• As of 9:30 am, it is officially rainy and awful here in Paris. A day for staying in. I shall probably stick close to “home” today.
• As I’m used to using my cell phone as a watch—and as I’m not using it here because I can’t get service, didn’t bring the charger and don’t want to run the battery down—I realized I had nothing to tell time with.  On the second day here I went down to the Immigrant-Run Cheap Dusty Crap Store down the street (which actually has its fun points), and bought a €7.50 watch. (Does the euro sign go before or after the numbers? I can never remember… ) It kept stopping.  I took it back and said it didn’t work. The guy there said no, it just needs a new battery, and replaced it for free. Fair enough. This morning, when the signs were all saying it was wake-up time, I looked at the watch and it said 5:30 am. I turned on the cell phone just for a second to check: 9:00 am. I go back to my original contention about the watch.
• As of 11:00 am, it is officially gorgeous here in Paris. Cold, but sunny and bright. I’m still feeling lazy, though, after two days of aggressive sightseeing. I may see a movie at the theater down the block—the movies there are either “VO” (Version Originale = in original English w/French subtitles) or “VF” (Version Française, dubbed in French).  I think a VO movie would work for me.
• Someone very smart once told me this, but after a couple of days of speaking French pretty well, I feel I need reminding: If you want to get along in a foreign culture/language, even if you speak it well, never try to pass.  Don’t step up to the counter with a smug “Heh, I speak the language so you and I are gonna have no problem here” attitude; every time I do that, the minute I open my mouth I have some sort of “WTF?” reaction from the clerk and we stumble through an embarrassing (for me) exchange.  The proper protocol is to step up with a humble, friendly smile that says “Hi, it’s completely obvious I’m American, so I’m ready to accept we’re going to have to work this out.” Then, when you do speak French well, they’re pleasantly surprised that it was so easy, and they think you’re cool. (I’m writing this down as much to remind myself as to enlighten anyone else.)
• As some of you may know, money belts are hate and loathing. They’re not only an instant spare tire around your middle, but every time you need money you have to molest yourself in public to get it. However, they turn out to be a lot less awful in cold weather.  It’s harder for people to see you’re lumpy when the belt is covered up by lots of clothing and coats, unlike summer t-shirts and shorts.
• In TMI news, a certain womanly bodily function began today. This I feel is a breach of an agreement: the unspoken agreement that, when on a magical vacation to the City of Lights, all things icky and inconvenient are to be cancelled.
• I may not be able to stay here at the quirky Hotel Eldorado next time—at least not without an in-room toilet and shower. The communal shower skeeves me. This is also officially the loudest hotel in the history of sound. Not only does every single noise bounce totally unimpeded through the walls, but the streets right below the window are a riot of noise at all times. Apparently it’s not a custom to put up those “Respect our neighbors when you leave our bar and keep quiet” signs, like they do in L.A.  Revelers are (sometimes literally) screaming until well into the single-digit hours. Last time the earplugs and the heavy insulated front windows seemed enough. Not this time, for some reason. I guess I’m getting old.
• Note from later: I have discovered something that rules out what I just wrote. The noise only seems to happen on weekends. Monday night was as calm and quiet as you could ask for. ::shrugs:: Go fig.
• I barely went out today. I guess I needed a vacation from my vacation.

You Know You’re A Redneck If Your Wife Is Quoted In The Local Paper Saying…

Okay, now then:

I went searching again this morning, trying to find a good café from which to gank wifi. I quickly found one that actually advertised it was a free wifi zone. (The sticker on the door says it’s a “wistro”.) Yay!

I got a tiny little café au lait and sat at a table. Turned out the coffee costs more if you sit at a table, so I paid it (plus a tip I didn’t mean to give) and sat there frantically uploading and describing pictures till my battery ran out. The place really started jumping at a certain point, filled with men standing at the bar with their little coffees and having loud, animated, friendly arguments.

When I was done, I went to leave and very suavely… slammed straight into a closed glass exit door, with immediate searing pain to my nose. A chorus of “oh la la”s erupted from behind me, and a very nice older man talked to me for a minute to make sure I was okay. Actually lots of people checked if I was okay, including a guy who wasn’t even in the place, but outside. I reassured everyone I was fine, mostly trying to get away quickly due to mortification and being too flustered to talk well in French. I went back to the hotel, fighting off the urge to cry till I got there (it scared me more than anything else). My nose wasn’t bleeding from within, but from a small injury on the bridge of my nose, which surprised me. Still, that seemed to mean it wasn’t broken, which was a relief. I realized I knew how to say “my nose hurts” but not “I walked into a door” or, surprisingly, “embarrassed” – made a note to look those things up. I realized some ice would be in order, so I went down to the hotel bar, explained myself and got some, went back to the room, cried some more, took some ibuprofen and held the ice there for a bit. It mostly sucked because I was all ready to go do some stuff when it happened, but felt I should take a minute to see how things were going to go. Soon I decided I’d done as much preventative stuff as I was going to be able to, and sallied forth once more, just hoping I wouldn’t have a hugely swollen nose, black eyes, or a crippling headache later. I treated myself to six mini-macarons from the bakery up the street, as a reward for being brave.

I walked around Place de Clichy—where my hotel is—for a bit, got an egg-and-cheese crèpe that was awesome (and watched someone get a banana-Nutella-coconut crèpe that looked even more awesome). Then I boarded the Metro and made the longish trip to Père Lachaise cemetery.

Père Lachaise is freaking huge. And especially on a cold, gray day, seriously creepy in parts. I think Disney must have modeled the graveyards in the Haunted Mansion after a place like this. I always hate that, for someone who purports to be so open-minded about death, I sometimes get weirded out when faced with actual evidence of it. But I guess it’s because I think graves and monuments to the dead are kind of sad—not for the obvious reasons, but because they’re attempts to keep the dead around and make their lives permanent somehow, which can’t be done. Tombstones get moldy and stained and then crumble—especially in a place with graves as old as these were, the evidence was everywhere. It seemed less like a memorial of people’s lives and more like a monument to decay. And the inevitability of decay, I find, is creepy.

Anyway, I saw the usual suspects’ graves: Oscar Wilde, Edith Piaf, Jim Morrison, etc. I wasn’t aware that someone named Henri Salvador had died until I saw a gravestone buried in an avalanche of flowers and surrounded by a constantly flowing crowd of people. Someone had put a picture of a magazine cover with Henri’s picture atop the flowers, and I asked a lady nearby if that was who was buried there (it was the only way I could tell whose grave it was—flowers completely obscured the marker). She said yes. I asked if it was the anniversary of his death or something, and she and her husband told me animatedly that it had only been 15 days since he’d died. I’ve since Googled him, and he was a singer and musician who sounds playful, talented, groundbreaking and cool. You can read about him here at Wikipedia, if’n you want.

Afterward, I went to a restaurant and had a coffee to warm up, got snipped at by the bar man for infractions I didn’t intend and didn’t really understand, whatevs. I was tired and cold and not prone to smiling, but decided to try and get to a 12-step meeting across town anyway, one right near Notre Dame. I’m glad I did, because I’d spent most of the day in lousy-ish neighborhoods, and this nicer neighborhood and the location near the Seine cheered me up. I bought a scarf that saved my freezing self (as well as the obligatory sticker for my laptop) and got a snack. I was just sitting down outside the meeting place, when who should walk up but the guy from Sacré-Cour who was following me around yesterday. It was a TOTALLY different part of town, and just by chance, there he was. He seemed less creepy somehow (he was really little, for one thing) and a quick chat proved his sole intention was to pick me up. (I think Parisian men have this idea that American women are naïve and easily dazzled by their Frenchness or something.) We had a friendly-ish conversation during which I turned him down repeatedly, then finally shooed him away and went to the door of the meeting place… and found it locked. I double-checked my schedule… and found I’d gone to the location for Monday’s meeting, not Sunday’s. The right location was too far away to get there on time. I decided to write it off to having tried my best, and made my semi-exhausted way back to the hotel.

I have to admit I miss my little home comforts of TV/Tivo/fridge/cats/internet here at the hotel (I’m in Paris and I miss the television). There’s no TV or phone or anything in the room, and no matter what I do the room appears wifi-proof. Not sure what I’ll do this evening, but skipping dinner doesn’t seem like an option. Still, I just wish it would materialize in my hotel room.

I slept fitfully last night, and had trouble staying asleep. I ended up getting up at 8:45, which is unheard of. I know it wouldn’t last if I stayed here for a long time, but I’m at the moment I’m enjoying being a Light Dweller.

I did my hair, then went down for the breakfast I stupidly agreed to pay the extra money for. It was orange juice, coffee, and some small cold croissants and pieces of bread, with jam and butter. Eh.

Then I went down the street searching for wifi. I figured most hotels would have it, and I wondered if someone would let me sit in their lobby and use it. Not knowing which one to pick, I finally sat on the sidewalk near one hotel, opened up my laptop and tried to sign on. I found a free signal quickly. I also, of course, got many strange looks, from people who instantly guessed what I was doing. A young man from the hotel came out, smiling in amusement, and I asked if I could come in and sit. He said yes, and subsequently chatted with me for quite a while. His name was Ahmet. He told me he normally wouldn’t let someone stay, but I was nice, and actually told me the hotel’s wifi password after swearing me to secrecy. (I didn’t need it as I was already signed on someplace free, but I went along to be polite.) I bought a Coke Zero to pay for my “rent,” which he insisted was not necessary, but I actually wanted one, so it worked out.

Then I geared up and went out to do the Montmarte walk suggested in Rick Steves’ Paris guidebook. It was actually quite interesting and fun, if a bit too ambitious for my out-of-shape self. The guidebook provided a lot of facts I wouldn’t have known, and although I didn’t particularly like walking around with my finger stuck in an English-language Paris guidebook—touristy much?—it was unavoidable if I wanted to follow along.

I started out near the Pigalle on a trashy little street, which nonetheless is where I got the most awesome sandwich—grilled tomato, cheddar and feta cheese and herbs. While it grilled I talked to the guy behind the counter about whether Hillary would win the nomination or Obama. I remarked on his following American politics and he said “That’s normal. Everyone in France—in the world—is watching you.” Wow.

I went up to Sacré-Cour, which I didn’t really need to see (I’d been already) but I ended up walking through anyway so I could follow the tour as described. I walked over to the Place du Tertre first—the place where all the tourist shops are and where the artists hang out and paint all day—and a man with an easel under his arm called out in English: “Hey, Blondie!” I smiled and kept going—I assumed it was an attempt to get me to let him sketch or paint my portrait and then get paid for it. Another skinny, youngish guy with strangely over-enthusiastic smile said hello and kept chattering at me, and then started following me around, intercepting my path repeatedly even though I was studiously ignoring him. I finally told him outright to scram and he did. I don’t know what he wanted, but I was assuming it wasn’t necessarily in my best interest.

I followed the tour and saw a bistro where Edith Piaf sang, the Lapin Agile, the last vineyard in Paris (from the 1100’s). I went through the Dali museum, which was great—I really liked his statue of Alice in Wonderland. Then I walked down the hill and saw stuff like Picasso’s old studio and the café where they filmed Amélie. I bought earrings in a cute little store and saw the DVD of The Simpsons Movie in another store window—and in French. Les Simpson—Le Film! Somehow I can’t think of anything quite so absurd.

Exhausted afterward, I went back to the hotel and collapsed on the bed and didn’t even get dinner that night, so loathe was I to move.

First off, all the pictures I’ve taken are here, if you want to go ahead and skip to them. They have a pretty good amount of description, so you should be able to get the gist of what’s happening.

But! To hear me go on and on and on about what’s happened, read below. Here’s what I wrote for the first day.

So I got here, after umpteen hours of travel. Officially there were 11 hours on the plane, but there was also getting up at 7 am CA time for an 11:00 am flight, inching down the freeways to the airport, 1 1/2 hours layover time at O’Hare, and the fact that I didn’t sleep the entire night before leaving. A couple hours of laying down, yes, but sleeping, no. Par for the course for me. And I didn’t get any sleep on the planes, because I can’t sleep sitting up. I tried a little, but my sleeping tendencies really didn’t work in my favor. For instance, I twitch a lot when I sleep, and every time I dozed off, after a few minutes I’d end up flinching violently awake. I suspect I was putting on quite a show. Not the best way to relax.

I always wonder if I’ve planned enough on these trips. Well, there was a cute, young couple beside me on the plane who it turns out knew practically nothing about Paris except the fact that they wanted to go to the Eiffel Tower. They didn’t know how to get from the airport to Paris, didn’t think about dropping off their luggage at the hotel, they just planned to go straight there. The husband asked me how to say “Où est the Eiffel Tower?” (I told him, but also said the Tower’s not something you can really miss.)

So I got into the Hotel Eldorado, and it was exactly the same as when I’d seen it last. Pepita, the aging hotel cat, was still there, still in the same armchair. Same crooked-y stairs (I call them the drunken stairs), same space for said stairs cut out of the bathroom door on the hall. Same drag queen clothing store just down the block. And a place called “Ultra-Kitsch” on the corner which lives up to its name by sporting awesomely crazy modern furniture and accessories. (Last time they were selling toilet paper printed with American dollars.)

My room was cute but a little dingy, and very pink. I turned on my laptop, and promptly found the wifi service I’d paid for did not work and hasn’t since. I’d seen two German women in the lobby (Katja and Ingrid, I found out later) who I met again coming out of my room at one point. They wanted to see as many rooms as possible, since 1) they’re all different and 2) Katja was reviewing the hotel for a magazine. We talked and they invited me to have dinner in the hotel restaurant later, and I said yes. When they left, I contemplated staying up a bit longer. I felt a little wired—I’d only been awake for, what, two days? Maybe I didn’t need a nap after all. Then I lay down and fell asleep for 5 hours.

Dinner that night was really very good, if a bit pricey (€25 in all.) I also had my first raw oyster, w/some lemon—Katya told me it would be like “a little sip of the sea,” and it totally was. (I didn’t chew in the slightest, quite afraid the texture would make me gag unattractively. And I kept to myself the fact that I’d always called these things Snot on a Rock.) Then I had seared tuna and some potato concoction and a salad, followed by café au lait. We talked about everything under the sun (their English was impeccable), then all decided we couldn’t keep our eyes open any longer. I saw their room briefly (they called it the Aubergine room), went to bed and collapsed.

Next up, Montmartre.

• Lately I’m trying out actions and art forms that require me to unpack long-stuffed-down feelings. Which is basically, every feeling I ever have. I have been hiding from life, and I am attempting to unhide. The baby steps I’ve taken make me feel exhilarated, out of control and a little crazy. My mind is all over the place tonight, as everything I encounter makes me have huge crazy feelings, from love to regret to a frantic need to join in. I want to babble to everyone about everything. The people I encounter–who are not having an emotional awakening–are not particularly engaging me in this, as they are sane and don’t realize they’re talking to a human volcano.
• Oh by the way, either it’s an long-overdue emotional awakening, or I just didn’t take my antidepressants at the right time today, and tomorrow I’ll feel nothing like this. Check back.
• I’m in a writing/performance class that scares me to death, as the climate there requires honest self-revelation. I told a story the first class–about my first hellish stand-up road trip–and got no laughs. NONE. I was one of the unfunniest people there, which I am not used to. The consensus was it was because of a fear of telling what’s really going on with me–I was not meeting the class objectives. The teachers advise you to talk about things which, if you don’t talk about them, your head will explode. I blanched and replied that I’m full of things I feel must be ruthlessly hidden, or else my life will explode. I was instantly encouraged to talk about that.
• To that end, this week I plan to write a list of 100 Things I Don’t Want Anyone To Know About Me. And then I will read it, out loud.
• Just a note: I missed the second class session, because by the time it came up and I was due to get up on stage and face the scary task of revealing myself out loud, I contracted strep throat. My throat quit working. I’m sure you don’t believe this was an coincidence, either.
• You know how sometimes when you’re single, and someone comes up to you who seems pretty normal and likeable and from their interest you think they’re kind of flirting, or at least feeling out the possibilities, but slowly you get this gut feeling that no one dates them, and you immediately decide that if it comes up, you’re not going to either. You don’t have any idea what’s “wrong” with them, but you can tell by their openness to making a connection that lots of people turn them down, and it may not be fair, and it may not even be accurate that this person should be avoided, but you just figure that all those invisible people know something you don’t.

I feel like I must come off like that. I have no idea what to do about it.

• That and I seem to constantly bark up the wrong tree, constantly striking up conversations with nice married guys and such. But then, in my age group it’s difficult to find nice guys who aren’t. Everyone worth snapping up had it happen years ago. My only hope (and I hate the idea that it’s “hope”) is that they participate in the Reassignment Period where people get divorced and hook up with someone else. But even then, I’m still dealing with the invisible Do Not Date ray I think I’m emitting. It’s a big contributor to my idea that things about me are wrong that I can’t detect, and hence hiding everything that even might be unattractive is the best plan.
• Which brings me back to the fact that hiding hasn’t worked, and hence I am unhiding. It may be scary and counter-intuitive, but you can’t deny that the Hiding Plan hasn’t worked for shit. At least with Unhiding, I should get different results. Maybe not always the ones I want, but different.

Wish me luck. More than that, wish me actual follow-through.

Just moments ago, I had the experience of trying to explain, to a Spanish-speaking person over at my house, the plot of the movie Harvey.

Try that sometime.

It wasn’t so much about knowing enough Spanish to do the job. While pointing to Jimmy Stewart on the video box, I babbled something along the lines of “Este hombre ve, todo el tiempo, un conejo gigante. Es su amigo.” Probably not perfect, but grammar or vocab or whatever wasn’t the issue here. She understood.

The issue was her boggled look of “That’s what the movie’s about? Are you gabachos on crack or something?”

How does one explain the total magic of Jimmy Stewart’s friendship with Harvey to another culture, the charm of his “I reject your reality and substitute my own!” attitude, when all you can say is “This guy sees all the time a giant rabbit?”

I tried to think of something to combat the look. After a moment I added “Pero el es mas intelligente que la gente creen.” More or less: “But he’s smarter than people think.”

Surprisingly, that got a change of look, a smile and a little eye-narrowing of understanding, and a nod of “Oh, I get it.”

Hmm. I guess that’s how.

*Where have I been? Oh… none of your business. And whatever story I came up with would be long and boring anyway.)

That is all.

But Wait, There’s More! The Podcast

And yes, someday I’ll post something real here again. Someday…