| Missed Flight |
[Apr. 30th, 2005|04:15 pm] |
So I could blame my missed flight on the fact that I didn't have an alarm clock. I could blame it on the giant one-day Metro strike that slowed Paris to a crawl the day I was scheduled to leave. But I'd be lying if didn't tell you the real reason: I was out whooping it up until 5 in the morning and couldn't pull myself to wake up two hours later.
I'd been out for another oversized bistro dinner with Anna, Merrin and Doreen. We ate so much (and so well) that we got the post-eat sleeps and almost bailed on going out altogether. But we said 'carpe diem', shook it off, and ended up at Le Baron, a former bordello that turned out to be the coolest club ever.
Red velvet walls. Low-slung couches. Dancefloor packed with hipsters and supermodels.
A band that played Beatles and Stones covers. Drinking, dancing and smoking. I even met a babe named Valentine.
Man alive. Legendary night. Definitely the right way to say 'au revoir' to Paris in style.
Unless, of course, you're one of my bosses. In which case, um, I was home and asleep by 10 PM. It was the Metro strike that made me miss my flight. Which is a shame, because I am super excited to get back and start working.
Merrin and Anna smile as the band plays on:
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| oops |
[Apr. 29th, 2005|04:13 pm] |
I`m supposed to be flying over the Atlantic right now.
"It`s my last night in Paris and I have to go big", however, intervened. I missed this morning`s flight.
Hopefully I`ll get home tomorrow. In the meantime, I`m off to see the new Todd Solondz movie.
Full story upon return. |
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| Back in the U.S.S.A. |
[Apr. 28th, 2005|04:14 pm] |
I’d like to start off this post by telling you I’m an idiot. That said, on with the story.
I have dual citizenship. Canadian and American. On more than one occasion, I’ve forgotten one passport or the other and dealt with some pretty crappy situations as a result. Once I almost ruined a family reunion (ask my parents for details), another time I was denied entry into the U.S. and had to spend three days stranded in (God forbid!) Canada.
For this trip, I decided only to pack my Canadian passport. Why on earth would I need my American passport in Europe when I had a choice to be Canadian instead? It seemed like a no-brainer. My U.S. passport stayed at home.
What I didn’t consider, however, was getting back in the U.S.S.A.. If I showed my Canadian passport upon reentry, they’d ask for either a working visa (which I don’t have) or proof that I was only visiting their country (which I don't have either). Basically, I was screwed.
Which brings us to yesterday. My second last day in Paris, and I had to spend it getting a temporary U.S. passport.
I arrived at the Consulate around noon. First, they sent me a few blocks away to get my passport photo taken. Then, when I returned with my photos, they told me I couldn’t bring my laptop inside. So what was I supposed to do?
“If you go to that pub on the corner, they’ll probably hold it for a couple euros.”
Are you kidding? Left with no other option, I did just that. Gave two euros and my computer to a sketchy bartender with a handlebar moustache. But at last, I finally received clearance to enter the Consulate.
Once inside, the process was surprisingly quick. With only my Ontario driver’s license as I.D. (I somehow forgot to bring my Canadian passport), they issued me a new U.S. passport in less than an hour’s time. It cost me 80 euros, but that’s a small price to pay when your other option is deportation to (God forbid!) Canada.
Went on to meet Anna and her sister-in-law Merrin at the Musee D’Orsay. It was no Musee De Crazee, but man, it was pretty fantastic nonetheless. Ridiculous collection of Impressionist paintings (amongst many others), housed in a ridiculous former train station. In this idiot’s opinion, way, way better than the Louvre.
At night, we went out with Genevieve (my mad cool, mad talented French design buddy) and Doreen (Merrin’s mad cool aunt) for a gigantic French bistro dinner. Began with salted bone marrow on bread, which tasted exactly the opposite of how gross it sounds. That is, it tasted anti-gross. That is, it tasted mega-tasty.
Then, following excellent main courses of steak, chicken and duck, we ordered a third bottle of wine and four pants-crappingly good desserts. I’m serious. Good enough that I might honestly move to Paris with my entire life savings and order these desserts over and over until I end up a fat bum begging American tourists for spare change. Which I would then use to order more desserts at the restaurant.
This, my friends, is the good life. I can’t believe I'm about to leave it.
Genevieve and Doreen, shocked by their desserts:
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| Hot fashion from the streets of Paris |
[Apr. 28th, 2005|04:06 pm] |
Two tips If you want to dress like a French fashionista:
1. Dress as much like a wolf as possible.
2. Buy some Chewbacca boots and steal a kid's scooter.
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| blah blah blah |
[Apr. 26th, 2005|06:10 pm] |
Yesterday, following yet another kickass homemade Rollman baguette lunchfest, I put on my iPod and took a stroll through the incredibly enchanting Montmartre neighborhood.
“Hey, there’s the café from Amelie!” was followed by “Man, so many cool little bistros” was followed by “I think I’ll check out this Dali museum” was followed by “Wow, what a crappy museum.” (It was filled with reproductions, some of which seemed not much fancier than color photocopies from Kinkos.) Finally I reached the top of the hill (it’s a very vertical neighborhood) and decided to once again visit the beautiful church known as Sacre Coeur.
For some reason, entering churches has been one of my favorite things to do on this trip. As a kid, I remember hating them. But, magnificent architecture aside (how did they build these things hundreds of years of ago?), I’ve really come to appreciate the incredible calm these buildings contain.
I’m not a religious person, but it’s hard not find a sense of inner peace when you sit with strangers and ponder a shared sense of faith amongst you. And I don’t really mean a faith in Christianity, but rather some sort of greater belief in the common good. (Sorry if that sounds sappy; I’m getting a little sentimental as the end of my trip draws near.)
Afterwards I stepped outside, enjoyed what many rightly say is the best view of Paris, then headed to the airport to meet my dear friend Anna. She was flying in from L.A. to hang out for a few days before heading to England for her cousin’s wedding. She was mega-fatiuged following her mega-long flight, but we managed to fit in a sweet bistro dinner and a half bottle of Bordeaux before I walked her back to her hotel to pass out.
Then I returned to my apartment, got on my knees, closed my eyes and prayed for, um, common good. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 25th, 2005|12:57 pm] |
Last night I landed in Paris, dropped off my knapsack, then booted off for my third and final (insert sad face emoticon here) Jim Haynes Sunday dinner.
Jim is a wandering beat who's led a truly amazing life. In his autobiography (I’m reading it now), he tells stories of helping to found the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, starting a porn magazine in Amsterdam and hanging out with, amongst others, The Beatles.
For more than 25 years, Jim has been hosting a weekly dinner at his Paris apartment. Anyone is welcome; all you need to do is call in advance. He’s got a passion for introducing strangers and spends every meal ensuring his guests meet as many people as possible. I went my first Sunday here and had such a random adventure (the night I drank absinthe until six in the morning) that I’ve been back every week I’ve been here.
Some of the people I’ve met at Jim’s: three pilots, a sculptor, two au-pairs, a retired architect, Tony Robbins’ life coach (he needs one?), a civil engineer, a civil servant, a location scout, her son, an English teacher, an English professor, two doctors and (stay calm) Catherine Deneuve’s Pilates instructor.
I think the Jim Haynes experience kind of encapsulates why I came over here. A chance to meet new people, discover new ideas, learn new ways of thinking, etc. Travel destroys routine and makes life incredibly random and unknown. Which, I think, is when much of the best stuff happens.
Plus, travel is a cool way to meet chicks. |
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| Difficult Challenge |
[Apr. 24th, 2005|12:51 pm] |
You're in an Italian airport. You have to go to the bathroom really badly. You're a man. Which of the following two signs denotes the room you're supposed to enter? Discuss.
Sign #1:
Sign #2:
(Funny side note: when I took these photos, an old Italian lady gave me a "You dirty pervert" glare.) |
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| What happens when a hailstorm screws up your plans for the theater (thanks Delp!) |
[Apr. 23rd, 2005|07:00 pm] |
Spent yesterday wandering around Trastevere, an old-school cobblestone road district known as Rome’s ‘cool’ neighborhood. Peeked into artists’ studios, sampled a couple pizza joints (one-word review: phenomenal), and sat at an outdoor cafe for two espressos, a Herald Tribune and a cigarette.
At night, Gillian and I had plans to see a play, but a giant hailstorm (what’s up with all the hailstorms?) intervened and kept us in her ‘hood instead. We ended up at a private football club watching Roma play Juventus, which turned out to be way more theatrical than any play could’ve ever been.
Imagine a classroom-sized room. Cover every square inch of wall and ceiling space with Roma football paraphernalia. Pennants, photos, articles, flags, posters, etc. Leave a rectangular space to hang a huge TV projection screen on the wall.
Fill the room with as many plastic chairs as you can. Now fill every seat with what you imagine a zealous Italian football fan might be like: excitable, loud, passionate, hand gestures galore.
Next, broadcast Roma’s most important match of the season on the TV screen. In the off-season, Roma’s coach left their team to take the same job with Juventus, Roma’s biggest rival. Are you kidding me? This called for blood. Hundreds of extra police were on hand at the stadium, and they even had a special pre-match cheerleading exhibition in a deliberate attempt to keep fans calm.
Gillian and I arrived at the club shortly after the match began, much to the chagrin of the doorman and the people we walked in front of to take our seats. (Don’t worry – no fights.) We were definitely the only ones who hadn’t arrived on time.
The match itself was extremely exciting. Two fierce competitors hell-bent on victory. The crowd we watched with, however, was the real highlight. Obsessive fandom like I’ve rarely seen. It was like being at a death-row court case with relatives of the defendant’s grizzled victims. Juventus must die!
Tragically, however, they didn’t. On a much-contested penalty kick, Juventus
(bastards!) emerged with a narrow 2-1 victory.
To escape the game’s dismal result, we went to a local trattoria and indulged ourselves in a gargantuan feast. There’s nothing like a huge plate of creamy truffle fettuccine, an oversized veal chop and a bottle of house red to help put a Juventus victory behind you.
We’ll get you next year, Juventus!
Gillian and crazed fans:
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| Rome picks up! |
[Apr. 22nd, 2005|02:59 pm] |
Great night last night. Began at a wine bar, where Gillian, a group of her friends and I leisurely consumed a ridiculously good bottle of red. Continued on to dinner, where my mushroom lasagne followed up with a giant rib-eye steak did me plenty, plenty fine. These Italians - holy crap do they know how to eat.
Afterward (12:30 AMish), we took the bus to Testaccio, a happening area filled with about 20 nightclubs, many of them underground. (Best club name: Sotto Sotto, which literally translates as "Underground Undeground.") Paid our 15 euro entry fee and entered the Caffe Latino, a club known for its live music.
The place went off. We drank Mojitos and danced up a storm. Band onstage mixed up Italian hits (or so I was told) with cheesy international tunes. I haven't danced to The Cranberries like that in years! Or ever!
Very Italian crowd. I think we were quite possibly the only foreigners there. The fact that I didn't have gel in my hair made me feel rather out of place, but other than that, good times galore.
"Sing a Madonna song!"
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| Rome slump continues |
[Apr. 21st, 2005|06:56 pm] |
Before I tell you all the crappy things that have happened on Day 2, let me first say that last night Gillian and I had an amazing meal in her neighborhood. We ate at a sort of artists collective restaurant - artists display their work on the walls and then operate it as a restaurant to pay the bills. Pretty cool concept, ridiculously good food.
OK, Day 2. Woke up to more rain. Heavy rain. And cold rain at that - it's only a few degrees above freezing. Walked outside and was blown away by all fecal matter on the sidewalks. There's tons of it here. In fact, I'm convinced some of it must be human. I mean, there's just not that many dogs here. Seriously.
Walked around, but couldn't really enjoy the scenery because I was too busy avoiding big puddles, crazy drivers and human crap. It was also too wet and cold to pull out my map, so I just kind of guessed where I was going. Ended up in some pretty boring neighborhoods.
Went into a cafe to use the bathroom. Waited for awhile (door was locked) before realizing no one was in it and I needed a key. Went to get the key but another customer had beat me to it. Almost peed my pants while she used the bathroom. Finally got inside. The light was burned out. Had to pee with the door wide open. Then discovered the sink had no taps, only a faucet. Had no clue how to use it. Left the cafe with dirty hands.
Went outside and was immediately soaked by a passing car. And to make matters worse, my nose is running like it was in Amsterdam.
Did see some pretty amazing ancient architecture. Took a tour of a castle and checked out a couple beautiful churches (though I got into another screaming match, this time with a guy at a church looking for a donation.) Also ate a pretty good square of pizza, though it somehow cost over four euros (me getting ripped off again?).
Tonight I'm going to hit the town with Gillian and some of her friends. La dolce vita will be found, I'm sure of it!
Off to buy tissues,
Dan |
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