I need to finish up my Moroccan tales, readership is at a dangerously low level. Dissatisfaction is high, moral low. "We want Paris not Morocco!" I hear you, your silence is deafening. Well, this final tale of Morocco begins in Paris, and really that last post was all in Paris and yet no one cared. I few anonymous comments from the New Zealander mafia- the dreaded "Kiwi Boys" threatening to rearrange my furniture. Other than that I couldn’t get a rise out of you.

As we were waiting on the runway for our plane turn to take off, I noticed much movement in the center median. And there I saw thousands of bunny rabbits frolicking. Frolicking- I tell you. I immediately looked to the side of the runway to find the bunny carnage splattered, but there were none. Of course, if a plane hits a bunny taking off or landing I doubt there would be much left. You’d think the loud noise might damage those big ears. Maybe Bridget Bardot could fund supplying the big yellow earmuffs for the bunnies.

So the take off to Morocco was magical- everything involving bunnies is good. The landing back in Paris was a different story as I had been vomiting in my seat for ¾ of the flight. I used 4 barf bags. I'm not bragging or anything, but it was 4. I admired the gay flying waiter’s commitment to being friendly, every time I handed him a “used bag” he accepted it with a smile. If I had been flying Delta the bitch would have probably pistol-whipped me and planted an explosive device in my carry-on. I looked out for the bunnies but my eyes were blurry and couldn't see anything but my own frightening reflection.

As I’ve mentioned about 6 times, Hassan met us at the Marrakech airport. It is important to me to immediately say the wrong thing. This lets me know that I’m alive.
“So, you're Arab?” I say as we shake hands.
Hassan bristled at the mere mention of the word. “No, I am not Arab. He said with a look that would be repeated from the lady that was sitting in front of me on the flight back.
“I am Berber”
As I write this I am picturing Yul Brenner in the King and I with his fists on his hips and his legs planted firmly. “I am Berber”

The conversation continues in the 4x4. Moroccan culture is new to me, so I wasn’t certain if I had really put my foot in it as I like too.

“So you’re saying Berbers aren’t Arabs?”

Hassan clutched the steering wheel and breathed deeply, undoubtedly a Celine Dion song was playing in his mind to calm his soul.

“No a Berber is a Berber – they are not Arabs. Berbers are the original people of this land.”

I started to interrupt.

“You will see!” he snapped. “You will see as we drive through Marrakech what the Arabs are about. And then you will see what the Berbers are about.”

He was right about seeing what the Berbers were about. We only stayed in Berber hotels, ate in Berber restaurants and traveled through Berber towns. There was one town that he felt he needed to clarify. “These people here, all these people” He said motion to the 3 women on the street. “They used to be Jews, now they are Berber.” It was unclear what that meant and he wasn’t providing any more information. “This is my band.” He said as he put a CD on. “The singer he is crazy.” We listen to the hour-long improv drum solo as he beat upon the steering wheel to the sound of him beating on drums. I put my iPod on and looked out the window and thought about the Berbers that had one time been Jewish.

“There are no scorpions in the desert he has to tell me for the 10th time.”
“I find that very hard to believe” I persist. “In all the Sahara desert there are no scorpions?”
Other tourists at the cafe listen in, this, after all, affects us all.
“There is no water in the desert. Therefore there are no scorpions or snakes.”
“I watch Discovery channel and I’m certain they’ve discussed snakes and scorpions in the Sahara. I was told that I should shake my shoes out because scorpions will climb in to escape the sun.”
Who told you that?” demanded Hassan. “An Arab? Arabs know nothing of the desert. We are the original desert people. There are no scorpions.”
The crowd seemed to be siding with me on this one.
“You know, scorpions.” I did a little hand gesture to show a scorpion striking.
Hassan considered for a moment. “Ah yes, we do have those.”

I loaded up my Rick Steve’s backpack (a sure sign you are traveller and not a tourist) and walked from my apartment in the center of Paris to the metro at Hotel de Ville. As I trudged down Veille du Temple with my walking stick, safari hat and snakebite kit dangling from my belt, I ponder my next adventure. I’m off to Africa. I feel like an adventurer, but a stylish adventurer as I was also carrying my man-bag loaded down with treats. I take a small break after a block, it’s important to not overdo it on your first day. Swigging from my water bottle, I swallow a salt tablet and I look out over the terrain. As I mop my brow with my new bandana, I hear my wife Kelly yell from the window. “Did you take all the toilet paper?" I quickly gather my things and stagger down the street. Kelly is fleet of foot and I won’t be stopped, not this early in my journey.

“Africa!” I say out-loud to know one in particular. The local tribesmen of the 4th arrondisement stare at me as if to ask “Where is that dapper fellow with the practical backpack, excellent man-bag and perfectly coiffed hair off to? “ They seem to snicker with respect. “I’m off to AFRICA suckas!” I respond with my slight wobble from an over-packed bag and a lower back that’s already beginning to ache. Rue de Rivoli is just another block away and then to the metro station. Discouragement begins to descend upon me, as it must have for Dr Livingston. “I will keep my spirits up.” I say aloud to some German tourists who have that ‘what might have been’ look that they always get when they visit Paris.

”A new continent!” I say to bolster my sagging spirit. “ The dark continent. Dark because…well…because there are a lot of dark people there or because it is shady or something.” My thoughts are interrupted by the pang of hunger, the candy bar I ate a few minutes ago isn’t going to cut it. There is a fruit stand at the next block where I can replenish my supplies and perhaps throw out some of these candy wrappers. Finally, after 10 minutes, I have made it to the metro station. My back is drench in the sweat of a good, honest trek. A well-deserved rest can be had on the train, unless one of those old ladies try to steal my seat.

I take a breather before I descend into the Hotel de Ville metro station- the next leg of my journey. I sip some water slowly and wipe my mouth with the back of my sleeve. I swallow another a salt tablet even though my wedding band seems unusually tight and the laces of my sneakers are straining. The sun is beating down on me- it must be at least 50 degrees Fahrenheit but it easily feels like 60 . I eat some jerky; the salt will do me good. Wiping the grit and chocolate that has accumulated on my face and neck from the hike, I reflect on the 10 minute journey thus far, the changes I have seen in myself and the people that I have met. I smile at the thought of that nomadic tribe of people that sit on the corners with “J’ai Faim.” written on cardboard. It seems to me that if they were really “famous” they wouldn’t need money from me but I try not to judge. I note all of this in my Moleskin notebook. It occurs to me that other than the “famous” people I haven’t really been paying attention to anyone else, but I did catch my own reflection in the Melchior window so I wrote a quick Haiku to myself, which I wont share here. Let’s just say it was good, real good.

I descend down the Metro steps. Longing for the comfort of the two old women that are always sitting there with their belongings, piles of day old bread and their “I am famous” signs. "Aren't we all" I say to myself, shaking my head and smiling as though my observation actually meant something.

I keep referring to our trip as a trip to Marrakech, but in fact, we only were in Marrakech because of the airport the remainder our time was spent making our way to the desert and back. We were picked up by a 25 year old Berber named Hassan in a Toyota 4x4and we drove and drove and drove. 18 hours in 2 days to the Sahara desert. It was incredible. We went through the high Atlas Mountains, Tizi-n-Tichka, through Ouartzazate, El Kelaa M’Gouna, Gorges of the Dades Tinerhir, Gorges du Tondra, Erfound, Rissani and finally off-road to the edge of the Sahara. We got out of the 4x4 and on to the 8x8. It’s a Berber joke that was repeated by every Berber we met. The 8x8 is a camel. One would think that if you were about to get on a 1,500 lbs of exotic pot-roast you would be given a little instruction- not so. The information our guide gave was less than helpful for instance, I don’t know how to tell a camel to ‘stop’ but I do know that Celine Dion is a musical genius. Is it ok to shrill like an African woman or will that cause the camels to stampede? Do camels stampede? I don’t know- what I do know is that Celine Dion is a musical genius- that’s what I have learned in the Sahara.

The desert and the dunes are breathtaking and yet when the camel in front of you craps you are drawn to it like a magnet. The camel is a large beast, six feet high, ten feet long and yet their poop are the size of marbles and the marbles roll down the dunes gathering at the valleys where they are met by thousands of other little marbles. Beautiful dunes, covered in countless shadows cast by the small ripples in the golden sand surround me. Bright blue skies, light wind, a lone Berber walks into the desert miles away and yet I’m drawn to the marbles. I blame MTV for my fascination with watching crap go downhill.

Everywhere I go I am met by New Zealanders. They are everywhere- like a pandemic. In the Sahara Desert, under a Berber tent I shared a meal with, yes, you guessed it, a New Zealand couple. They introduce themselves but I immediately forget their names as I am thinking only of myself and suspiciously eyeing the butter that sits on the table. Who eats butter in the desert? Is dairy safe in 100-degree temperatures? I would ask our guide but I’m not interested in knowing that Celine Dion was nicknamed “Vampire Queen” in highschool. The Kiwis are an older couple- hardy. They don’t sleep in the Berber tent they’ve reserved but under the stars, I like them immediately. I name drop my New Zealand writer friend and the title of his award-winning book. They’ve never heard of him or the book. It occurs to me I’ve never actually seen this book he claims to have written. New Zealanders are like butter in the desert- refreshing? Sure. Delightful? You bet. Suspect? Definitely.

The 14 tents set up in a figure 8 define the living area. The entrances to the tents are on the inside of the courtyard. The courtyard itself is covered in rugs, a low table is in front of each side along with a mattress to sit on or sleep under the stars. We reserved one of the larger tents for the 5 of us. A young Greek couple wandered into the compound and asked the Berbers if they could send the night. For a little cash they were given one of the outdoor mattresses. At one point the Greek guy walked into our tent to have a look around. “Something we can help you with?” We query. While we might all be pretending to be communal nomads for the night we will kill you if you try to steal our sleeping space. “You have a lot of room in that tent.” The Greek says and waits for us to respond to his non-question question. “Very observant, Zorba- there are five of us- now back the fig away.” They guys girlfriend made some disparaging remark about Americans and she smirks at us through supper. Later that evening she kept the compound awake with her vomiting- beware of butter in the desert and my evil-eye, I’m not kidding.

Good morning and welcome to Morocco.

I have been really bad at posting these last few weeks and I am sorry about that. The combination of family in town, trying to write and my daily required nap has left me with no time. I'm off to the desert to think about my life and try to convince to Berbers to accept me as one of their own so I won't be able to post until next week. I bought a large floppy desert hat, #50 sun-block, a suitcase full of snacks and a copy of "Camel Riding for Dummies"- I'm ready. Have a lovely week.

This morning I was reminded that I’m going to Marrakech on Sunday for the week. I wont be able to blog. I had completely forgotten about this trip. I might have been blocking it out, but it certainly explains all the terrible desert songs in my head- sorry in advance if these tubes haunt the remainder of your day. Originally the plan was to spend some time in Marrakech and then go to the beach but the plans got all fouled up and we are now crossing the Atlas Mountains in a 4x4 and somehow ending up in the Sahara Desert on camels and sleeping in tents.

Wouldn’t you know we’re riding on the Marrakech express
Wouldn’t you know we’re riding on the Marrakech express
It’s taking me to Marrakech
All aboard the train
All aboard the train

The Moroccan company that offers this trip has a long list of items we are to bring- from the unsettling (toilette paper) to the bizarre (jogging suit). Of course, the first order of business in planning a trip is to buy a dashing new hat to protect my porcelain skin from the ravages of the sun.

I’ve been through the desert on a horse with no name,
It felt good to get out of the rain
In the desert you can’t remember your name
‘cause there aint no one for to give you no pain

I have no preconceived notions about Marrakech or the route we are taking. We will be traveling over the Atlas Mountains, through the Valley of Dades, toward Tingher to Rossani, which is the start of the desert. From Rossani we will be traveling by camel through the desert and sleeping in Berber tents, presumably with their permission.

Midnight at the oasis
Sing your camel to bed
Shadows painting our faces
Traces romance in our heads


I read the description of our trek from the Moroccan company one more time- hoping it makes more sense than it did the previous reading. “In the SOUTH, it’s to learn, to meet itself one even and to keep for ever in the memory an idea of eternity.”
It doesn't. I suspect they used babel fish when preparing their english brochures.

Our first day is spent in Marrakech in an “air-conditioned room with a swimming pool*” The "*" could mean anything as there is no key to what we can expect to find. It could be * Shark infested or *It will be you job to oil the very large Turkish men on vacation.

Day 2: We cross the Atlas Mountains, according to the guide it will be “covered with snow by the collar of the TIZI NOT TICHKA, the highest collar of the realm offering magnificent resembling landscapes magnificent very colored patchworks.”

Day 3 is a little sketchy. We are driven 7 km into the desert and “acquainted with your dromedaries’ (I’ll save you the trouble; a dromedary is a camel.) We will “attend the sunset of the dunes and pursue your ballad until the environment of dunes.” We will continue to “cross the night in the oasis under the Berber tents in full desert.”

This goes on for a week. Does this sound to anyone else like we might be making a pornographic movie? Perhaps it is the nerves and excitement of a new journey but I can’t help but think I’m being lead into a poorly laid trap- a lamb to the slaughter.

It occurs to me that I hadn’t told you that I would be gone for a while. It was as though a housemate went away but never said where they were going or when they’d be back. Kelly and I decided to go to Aix-en-Provence for along weekend. Of course, had you become my Facebook friend you would have known this, but you opted to snub me.
We are on the train back- lovely first class seats with plenty of room. It’s a three-hour ride so I should have plenty of time to discuss our trip.

We arrived in Aix Friday evening. I had no perceived notions about the city; there was no planning or researching done. I thought it might be similar to Antibes, a city in southern France that I had been to a few time before- it was not.

Friday night we walked the streets of Aix in the rain, it was cold and quiet. There was no one out- the streets were deserted. If you’ve ever visited a beach community during the off-season you’ll know what I’m talking about. It feels lonely, depressing and the miniature golf parks are all closed. The chipped paint on the abandoned rides and ticket booths reveal the true age of a tired town. That’s what Aix felt like Friday night, it was depressing. Kelly and I walked back to our hotel and wondered if we hadn’t made a terrible mistake.

Saturday the sun shone and life was fine again. We loaded up on café crèmes and excellent croissants and fantasized about living here. We followed Cezanne’s life through the streets finishing with a walk to his studio and a view of Mont Sainte-Victoire, which he painted 39 times. There were no markers for Emile Zola and I wished that I had researched his life a bit more. The food and craft markets were in full swing and I watched a Japanese woman photograph a large loaf of bread much to the amusement of the baker. The rains came later in the evening and we hid in our hotel having learned our lesson.

On Sunday, the only placed closed was the British bookstore. All the museums were open which was great. Again it was a day of walking and pondering whether we wanted to stay here beginning next year. The sale of out house is still up in the air but in the next few weeks we will know if it’s time to go back to the states. It didn’t seem that we would be saving any money by moving to Aix as compared to staying in Paris. Here’s the real problem. After Paris, where do you go? Paris is the pinnacle- it’s the top. It is the “Citizen Cane” of cities- what could Orson Wells have possibly done after that (other than the wine commercials)? We have basically screwed ourselves for any other city.

On the #1 metro this morning I saw a very attractive, young women get on the train. She sat down next to a young man who was standing. I watched as he looked at the woman several times out of the corner of his eye. He seemed shy and respectful of her space but he couldn’t help but, upon occasion, look at her.

She stood up to get off at the Concord stop, standing next to the young man. The train made a sudden stop, throwing her into him. They momentarily held each other to steady themselves. She was embarrassed and apologized. “No problem.” He said. The woman stepped off the train and we resumed our trip. The young man closed his eyes briefly and smiled. Sometimes it’s the small moments that can really make a day.

The cynic in me suspects she might have stolen his wallet. Oh well, it's a happier love story than the last one I posted.

I signed up for a Facebook account and I want friends. Please, please, please befriend me. We can stay up late, listening to 45’s, eating ice cream and just talking.

I'm not certain how being on Facebook is any better than emailing directly but it seems to be all the rage and I’m all about staying current, it makes me feel groovy and ‘now’. While this technology is probably old hat to you I have found myself a stranger in a strange land. For instance, I was informed, through Facebook, that a young friend and her boyfriend broke up- I know this because an icon of a broken heart that was sent to me as an update on her life and he has been removed from her Top Ten list. Later, I was "poked" by a friend of my wife and I'm not certain how I should respond to this. Back in the day getting “poked” meant something else and the best response was slipping out unnoticed. I noticed that Nicole was "gifted" some chocolate chip cookies; they aren't real cookies but rather drawing of cookies. Another person had a bad day and they are requesting that drinks be sent to them, again, pictures of drinks not real drinks. This person is looking to get their virtual buzz on. If they have too many pictures of drinks do they then put a picture of vomit on their shoes? It's all very confusing and light in calories.

I do have a Myspace Page- although there is something inherently sketchy about a 40 something man with a Myspace Page. If it should happen to come up I'm quick to add that my wife told me to get a Myspace account and that we can buy a house near the high school if we wanted to. On Myspace you will notice that I have a plethora of close friends. Leif Garrett, the 1970’s super-duper star, is a friend of mine but K-Fed (Britney's ex) would not accept the hand of friendship from me. David Sedaris became a friend with a buddy of mine but doesn't want anything to do with me. Thank God Charlotte Gainsbourg and I are still tight. Charlotte has stood by me through a lot of tough times. I’m sure she’s tired of my late night calls about David and K-fed, it certainly would explain the restraining order. But that’s ok because Regina Spektor is also a friend but not a very good one. She sends me her concert updates but then pretends to not know me when I see her on the street or need to borrow money- actually she is like many of my friends. Of course, I do the same thing to Leif Garrett when he asks me for money. Oh by the way- when you see Leif pronounce his name as “Leaf”. He will look at you as though he smells something bad and say that it’s pronounced “Life”. You can either laugh or just say “Leaf…who cares?” That’s what friends are for.

So anyway- I want friends. Please befriend me. Please?

I’m not certain what the problem is but we are sleepy. There must be a slow leak in the apartment because I think I’m sleeping more than my cat Ponette. I can't blame the weather; it’s been warm and spring-like.

Today, Kelly forced me out of the house. We’ve been kicking around ways to stay in Europe- one idea involves moving to Southern France or Spain where it is, presumably, cheaper and the other idea is to give up our apartment in the tony Marais and move to another neighborhood. So, this afternoon we took the #11 metro to Belleville in the 20th arrondisement. Our visitors won’t enjoy it as much as where we are now but it will enable them to visit us again next year. It seems like a nice area, although I don’t know how much cheaper it is. We strolled around the Parc de Belleview (I wasn’t prepared for the beautiful view of the city) and enjoyed a coffee on the Place des Grandes Rigoles. Oddly, the espressos were more expensive than in the nicer cafes of the Marais. We leaned back in our chairs ,enjoyed the sunshine and watched the people wandering about. I liked the diversity in the area and there seemed to be fewer tourists- nothing against tourists but the streets seemed quieter and given more to families going to market or playing with their kids than people taking pictures of each other or pointing and giggling at dog crap.

I read a profile of this area by Catherine Sanders in the UK Guardian. Ms Sanders has become famous as a Paris blogger turned published novelist. She snagged a two- book deal for some very nice coin. I read her blog before she became a star and I’ve always enjoyed it, I hope the book does well for her. She needs to get a copy of her book to the American Library or directly to me; some of us are on a budget.

Speaking of the American Library, I ran in to one of my French friends, yes I actually have French friends… well one. He told me that a lot of the French feel that the library is a CIA front. Now I try to act suspicious when I lean against the building eating my lunch. It’s hard to appear dangerous when eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, especially when the peanut butter sticks to the roof of your mouth.

We were walking down the Rue du Belleville when the weather broke suddenly and a cold rain began to fall, softly at first and then harder and colder. We ran to the metro stop and made our way back to the Marais. The more I think about it, the less I am ready to give up on the dream just yet.

OK I'm recycling a post. A woman that I went to high school with has discovered my blog and now knows entirely too much about me. She has tagged me to answer 7 random things about myself. I was tagged to do this last year so I thought I'd do a little cut and paste action and call it a day. Thanks for the tag Jill- don't judge me too harshly.

I also need to tag 3 other people.
1. It's save to say that Dodging Lions is in even more need of blog ideas than me.
2. My brother Sean's Paris Blog has taken on a decidedly morbid and depressing tone- lighten up man. The deer and cow had it coming.
3. Last but not least I'm thinking of two people that sometimes leave comments on my blog but don't have blogs of their own. Mindy and a person that signs themselves as "Z". If you want to participate, and I hope you do, leave 7 random facts about yourselves in the comment section or email them to me. (Mindy left a question for "Ask a French Woman" and Z has commented on my art posts and suggested I flip apartments in Paris)

Writing 7 random things about myself is easy, in fact everything I write is on this blog is useless, random stuff about myself.


1. When I was a child my sister, little brother and I always had a contest called "Who can make the sharpest pointy” A pointy is made by using the end of your pillowcase, preferably very well starched, and folding a section, about 2 inches into a point like a paper airplane. It felt really good to run this ‘pointy’ along your arm or your upper lip- it tickled. I’m 43, I still do this in my sleep (to be truthful I also do it when I'm awake.

2. I stopped drinking at 33 and have never had an alcoholic drink since – except once, when a Thai restaurant put hard lemonade in my ice tea.- I still don’t know what hard lemonade is, but it isn't a pleasant taste.

3. My parents, to punish me for bad grades, wouldn’t let me get my license at 16. By 18 they were begging me to take the test.

4. Everyone seems to love the “Mona Lisa” -it’s considered a masterpiece. I don’t know what makes the “Mona Lisa” any better than the painting of the dogs playing poker.

5. I fell in love (from afar) with a girl named Jackie LeBlanc in the 7th grade- she had a crooked nose. If Jackie is googling herself, "Hi Jackie"

6. I took 5 years of Latin in High School- I can’t speak Latin.

7. When I was in grade school I saw a boy in my class get hit by a car as he walked home. His mom came running down the street screaming and crying. Even though his legs were turned around backwards he said “Don’t cry, mom” I’ll never forget that.

Monday at 11:00 AM I’m waiting at the Trocadero along with several hundred others. Across the Seine, at the Eiffel Tower, the Olympic torch is about to begin its 17.4-mile run through the city of Paris. At the Trocadero there are protests against China- loud chanting, speeches from former Tibetan prisoners. I climb up the fountain to get a better vantage point despite my bad back because I care about you- the reader.

I hear that there is a pro-China rally at the bottom of the hill. I’ve never actually met someone that was pro-China so I scurry down the hill, camera in hand. There are an over-whelming number of Asian women waving the Chinese flag along with, strangely enough, flags with the Samsung logo on it. (Photo to Follow) Samsung is one of the sponsors of the 2008 Olympics and apparently handed out little flags to wave. At the bottom of the hill the crowd is more mixed- Tibetan and Chinese flag- to two opposing groups shout at each other. A Tibetan demonstrator runs in front of the Chinese flags and waves a cardboard “Free Tibet” sign- it is knocked out of his hands. That’s the only sign of violence between the two groups that I see. My hair looks great.

The French riot police arrive and form a line between the two opposing groups. I happen to be on the Tibetan side when they come. We are forcibly pushed across one street, the median and across another street. We are pushed hard. The Tibetan women yell at the CSR riot police and push back. The police keep their cool but they push us even harder until both groups are away from each other, separated by Avenue du President Kennedy, just west of the Pont d’Iena.


Security is massive for the running of the torch. I wonder how much it’s costing the French. There are 3,000 police and security forces involved in this relatively short run. Among them are 160 of Frances most feared CRS riot police; these are the guys we saw the most of. There are 100 police on rollerblades, 100 running firemen who seemed the most pissed off and 16 security vehicles following behind while helicopters patrol above and 3 patrol boats on the river Seine. As the Avenue du President Kennedy nears the Pont d’Iena the road narrows- what had been two columns of security becomes a single file line. At the Pont d’Iena is a large, unruly crowd waving their flags waiting for something, anything to pass them that represents China’s oppression of Tibet. They yell at the athletes in busses and anyone carrying a Chinese flag. People dressed in suits drive by as part of the procession, they are also booed although no one knows who they are.

The Olympic torch comes near- surrounded by police. The crowd screams in anger. The bearer of the torch is in a wheelchair- the torch has blown out he makes the international gesture for “I need a lighter.” An older man and his wife boo and shake their Tibetan sign at him. He probably was honored to have been asked but he looks uncomfortable- I wonder if he has kids in the crowd. The crowd at Pont d’Iena have been waiting for this moment- there is a rush from the crowd.

Tear gas is released by the police- people lean over the stone parapet facing the Seine to escape it. They vomit and spit, snot hangs from their noses. The protests get so bad that the torch rides the rest of the relay in a van.


I walk to Pont Alma and take the train to Hotel Deville, where the procession will pass in an hour. A crowed has already gathered there- the same speeches are being made; the same signs are being waved- I’m suddenly tired by the whole thing. I wait for awhile and admire the sign that Paris Mayor Bertrand Delanoe had placed on the Hotel De Ville- “Paris defends the rights of man throughout the world.” Then I go home.

There was a sudden realization today that filled me with sadness. We’ve been going back and forth on the house we own in the Midwest- the renters have decided they might want to buy it but after doing the math- selling our house, even at the amount we feel we should get, is not going to help us stay in Paris. The dollar is in such a state that it has crippled us. I should have realized this sooner but denial is strong and I’ve been knee- deep in doing the things I like that I hadn’t bothered to pay attention.

The options are get jobs in Paris, which doesn’t seem possible or head back to the Midwest and pick up where we left off. That seems a lot like taking many steps back. I also realize that I’m not that interested in continuing the blog. It was started to discuss the move and life in Paris and after it’s over, in several months, there doesn’t seem to be much point in continuing it.

I took a walk across Pont Louis Philippe to the Ile Saint Louis- even the crazy guy playing the flute with that weird-ass portable fountain failed to cheer me up. It’s a warm night and the streets are filled with people. I browsed through Shakespeare and Company and took the long way home. The walk, as you can imagine, did not cheer me up. This sucks.

If anyone has any suggestions let me know.

Spring is a wonderful time for bird watchers to begin spotting and checking off the list the many bird inhabitance of the metro system of Paris. So gather your book, pencil and binoculars and lets begin.

1. Ruby Throated Door Doofis: This is one of the more common and annoying birds on the metro it is also one of the easiest to spot. As you can see, he is standing in the station, positioning himself in front of the doors so he can board the train before all others. He will not step aside to allow the other birds to disembark as he might lose his valuable positioning. His goal is to get a seat no matter the cost. You can push this bird and shout out a sarcastic “Excusez-moi” He will not budge. It is suspected that this bird was permitted to nurse of its mother's teat for a bit too long. The general rule for nursing is if your chick says- “Mother, I’d prefer to eat at Quickie Burger.” Then it is time to stop nursing.

2. The White Capped Pole Leaner: Again, a common bird that is easy to spot. In the train car by the doors you will find a pole running from floor to ceiling. This pole is installed so that many birds may gather around and hold on to it for dear life as the conductor slams on and off the brakes for no particular reason. The White Capped Pole Leaner will lean against the pole with their entire sweaty body. No amount of subtle and not-so-subtle knuckle to spine punches will dislodge this tenaciously lazy bird from the pole. As the majority of the other birds know, you should never become this intimate with a pole unless someone is shoving dollar bills in your underwear.

3. The Flushed Faced Jolly Greeter: The Flushed Faced Jolly Greeter is a carefree meadowlark of a bird; with his beverage between his knees he shouts out a “Bonjour” to all who enter. Sometimes the Flushed Faced Jolly Greeter will even offer a sip of his libation to an attractive bird or a serious bird dressed in a business suit. “Lighten up world, don’t take yourself so seriously” is his call, “Look at how happy I am”. Several hours later the Flushed Faced Jolly Greeter takes on a decidedly different demeanor. His eyes half closed, he wobbles like a weeble to the train movements. No longer the jovial, mischief making Elf he vomits on the metro floor and doesn’t seem to care about his shoes at all. The young adult of this species will eventually become the more erratic Bulbous Nosed Drunken Ranter or end up in a 12 step program giving advice to people that are happier than he is.

4. Bulbous Nosed Drunken Ranter: The Bulbous Nosed Drunken Ranter should be easy to spot and check off your list. This fellow was once a carefree meadowlark of a bird but has become an angry, resentful bird. You will find them having loud arguments with anyone that is foolish enough to make eye contact with them. The best way to flush one of these fellows out is to let it be known you are an immigrant to the country, for the Bulbous Nosed Drunken Ranter is well aware that you have stolen his job, slept with his woman and have slipped pixie dust into his pockets which are causing the sores in his mouth.

5. Urine Soaked Train Sleeper: The Urine Soaked Train Sleeper uses his unusual scent to keep the other birds away from his territory. Notice in a crowded train how the entire back half of the car is empty save for the Urine Soaked Train Sleeper. While we may pity the Urine Soaked Train Sleeper notice how he is reclining across the seat sound asleep while you battle for the pole with the White Capped Pole Leaner and defend against possible blows from the Bulbous Nosed Drunken Ranter.

There are, of course, many other birds to be spotted but this is a good start to being able to find and identity the wonderful wildlife around you as you travel by metro in Paris. Please feel free to add to the list.

I don’t mean for this to turn into a sports blog- trust me I’m the last guy you want discussing sports but last week I saw a rugby match and this week (Saturday) I watched a soccer game, Paris versus Lens. As I mentioned, the Rugby match was violent but the fans were very demur and respectful. Soccer is a whole different makeup. The game is played by gentlemen and watched by animals. The quiet of the rugby field was in sharp contrast to the riotous chanting of the soccer (european football) fans.

Walking to the Stade de Paris from the metro I was struck by the drunken yelling of young men. Alcohol is not served in the stadium so all the best drinking is done outside. Young men screaming at the top of their lungs to other young men who, in turn, scream back a response. An impromptu song breaks out shouted by hundreds of people. This is, mind you, on the way to the stadium. The game won’t start for another 2 hours.

Our tickets are free, a gift from a major French news organization via a wonderful woman that writes at the American Library. I am with the more successful Misplaced In New Zealand. We are discussing the coup in scoring the tickets and the terrible state of our professional careers- although he is quick to remind me that he has actually published a book and won awards for his novel as well as having numerous articles published in a well-respected paper. I mention that I had 12 commenters on my Henry Miller post and that I was almost in a movie- he seems unimpressed. I bust out that I met a very famous supermodel- he agrees that I win- but suggests that I am more of a stalker than an actual friend to this woman. “Nicely played,” I concede. “Revenge is a dish best served cold.” I think to myself.

Paris Saint Germaine is playing Lens, a small commune in northern France. Lens is well represented at the stadium their orange flags out number the blue Paris flags 2 to 1. We walk to our seats and my day gets better- my seat is on the aisle- oh happy day- unfortunately the more successful Misplaced’s seat is being occupied by a large Silver Back Gorilla waving a Lens flag and chewing on a carrot. “I believe you are in his seat.” I said in English motioning to the seat number and the nervous New Zealander. I’m secure in the knowledge that if there is trouble I don’t have to outrun the gorilla just the New Zealander. They must get the Nature Channel in New Zealand because my Kiwi friend seems to know what happens to the submissive gorilla when the dominant male is challenged. He quickly employs the defense mechanism used by New Zealanders for centuries- charm. He gives the Silver Back a great big New Zealander smile and begins to speak in stilted French. It’s amazing to hear French spoken poorly in a New Zealand accent- it’s like hearing the Queen pass gas; you know it happens but you just can’t believe it when you hear it for yourself.

The gorilla is disarmed and unbalanced by the atrocious French pronunciation and scoots down a seat. Unwilling to concede complete defeat he shoves a large Lens flag into the Kiwi’s shaking hand and, thankfully, grunts instructions on how to wave it. For the remainder of the game the New Zealander, a fan of Paris but a larger fan of life, holds the flag tightly, his knuckles whitened, his Lens flag trembling. He shouts a small “hooray” when the Lens team does well. I half expect him to begin picking lice out of his new friends fur.

I have always heard that soccer was dull- I played soccer and felt it was dull. Soccer is not dull. The score is 1-1 we go into overtime. The stadium now resembles Thunderdome, red flairs are ignited in the stands, and smoke bombs go off. Security magically doubles on the field- they don’t watch the game, they watch us- I haven’t needed to be watched in a long time- it feels strangely exhilarating- it’s a prison riot waiting to happen. Good-looking guys with nice hair, like me, know to disappear during a prison riot- but I persevere. Paris scores break the tie and win the game!! New Zealand guy slyly gives me a thumbs up- but frowns sadly at the Silver Back and returns the flag to him as if to say, “well, we did all we could.” The crowd is screaming- the noise level unbearable. Disenfranchised youth with enough disposable income to buy tickets are about to explode. We hightail it out of there and meet up with our host who has wisely squirreled himself away in the press box.

We take the train home with 70,000 others enjoying the esprit de corps albeit cramped cars.

The posts have been few and far between, haven’t they? I have found that once I get out of t habit of posting it becomes very difficult to come up with topics. If you are a regular reader of this blog than I’m certain you would agree that the topics are never that well thought out to begin with. If I can’t equal the my conversation with a crackwhore topic I think you would agree that the well is truly dry.

I scoured my memory for some writing exercise fodder and I realized that I hadn’t told you about my run in with a super model last month. That’s right, it doesn’t top the deep and lasting friendship that I’ve developed with Pete Townsend after spending some time with him in the South of France but this woman was clearly better looking and I will pick beauty over talent any day of the week.

Anyway, I met Jessica Stam. You probably don’t know who she is, I didn’t either but a quick Google will show that she is the 15th highest paid model in the world and has a handbag named for her, the "Stam Bag" by Marc Jacobs. As you may recall I am the 14th highest paid super model so the meeting was awkward, as you can imagine. I tried to break the ice by relating the story of the fan letter I sent to Brook Shields after she appeared in The Blue Lagoon- the Citizen Cane of 13 year-old boy fantasy movies. Unfortunately, this did not break the ice but caused her to laugh nervously and back away without making eye contact.

Modeling is a competitive field but I really feel that we super models should be able to break bread and vomit it back up without all the petty acrimony.

Paris vs. Toulouse vs. Me

Last night I went to my first rugby match, Paris vs. Toulouse. I went with a guy that was writing a story for a newspaper. I was going because I have an extraordinary amount of time on my hands and he gave me a ticket. He explained the rules of rugby as he jotted down notes in his professional journalist notebook. Not to be out done I began jotting notes of my own on scraps of paper in my coat pocket. One of my quickly written reminders was, “Man, it’s cold out here.”

The second note I wrote was commenting just how pink it all was. The Paris team colors are pink and pink. The flags they wave are pink, their outfits are pink, the lays around the fans necks are pink, even the track around the stadium is pink. It’s all very…pink. Their rugby shorts might have been pleated, I couldn’t tell.

The opening entertainment was straight out of Vegas- there were blowup dragons and green sleezaks on stilts. An elephant, draped in a pink costume, was led around the pitch. Appropriately enough everyone saw the elephant and knew it was there but no one mentioned it. The players ran to the field, a loud pop was heard, which wasn’t a gun and streamers were dropped unto the field from the sky. The gold and silver streamers covered the playing field and the game began. “Very messy, poorly thought out” I noted on my piece of paper.

There is no break in the action. American football has a lot of stopping and starting, which can get a bit dull. That is not the case with rugby; with the non-stop action these guys don’t get a break. An injured player dropped to the ground in pain the medic ran out onto the field- while the ball was still in play. He dodged players and treated the injured player. It was like war but with no death and the soldiers dressed in pink... a lot of pink. I furiously scribbled down my clever observation.

There was a penalty called. A remote controlled car came out to the field with the ball stand. The kicker took the stand and prepared the ball. He did not seem at all surprised that it was a remote controlled car that brought it out to him and that the guy operating it is a grown man. My journalist friend mentioned that in New Zealand they trained a sheepdog to bring the stand out but the noise of the crowed freaked the dog out and he would run away. “Now they use a remote controlled car.” He explained this as he jotted a few more notes in his notebook. I too made some notes. “63,000 people in the stadium, 10 train cars on the metro how long will it take to get out of here? It’s sooooo cold. Dogs are cool. I miss my kitty.”

A few other observations.

-When the ball is kicked into the stands the fans actually throw it back instead of taking it home and enclosing it in Plexiglas and telling me the story of how they got it every god damned time I go to their house.
-They play disco during half time and people in the stands actually dance to it. I danced because that's how I express myself.
-Chicken kabobs are tasty.
-Don’t say “oopsy daisy” when the ball is fumbled, that sounds queer in any language.
-You can bring your children to watch the game- the fans are very respectful. There were no drunk, obnoxious, shirtless, fat men screaming obscenities at the refs – except me, of course, I was representin’.

My memory is probably faulty, but I seem to remember searching for Easter eggs and then having to eat all the hard-boiled eggs that we found. Easter evening turned into a surreal “Cool Hand Luke” scene with my brother screaming, “Nobody ever eat fifty eggs before” and me, lying catatonic on the ground, surrounded by dyed eggs shells, mumbling something about “anything so innocent and built like that just gotta be named Lucille." Kids have it easy today.

I had a very peculiar dream a few nights ago. I hate hearing other people’s dreams so feel free to skip this entry.


I have been interested in Erik Satie (1866- 1925) ever since I tried to visit his living/ work studio in Montmartre. It is billed as the smallest museum in the world- but has been shut down for an indeterminate time. It measures 10 square feet (3 sq m) -about the size of a single bed. He lived and worked here for 8 years in the late 1800’s referring to it as his cupboard (placard). Satie earned his living playing piano in the Montmartre cafes while he wrote his concerts. The minimalist music he composed is beautiful. (I tried to put one of his pieces on the post but was unable- anyone have any suggestions?)

OK so back to my dream. I dreamt of a possible character in a story. This person tries to live his life in the same minimalist way that Erik Satie composed his piano pieces. He takes the minimalist approach so seriously that he refuses to learn the language of his adopted country because he wants to eliminate all conversations feeling they are extraneous- there is no small talk or superficial pleasantries. He purchases what he needs by pointing and when annoyed grunts like an animal. He is unable to make any friends, but that is all part of his plan to live a minimalist Satie life. When in a train he is surrounded by the many conversations, which are just rhythms and beats but there is no coherence. The meaningless sounds remind him of an orchestra warming up before a concert that will never be performed.

While I was sleeping I kept thinking, “Wake up this is great.” I woke up, wrote it down, and re-read it a few days later. “hmmm, this is crap.” I thought. Isn’t that funny how dreams work? I wrote a little story about it anyway but I don’t think anything is there.

Sorry about the lack of posts lately- I've been on a writing streak at the American Library and haven't devoted much time to the blog. I also bought Season 2 and 3 of Lost, which hasn't helped.


I have been reading some Henry Miller these last few weeks- “Quiet Days in Clichey and “Tropic of Cancer”. Flipping through a biography about him yesterday I noticed that on his to do list he had written, “Steal good books from the American Library”. I showed it to the librarian at the American Library in a sad attempt to connect with her; she laughed but it did nothing to help my standing. Sometimes I read a celebrated author and can’t help but wonder what people see in him. Henry Miller is one of these authors. Granted I haven't read much and will continue but what I gather from these two books is the main subject matter seems to be a 40 something-year-old balding man writing about his sexual conquests in Paris. But if he's paying hookers, or not paying them, as is often the case, it is hardly a sexual conquest. I find the whole topic fairly depressing- it seems to be the subject matter for a 16 year-old boy's fantasies than that of a middle-aged man. I've heard Henry Miller described as Celine- but I'm not seeing it.

I acknowledge that I know only a small amount of his work but so far the only thing I learn from his writing is that if Henry Miller can get laid in Paris than pretty much anyone can.

My parents arrived in Paris this week. They are renting an apartment for two months and everyone is very excited. This will, of course, begin the mass family visits. My 10-year-old niece arrives on Wednesday. Here is my letter to her and her response. It seems clear that neither one of us has a firm grasp of reality- but she has fewer misspellings than me, which makes me sad.



Dear A-

Your Grandma and Grandpa arrived in Paris yesterday. The Brussel Sprouts (nickname for our family members living in Brussels) came in town to surprise them. We hid in your Grandparents new Paris apartment and shouted, "surprise!" when they walked in. They didn't seem very surprised- I guess they are old enough that nothing surprises them anymore.

I mentioned before that Grandma and Grandpa live next to the Louvre
where the Mona Lisa lives. Last night the Mona Lisa had a birthday
party for Venus de Milo and it was so loud that Grandma marched over
there, banged on the door and told Lisa to "Keep it down!" Winged
Victory was there but she was so mad because she couldn't eat any
birthday cake because she has no head- very sad. Venus de Milo was
also mad because she couldn't open her presents because she doesn't have
any arms. It was a poorly planned party.

Can't wait to see you this Wednesday.

Love Uncle Misplaced





Hi Uncle Misplaced! It's A. I just set a trap for a leprechaun to get trapped in. I heard that they like shiny things, so I put a spoon, knife, aluminum foil, and coins in the old- fashion box trap. Smart me! I wrapped the stick that you hold it up with in aluminum foil! Just in case you don't know what that box trap is, I'll explain it to you. It's when you put a stick by the edge of the inside of the box, and put the catch of the day's favorite thing inside the box. When they come, they'll knock down the stick and... BOOM! You've got you're catch of the day! (Your "catch of the day gets trapped inside the box)Well, that's that. I'm DYING to see the Mona Lisa! C ya there!

There is no way to write this without appearing to be an old man. But the simple truth is I don’t understand kids these days.

I have three college students, in their early twenties staying with me this week. One of them is the daughter of a family friend. She’s doing her junior year abroad in Strasburg. She and her friend called and asked if they could stay in our guest room. They brought flowers. The third is P- my cousin’s son from the State of Washington. Do you want to feel old? Spend 10 minutes with people in their early twenties and compare how you were in your twenties to how they are. I did not fair well in this comparison. First of all I never would have had it together enough to visit Europe. It was a major undertaking for me to get to Florida for spring break one year- and, of course, I blacked most of that trip out and ended up with third degree burns on my sun-blistered arms and kissing some dentally challenged girl that might have been in town for the tractor pull or maybe she was a carnie

So I mentioned to these 20ers that I don’t have alcohol in the house but if they wanted to pick up some wine or something that they should feel free to do that. None of them were interested. I was baffled. And so I mentioned it again to my cousin’s son, P- and he said….get this.

“I don’t really do that.”

I kept my amazement to myself so as not to scare off this strange alien creature.

“Really, never?” I queried subduing the urge to shake him by the lapels and scream “ARE YOU INSANE!”

“No if it’s an interesting beer I might try it just to experience it.”

I had to reach for the guardrail to keep myself from tumbling into the street. Have you ever heard of such a thing? If I was in Paris during my early twenties s the wine would be flowing like…well, like wine. Which, of course, explain why I don’t drink anymore. When did these kids get so healthy and wise? I’ve also heard rumors that these kids don’t think smoking cigarettes is cool. What a difference a decade makes. I still think smoking is cool- I think the only thing that would have made Fonzie even cooler, and yes he was cool, would be to have a cigarette dangling from his mouth as he had his arm draped over a buxom Pinky Tuscadero.

P- came home last night at 1:30- he was late because he and a bunch of people “closed down the Eiffel Tower”. He wasn’t in a bar room brawl and he didn’t need to get bailed out of jail. Before he went to bed he cleaned up my cat’s vomit. I don’t understand kids these days.

This morning I was rudely awakened by the front door buzzer. It was the postman with a cylindric package from Barcelona. Inside was a large, large box of Quaker Oats Old Fashioned Oatmeal- the slow cook kind. I love oatmeal- I especially love oatmeal raisin cookies- directly out of the oven. Taped to the bottom of the oatmeal box, like drugs, were 5 CDs- A Stephen Sondheim collection-"Into the Woods", "Sweeney Todd" (2 disks), "Sunday In The Park With George" and "Company"


And so, tonight I will be baking cookies and singing along with musicals. I know very little in this world but I know for a fact that the Marais got just a little bit gayer.

Let us continue our Montmartre tour as we move on to Le Bateau-Lavoir. We're walking people, walking.

It is said that modern art was born at Le Bateau- Lavoir. This former piano factory was modified to house artists that could live and work there. It got it’s nickname for the Laundry boats that once traveled the Seine. One tenant described it as “…a weird squalid place filled with every kind of noise: arguing, singing, bedpans clattering, slamming doors and suggestive moans coming from studio doors.” It was here, between 1890 and 1920, that some of the most talented writers and artists of the day lived and worked. My pal Modigliani did his time here before moving to Montparnesse, as did Braue, Juan Gris, Van Donges Marie Laurencin and many others.

In 1904 an unknown Pablo Picasso moved in here and in 1907 painted Les Demoiselles d’ Avignon which is regarded as the painting that began “Cubism”. I would disagree with this, as my great, great grand uncle was painting ‘cubie’ ladies in his little cottage in the western part of Ireland in the late 1800’s- I don’t wasn’t to suggest that Picasso stole the idea from poor ol’ Uncle Shamus, but it seems pretty apparent that he did. By the time that Picasso moved out of the Bateau-Lavoir the thieving Spaniard was famous- but later he said, “I know one day we’ll return to Bateau- Lavoir. It was there that we were really happy- where they thought of us as painters, and not strange animals. oh yea, and thanks for the idea Sucka'...I mean Shamus.”

Le Bateau-Lavoir burned down in the 1970’s and was later replicated. I believe it is still used to house artists- but the charm is lost when you realize that it is a reproduction. Perhaps one of the current artists will bring it back to its former historic glory. Uncle Shamus died penniless, but not before doing a little time for his "special drawings."

We have had friends visit us in Paris. The visits are great until we get to Montmartre. I have absolutely no knowledge of this area. I can walk you to Sacre Coeur and afterwards take you to the crepe place I like. The tour goes something like this.

“YEA, HA HA YOU GUYS WANT SOME CREPES? THIS PLACE IS GREAT HA HA. THERE’S A PICTURE OF JACQUE BREL ABOVE THE PIANO. NO, HE’S BELGIAN. BOY I SURE LIKE HAM ON MY CREPE. WE SHOULD HAVE BROUGHT SOME PICTURES TO PUT ON THE WALL HA HA. MONTMARTRE JUST A BIG OL’ HILL HA HA!”

It’s pathetic and painful yet I continuously drag people through this crap. Well not this time- I’m ready for visitors. I have a slew of family coming in town over next two months. My mom and dad are renting an apartment near the Louvre from March through May – and so for two months all my siblings, their spouses and kids (I have 12 nieces and nephews under the age of 16 will be traipsing through Paris, and I am ready to tackle the big hill. I have mapped out an excellent tour of Montmartre- it includes everything murder, transvestites, hookers, gypsum mines, revolution, theft, hearts entombed in catacombs, and we will finish off with the order in which animals were eaten during the Paris Siege starting with dogs through cats and finally to the rats. There will be some art because- well, their parent will question the other things I’m teaching their children, but then we will roll right into alcoholism, drugs, and insanity of the local talent.

If I have done my job these kids will have nightmares of a drunken Toulouse-Lautrec chasing them through the streets of Montmartre dressed as a woman.

What is wrong with this guy- does he post anymore? It sort of seems like he's been "phoning it in" lately. Remember that time he couldn't think of anything to write and then he just reposted an old post- lame and pretentious. I hope he doesn't do that again. Have you noticed how he always talks about how great his hair I used to think he was joking but I'm beginning to think he's serious. Someone ought to tell him it isn't that nice- kind of ratty really. "Yo misplaced, the 1970's called- they want their hair back!"- Ha ha sucka'... and what's up with him always talking about meeting Pete Townsend? Pathetic.

Someone recommended, I don’t remember whom, that it would be a good idea to write about what I do all day. I suspect that whoever suggested this was in fact saying that they know I don’t do anything and I’d better start proving that I’ve got something going. So this is my day.

As I mentioned, Kelly is off to Fez today for school. She and her fellow female classmates at the American University of Paris are, more than likely, on their way to being sold into white slavery and will undoubtedly end up in an arid land serving coffee to a Sultan in a Princess Leah slave outfit. We had our tearful goodbyes and I asked her to send money if the Sultan should happen to throw her a buck or two and then she was off. Emotionally drained, I immediately went back to sleep. After my fitful rest I went to the post office to mail out the short stories that I had been working on. I’m hesitant to say this, but I have never waited in a line at a Paris post office. I’m certain that I am jinxing myself by saying this but, once again, I was immediately sent to the front counter and was patiently waited upon by an incredible friendly French fellow who delighted in my butchering his language. My letters to New York and Barcelona were ready to go within 2 minutes and I was back on the street.

I passed an American TV star but could not think of his name- he was heading into the crepe restaurant on Francs Bourgeois. This is the second time that I’ve seen famous people and yet they look only faintly familiar to me- it’s important that I watch more American television.

The last time Kelly went out of town I shaved my beard into a goatee- as you will remember, the female readers were quick to write that they absolutely love goatees on men and that that fashion will NEVER get old. What else could I do now that Kelly is gone? I went to the BHV and bought a cheap hat to go with my goatee. My green hat, which looks like a beret but isn’t, was lost in Granada (probably pilfered by a Carcassonian on vacation).

After I bought a hat at the same place that sells lamps and electrical outlets, I did something I have never done before in my life. I wrote a fan letter to an author*. I finished “Our Paris” by Edmund White and loved it. One of my all time favorite books is also by him called “The Flaneur.” I've written abou tthis book before, reading “The Flaneur” reminds me of an exchange I had with my father, who is a sculptor. We were walking though an exhibit of Degas sculptures and I said, “Seeing these makes me want to take up sculpting.” My father replied, “Seeing these makes me want to quit” That’s how I feel when I read people like Edmund White- I will never be able to get there in my writing and it’s a little disheartening. Anyway a few hours later, still wearing my hat, of course, Edmund White responds to my email. He suggested a bookstore that he likes near my neighborhood and asked what I’m doing in Paris. I don’t mean to brag but that’s a pretty good day.

Still basking in the glow of my email and hat I began making a compilation CD for my niece in Brussels- I’m more than a little concerned at the crap she listens to so I’m doing my duties as an Uncle and pulling together some good music- but keeping it somewhat modern. So pleased was I with the CD I burned one for my sister and father-in-law.

So, as you can see, I’m keeping most busy and life is pretty grand. I will miss Kelly but of God feels she should be a white slave than who am I to disagree.

* I did write a fan letter to Brooke Shields when I was a young lad (17 years old- God I wish I had been younger) but that was before she wrote her book it was more in response to her excellent work in The Blue Lagoon....and I was 17.

Graffiti In Granada

I'm trying to put pictures from Granada up but Blogger wont let me- most annoying. Although when blogs that I read put vacation photographs up I generally skip them so maybe it for the best.

Kelly is visiting Fez, Morocco for two weeks to attend a class on non-profit organizations or NGO’s, as they are known here. I'm not certain why she needs to attend this class as we have been non-profit for the past 8 months but off she is going. I have to figure out what I'm going to do for two weeks. My brother and his family are in the Alps skiing and then they are off to Tunisia. It occurs to me that I should probably make some friends or something.

It's been my experience that after your early twenties it becomes more difficult to make lasting relationships. I have made one very good friend in the last five years- a neighbor down the street. We used to meet weekly at a coffee shop and complain about our wives. Nothing serious but a fella needs to vent. My other close friend I met in 8th grade and we have been buddies since. Both have visited us with their wives but neither is irresponsible enough to quit their good jobs and move here- so I am forced to actually try to make friends.

Have you ever tried to befriend a guy? Guys, by their very nature, are idiots so you have meet a lot of bucket heads before you find a cool guy- and then he might think you're an idiot or he might be all full up with guy friends so you're sunk. The plus side in guys being stupid is that very soon they will send out subtle signs that they are not friend material. "Fox News ROCKS!!" "Pamela Anderson is a TOTAL BABE!!!" The 'high five' is always a great weeder out of potential guy friends.

I’ve watched Kelly befriend girls- they will meet for the first time and by the end of the conversation they say - "Hey lets meet for a coffee or go shopping” look at that, they are on their way to becoming friends. If a guy says to another guy at a party, "Hey let's meet for coffee or go shopping" it sounds like a bad pickup line. And let's face it; a slim, good-looking guy with incredible hair such as myself is often mistaken for gay and my intentions may be misconstrued.

The super secret anonymous club I belong to should make it easier to meet people but the simple truth is men don't befriend other men easily. I've always found it easier to befriend women but I’m no longer permitted to be friends with pretty women -so sayeth my wife. By the way- I met a woman that tried to kill herself by jumping in the Seine- (reference to an old post that I'm to lazy to look up and link to)- fortunately she's just average looking so she is "friend material" but...well... she did jump in the Seine and I'm looking for a long term relationship.

So these next two weeks I will try to make some friends and when Kelly gets home I'll ditch 'em.

Smells and tastes always transport me. A fresh cut field reminds me of playing soccer when I was a child- A smell will come from nowhere and I will be immediately returned to the halls of my high school. At the time I don’t realize that the smells or tastes will stick with me but I believe that in the future, no matter how long I’ve been away from Paris, the smell and taste of a clementine will bring me back to these days. I will bore the grandchildren with nostalgic tales of my clementine days.

Our friend Cecile, of "Ask A French Woman" fame, has posted my answers to her questions. I must warn you that my answer are terrible in comparison to hers but you should check out her site it's very good. Are you worried that you can't read French? Have no fear- go to http://babelfish.altavista.com/ and have the page translated from French to English. For those of us that want to learn more about the French this is an excellent site.

ASK A FRENCH WOMAN

As you may recall, a few weeks ago we began compiling questions that we could ask a real, live French woman. Cecile, a Parisian at ceciledequoide9.blogspot.com, has graciously agreed to answer any questions we had- and we had a lot. I hadn't realized that I sent so many over and so I want to thank Cecile for being such a good sport. I'm only publishing the first 12 today and I'll do the rest throughout the week. Thanks everyone for the questions. I think some expat magazine should pick this series up and pay Cecile many euros for her work. you can visit her site to read my answers to her questions.


1. What would be the one French music CD you would recommend?

It really depends if you’re familiar or not with the French culture and what kind of music you like. If I have only one choice, I guess it would be a compilation of songs of Serge Gainsbourg songs, one of our greatest songwriter (a poet actually) and melody makers. Most French people just love this guy.

This record should include titles like:
- Harley David son of a bitch
- Elisa
- Requiem pour un con (“Requiem for a jerk”)
- Qui est “in” qui est “out”
- Love on the beat (one of the hottest songs I know)
- Initials B.B. (he wrote this one for Brigitte Bardot)
- Je t’aime… moi non plus (this song was one of the rare French songs n°1 in the English charts… He wrote it for Brigitte Bardot but was married at that time and asked him not to broadcast it. So he sang it with his next girlfriend Jane Birkin. The title means something like “I love you… neither do I”)
- Bonnie and Clyde (my favorite, the female voice is Brigitte Bardot)
- Je suis venu te dire que je m’en vais (I just came to say I leave)

I have plenty of other suggestions of brand new great French bands on my blog and you can listen to them on myspace… If you want, I can also make a compilation of “French standards”.


2. What is your favorite French book?

This book is not known at all, it’s called “Septentrion” and the author is Louis Calaferte. My second guess would be “Le Petit Prince” by Antoine de Saint Exupéry which was first published in N.Y.C. during WW2 and was for many decades the most translated book in the world (except for the Bible)… and then came a guy named Potter, Harry Potter… “Le Petit Prince” is really really really (I insist) a beautiful little book, with beautiful drawings by the author and very easy to read in French.

3. What are the most prevalent American stereotypes? (Be honest)

I’m not sure to understand the question well. If it is “what do French people think about American people?” I’m afraid the “honest” answer required is not very pleasant. Don’t get it wrong: despite all that was written in the papers when the second war in Iraq started, French people just LOVE American people and kind of admire then. Really. But as we say: “qui aime bien châtie bien” which could be translated approximately translated by “The one who truly loves, really know how to punish” (I manage to write longer sentences in English than in French… strange…). So, I have to admit that the most common stereotypes are “American people are arrogant and want to rule the world” (this one is quite recent) and the other one is “American people are stupid”.

I have a video in my blog, a report for an American show actually, where a journalist asks questions like “how many angles does a triangle have” or “what’s the British currency?” and get all kinds of crazy answers… That’s the funny part of the video… What follows is kind of creepy. The journalist then asks “what country should we attack next?” and surprisingly everybody has a precise idea about this particular question… Scary.

In another one a woman is asked for the capital of Hungary in a T.V. game. The problem is not that she doesn’t know the answer… (Nobody has to know everything after all but still there is a minimum). The problem is that she has never heard about Hungary and says “hungry?” There is a country called “hungry”, really?”

Of course those example aren’t representative but they are funny. We have a lot of stupid persons here too but I just can’t imagine an adult walking down the street not able to give the correct answer to “combien y a-t-il d’angles à un triangles?” or not answering “Are you insane?” to a journalist asking, “quel pays devrions-nous attaquer?”

4. What do you think the most prevalent French stereotypes are?
One is about the same: “French People are arrogant” but not for the same reasons I guess. We don’t give a shit ruling the world but we think we’re smarter than anybody else on earth. Am I correct? Isn’t it our reputation most of the time?
There is a Belgian story about us which goes like this: “Do you know why French people choose the cock for national symbol?” and the answer is “Because even both feet stuck in the muck they keep on singing”.
- Savez-vous pourquoi les français ont choisi le coq comme emblème national?
- parce que meme les deux pieds dans le fumier, ils continuent de chanter.

The second stereotype is, I think: “French people always complain… They’re always on strike, they shout all the time”. Kind of right but as we say “Ca fait partie de notre charme” (it’s part of our charm). The positive aspect about this is that we have no traces of hypocrisy. We can just argue about almost anything for hours (we love to talk so much…) and then shake hands and have a drink together (we love to drink too).

5. Do all Germans dress badly or just the ones that visit Paris?
It’s worst in Spain!

6. Where did you learn to speak English?
At school and I spent some times in the States… All French kids have to learn at last 2 foreign languages. I started with German and then English. Do not forget that French people listen to English songs all the time; we see English/American movies, etc.

7. Do you miss the French franc?
Why would I? I don’t care about the currency as long as:
- It is the one chosen by my country
- I get enough money… ;o)

8. Who do you think would win in a nude, Lime Jell-O wrestling match Bush or Sarkozy?
Hum… difficult question. Bush is much taller and certainly stronger but I guess Sarkozy is sharper and more nervous. It would be strength against strategy, muscles against brain, calm against anger… I bet on my president but on the other hand Bush would be on his own field, as we’re not really used to Jell-O here…

9. If I stood outside Carla Bruni apartment singing “Love me tender, love me sweet” wearing nothing but a tee shirt and socks -would that be considered romantic or creepy?
I’m afraid you wouldn’t even get closer to her metro station dressed like that and it would be kind of inappropriate even under my windows…

10. Is it just me, or do the English seem to be drunk a lot?
It is not just you. It is just them.

11. The men in Paris seem to take a piss anywhere- is that something you become used to?
I’m not used to it after 15 years in Paris… and my building and the one next to it makes an angle in a small street if you see what I mean…

12. I was told that French women find American men speaking French incredibly sexy- I was later told that that whoever said that was lying to me- which is it?
I’ll tell you that after a drink or two to check your French level…

Do you feel as though you've been abandoned? I went to Granada in the southern part of Spain and forgot to mention that I wouldn't be blogging for the week. Sorry about that. I took a slew of pictures and will get them up as soon as I get myself situated.