| 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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| Rome If You Want To |
[Apr. 20th, 2005|12:25 pm] |
The saying goes, "When in Rome, do as the Romans do." If that's the case, I guess I need to start ripping people off and being extremely obnoxious. I've been here a day and already had two screaming matches, both of which nearly came to blows.
My Ryanair (like Jet Blue only cheaper - some flights are 99 pence!) flight landed yesterday morning at a small airport on the outskirts of Rome. I had dreams of warm weather and Sophia Loren-like chicks. Instead, I was greeted with lousy drizzle and an army dude who waved his giant machine gun my way.
After avoiding being shot, I took a bus downtown and called my friend Gillian, a fellow London, Ontario native who's been living here for about two years. She works for Peacepath Consulting, a small firm that provides consulting for various international non-profit groups. (I don't really understand what means, either.)
Gillan gave me directions and told me to take a taxi to her office. “It shouldn’t be more than seven euros,” she said. And off I went to Peacepath in a meterless Mercedes-Benz. Which should have been sign #1 that trouble was coming.
Seven minutes later, the taxi pulled up in front of her office.
“29 euros, please.”
“What?!”
I couldn’t digest what the driver had said.
"29 euros."
"Are you serious?" I asked.
“OK, I be nice. 29 dollars.”
“But it shouldn’t be more than seven euros!”
“SEVEN EUROS? YOU CRAZY! TAKE THE BUS!”
On and on it went. It got pretty ugly. Less than hour in Rome and I was already having my first screaming match. Eventually I (stupidly) handed him a 20 euro bill and slammed the door of his taxi. Not a nice introduction to the city.
I met Gillian, got her spare keys, and walked through the pouring rain to her apartment (opted not to take a second taxi). En route, I saw a line of people crowded into a small pizza parlor. It smelled awesome. It looked awesome. And I was starving. Good luck at last! La dolce vita, here I come.
As I neared the front of the line, a smallish man with a high school moustache walked in and began pushing his way to the counter. The wrongness of what he was doing was actually pretty incredible.
The guy in front of me said something in Italian and stopped him, so he decided to try and bud in front of me instead. Which, of course, I wasn’t going to let happen. I'd been jerked over once already and it wasn't going to happen again. I didn't care if he was fuckin' Mafioso. I yelled at him in English. He yelled at me in Italian. What the fuck was up with these people?
We stood in line next to each other, anger still boiling. When it came time to order, I went first, glaring at him as I ordered. If he ever shows up at a burrito place in San Francisco, that dude better watch the heck out.
OK, off to (hopefully) find the beautiful side of this city. |
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| The Highlight of My Trip |
[Apr. 19th, 2005|02:29 pm] |
Buckle up folks, ‘cause today was my most insane day ever. I just returned from La Musee de Crazee (Crazy Museum), described in my Lonely Planet guide as “the weirdest thing to see in Paris, and quite possibly all of Europe.”
When I arrived at the museum, an extremely energetic unicyclist greeted me out front:
“Entrez! Entrez!” he kept screaming. “La Musee de Crazee? C’est bon! Oui! Oui!” (The Crazy Museum? It’s good! Yes! Yes!)
So far so crappy, but I was much too intrigued to let the six euro entry fee stop me from entering. The weirdest thing in all of Europe? I could not pass this up!
After paying my entry, I walked down a long, curvy hallway before being greeted by spooky Scooby-Doo-like music and this sign:
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I mean, I guess the sign was kind of crazy, but I think adjectives like “crappy” and “stupid” would also have been suitable.
Being the big man I am, I took the risk of getting shocked and walked through the door ahead. Pretty crazy. And what was the 'big shock' they were trying to scare people with? One of these things:
A machine that makes your hair stand on end. Incroyable! Was this really the French definition of “crazy”? If yes, I'd decided my new definition of “crazy” would be “French.”
A growing part of me wanted to get out of there, but I somehow felt a strange compulsion to see what came next.
I’ll give you one guess. Did you guess “Hitler puppet show”? If not, you guessed wrong.
Can you believe it? A Hitler puppet show! I couldn’t really follow the dialogue, but everyone else in the crowd seemed as shocked and offended as I was. Totally, totally sick.
The next room had a big sign outside that read “Preparez Pour La Cuckoo Voiture!” (Get Ready For The Cuckoo Car!). Now this sounded cool. But then again, I guess pretty much anything was going to sound cool after a Hitler puppet show.
It turned out, sadly, that the Cuckoo Voiture (see photo) was not in operation. It’s apparently some kind of jousting car. You sit in the front seat and try to grab a croissant with a jousting pole. They’d shut it down a few weeks earlier after a Portuguese teenager broke his leg while riding it.
Next I walked inside a brightly colored auditorium and sat down. A neon sign onstage read: “La Magique Du Fluffy, Le Wizard Telepathique” (The Magic of Fluffy, The Telepathic Wizard).
The fact that Fluffy turned to be a cute little dog wasn’t so crazy. The fact that he could speak perfect French(!), however, was. I have no idea whatsoever how the heck they pulled this off. Fluffy walked out on stage and asked the audience for a volunteer. In perfect French. No mirrors or wires. I swear on my life.
A chance to speak with a Wizard Talking Dog? Heck yeah! My hand shot into the air.
Fluffy barked twice and invited me onstage. It was now time for him to exhibit his telepathic ability. First he asked me (using no mirrors or wires – I swear!) to think of a person or group of people. I thought of my Aunt Nancy and Uncle Steven, because I’d just been daydreaming about the awesome homemade cookies (no nuts) they're going to send me for my birthday this year.
Then Fluffy asked me to think of a city. I thought of New York, because I’d recently seen photos of Christo’s Central Park exhibition.
Fluffy said, “Monsier, regardez” and motioned for me to turn around. What was projected on the big screen behind me? MY AUNT NANCY AND UNCLE STEVEN, STANDING IN NEW YORK!
HOLY SHIT! Are you KIDDING me? What the fuck was going on here? How on earth could Fluffy talk? How could he read my mind? And how the hell did he know what my Aunt and Uncle looked like? Far and away the most freaked out I’ve been in my entire life.
After the photo freak-out, a woman came onstage and said something to the effect of, “You’re tall. We’re going to make you a basketball player.” They led me offstage and gave a basketball outfit to put on. I had no idea what was happening, but to be honest, I didn’t really care. I mean, I’d just SPOKEN TO A DOG! And he'd READ MY FREAKIN' MIND!
Back onstage I went. While random vacation slides flashed on a screen behind me, a large black woman came up and kept trying tried to pinch my nipple. The audience roared in delight.
But I’m not laughing here because the woman was trying to pinch me. I'm laughing because guess who took the photo? FLUFFY!
HOLY PIECE OF CRAP. MOTHER OF MARY. DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, FINISH YOUR LIFE WITHOUT A VISIT TO LA MUSEE DE CRAZEE. IT WILL BLOW YOUR FREAKIN' MIND.
A couple random tourists who loved Fluffy just as much as I did:
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| The Shoah Memorial |
[Apr. 17th, 2005|02:17 pm] |
Yesterday I paid a visit to the Shoah Memorial. It’s a newly-opened museum dedicated to the history of the Holocaust, focusing mainly on the Jews who spent time detained in France before being shipped to concentration camps.
Walking through the museum was a very powerful experience. It gave me a deeper appreciation of my German-Jewish ancestry, and a fuller understanding of Europe’s political situation in the first half of the 20th century. If you’re ever in Paris and have an interest in history, a visit is definitely recommended.
The most emotional part of my visit was finding the names of my great-grandparents (Albert and Marthe Seelenberger) on the memorial in front of the museum. Though both were German Jews, they spent time detained in France before eventually being sent to concentration camps.
I dedicate this posting to their memories.
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| Museum constipation |
[Apr. 16th, 2005|12:51 pm] |
Even before I got to Paris, I’d been completely dreading my requisite visit to the Louvre. The thought of a giant building filled with thousands of old things made me toss and turn in my sleep. Could anything be more boring? Sorry if that offends you, but give me the contemporary stuff any day. I’m way more interested in the work of my peers than the work of 16th century Vikings.
Anyway, I knew if I skipped the museum, I’d have to endure the wrath of many when I got home. And I felt the need to at least pretend I'm cultured. Chicks dig that shit. So I drank three coffees, put Sgt. Pepper’s on my iPod, took a deep, deep breath and finally set foot inside the goddamn Louvre.
It was fine. The building itself is beautiful, and yes, a few pieces of artwork definitely caught my eye. But the hundreds of tourists, hundreds of digital cameras (buy a damn postcard!), and hundreds of, um, boring old things quickly burned me the hell out. I checked out some tapestries, made the oh-so-important pilgrimage to see the Mona Lisa (though based on the crowd you'd have thought it was the Pope), then bundled myself up and went and saw a movie instead.
"John-Paul? Is that you?"
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| mon francais |
[Apr. 14th, 2005|02:25 pm] |
My French has definitely improved since I`ve been here. I`ve conversed in the language, read in the language, and even saw Meet The Fockers with voiceover instead of subtitles, though that, I`ll be honest, was by accident.
A bad habit I`ve gotten into, however, is saying stuff just because I know how to say it. For example, I talk about the weather more than anyone on earth. "C`est froid!" (It`s cold!), I`ll say to the guy at the supermarket. But then I`ll keep rambling: "C`est tres, tres froid. Oh la la. Ce n`est pas chaud. Non. C`est froid. Oui." Which pretty much translates as, "I can talk French. Listen to me. I am so cool. French French French. Blah blah blah."
My quest to impress reached an all-time low this past weekend, when I actually said to someone, "Mes chausettes son blanc" (My socks are white). It had zero relevance in our conversation; I only said it because I could.
Tres, tres pathetic. |
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| Road-a trip-a |
[Apr. 13th, 2005|06:43 pm] |
Just booked a flight to Roma. On Thursday I'll head to Italy to spend three days visiting Gillian Anderson, one of my oldest friends in the world. Warm weather and tasty meatballs, here I come!
PS No, not that Gillian Anderson.
PPS No, not "oldest" like this. |
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| Le boogie-woogie |
[Apr. 12th, 2005|10:32 pm] |
Last night I went out with a couple happenin' American ladies (Morgan et Kelly) to check out a night of authentic Parisian jazz. I had visions of cool cats blowing their saxes in a mysterious, dark cellar. Drummers with oh-so supple wrists. Tables covered in candlewax. Goatees, turtlenecks, maybe even a little backroom heroin. The real deal, y'dig?
The place we went to:
LE SLOW CLUB
One of the oldest jazz clubs in Paris, the Slow Club has special, dedicated rythm 'n' blues nights every Wednesday and hip-hop nights every Sunday. It has a cult reputation among jazz enthusiasts across Europe, and the pretty, low-lying vaulted roof adds to the exclusive atmosphere. A few French rap stars have made this their favourite haunt.
---
Are you kidding me? That sounds awesome, right? This would be one happenin' backroom heroin joint if there ever was one.
We arrived at 10:30. The place was completely empty. Slowly, older couples began filling the place up. I'm talking my parents age and up. It turned out that Friday night happened to be some sort of "Old People Swing Dancing To A Boogie-Woogie Band" Night.
Don't get me wrong. The whole experience was pretty awesome. I flirted with some hot grandmas, and even cut the rug once or twice. But if you're expecting me to get back to the U.S. and be all "I'm one hep cat", think again. I think "I'm one hep awkward and uncoordinated swing dancer" is a little more like it.
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| My local |
[Apr. 11th, 2005|05:52 pm] |
Almost every single journal update I've written has been sent from a small cafe near my apartment, Le Bar des Roses. The old-school movie posters ('Le Toboggan De La Mort' is my favorite) caught my eye the first time walked by it, and when I discovered a wifi signal inside, I pretty much knew it would be my local for the month.
The place rocks. I'd guess it's been a cafe/drinking hole for at least 50 or 60 years, quite possibly longer. Great pinball machine, beautiful mosaic floor, curved wooden bar, Johnny Hallyday on the jukebox, and cigarette smoke so thick the white wallpaper has long since faded to brown.
When I first started coming here, I was too shy to talk to anyone. I'd order "un cafe, s'il vous-plait", then open my laptop and quietly type away in the corner. The whole thing felt very Northern Exposure.
Over time, however, I've definitely been accepted as a local. Both bartenders now know me and greet me with a handshake and conversation. I've been given drinks on the house and even got some free peanuts. When I ordered coffee yesterday with an accidentally empty wallet, they gave me a simple "Pas de problem" and told me to pay it back whenever.
Three older men (one is named Nelson but I always forget which) have welcomed me into their circle. Sometimes they invite me to sit with them. Handshakes, however, are given every time.
Others come and go, but I'm definitely seen as a local. Sometimes strangers even shake my hand when they enter, perceiving me as someone of importance within the hierarchy of the place. It feels good, I must say.
There's a lot I'll miss when I leave Paris, but Le Bar Des Roses will definitely be at the top of the list. |
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