chez Paul (an "institution" in Paris, according to Theo). We resolve the white wine (me)/red wine (Dave) dispute withe a bottle of rosé. We eat escargot.
Friday: Cloudy. Stroll through le Marais. Patisseries and sandwiches in Place des Vosges. Rugby exhibit at Hotel de Ville. Catacombs are closed. L'Arc de Triomphe. Champs-elysees. The ferris wheel by Place de la Concorde. Crepes. Dinner with my host family. Language barriers. Dave valiantly attempts to explain his major (try translating "Public Policy Analysis"). Yolaine made a tart. Out to a bar with some of Theo's friends, though not Theo (he eventually shows up later on in the night). We leave to go meet Olivier and some other friends near Jussieu. I order a bloody Mary at the bar, because it is 4 euro. It is, I must say, not disgusting. The metro closed, we walk home.
Saturday: Patisseries and coffee. Walk in Bois de Vincennes. We sit on a log and drink tall cans of strong beer (Dave goes all out, downing one with 11.6% alcohol. I can only manage 8.4%). A man carrying a near-empty bottle of wine stops and talks to us for a moment. He says that Paris is too noisy, but that the Bois de Vincennes is like Africa.

Dinner at Hugo's beautiful apartment in Montmartre with his friends. He makes quiche. We drink wine and champagne.

We go out to a bar near l'Opera Garnier, where Hugo and Co. are "very famous." We dance, and I drink a Coca Light that tastes nothing like a Coca Light. Home. Sleep. Awake not much later. We get halfway to the train station before we realize that today was daylight savings and we are an hour early. Who is in charge of this shit? After much procrastination, Dave finally boards a train. Dave leaves.
I walk around in the gloomy, delayed morning, from Gare du Nord up to Montmartre, then all the way down Blvd. de Clichy. I listen to Ani Difranco on my ipod and revel in my melodramatic angst. I look at Paris from the top of the hill. Mass.
My coffee is done now. And so am I.