i’m sorry. you know this can never work.
je suis désólée. tu sais que ça ne peut rouler jamais.
jeg beklager, men du ved, at dette ikke kan gå.
ho sento però ja saps que això no pot sortir.
lo siento pero ya sabes que esto no puede salir.
it’s been years. have you forgotten?
ça fait du temps. t’as bien oublié ?
det har været år. har du glemt?
que fa anys. has oblidat?
ha sido años. has olvidado?
i hope that you get some daylight in
that you listen to heartbeats, eat sausages made from
pigs you met, stuff your face into big fluffy
hope you squeeze tight
whoever you’re squeezin
squeeze ‘em good like
you used to squeeze me
(but not better)
hopin on hope you eat shit that you ripped from the
ground with your hands and stay dirty
if just a little
hope you’ve come as far,
and as much,
and as many times
as i have
(though of course
i doubt that
i did love you,
bien oui que je t’aimais, quoiqu’il étàit bref
jeg elskede dig, selvom på det forkerte tidspunkt
jo t’estimava, però no prou,
te quería, aunque por sólo un momento,
i could never lie about that
an hour of sleep over Vigo. cheap champagne and fireworks and two hours of sleep on a Friday. two hours of sleep with a torqued spine and a broken promise weeping like a rope burn. two hours of sleep and a jar full of moonshine. two hours of sleep and my blood can’t keep warm. three hours of sleep in a bed with four people. three hours of sleep and nightmares of green smears across the sheets. three hours of sleep and is that contagious? four hours of sleep and you wake up crying. four hours of sleep on the bathroom floor. four hours of sleep with an epileptic on the sofa. four hours of sleep with my throat clenched hard in the jaws of a stranger. four hours of sleep with the tv left on. five hours of sleep with the whole world beside me but I can’t stay awake to see it. five hours of sleep on a hill above the city. fice hours of sleep with a mouth full of fur. six hours of sleep over Paris in the dark and zero when I tell you to leave me. six hours of sleep scraped again by my own edges. six hours of sleep and his back is turned. seven hours of sleep waking up to love each other but zero when it’s hot outside. seven hours of sleep on a futon by the river. seven hours of sleep in another dirty basement but it’s starting to feel like home. eight hours of sleep in my own goddamned bed with four walls and electric heating. eight hours of sleep and I finally get it. eight hours of sleep alone.
A frigid night in Lyon. I lay in the routine position: awkwardly inclined like a sausage propped against a toaster, neck strained forward, sweating into my body brace. It’s the nightly ritual: a wistful trail of martini with lime (affordable and effective!), google searches, flight scanners, sound clips and calendar dates. I haven’t travelled since I made it to France and promptly broke my spine. Mobility lurks in the distant future, and in my fervent, drunken dreams I seek vengeance for lost time: travels awaiting, work to be done, things to be lifted, reckless thrashing at concerts, less-awkward coitus.
A second martini, a third martini, a realization: I am in an optimal situation to make a bet with myself.
Buy a ticket somewhere, make yourself go. Come summer you’ll be able. Pick a place.
The place is Copenhagen, the challenge an eight-day music festival, camping on private farmland, a very eclectic setlist (see below.) I’ll have no friends, no contacts, maybe even no tent (will I even be able to carry one by then?) The ticket price isn’t bad; this month I can skip meals. I hardly eat anyway, too depressed. It’s December. The festival is in July. I am four martinis deep. I buy the ticket.
Alone on a train crammed with day-drunkards lugging cases of beer back to the plots of land they had fought to stake off a day in advance. Other festival-goers were traveling in close-knit social groups and possessed advanced technology such as human food and beer coolers. My mission: infiltrate a group. Gain its trust, gain a patch of its grass to sleep on.
Niko was chubby and slouched back in a blue folding chair. His camp, notably playing decent metal, had regurgitated itself into the staked-off walkway between blocks of tents. At first I thought he might be dead of alcohol poisoning, but he reached out to me as I passed with my pack, slurring in Danish and throwing up bullhorns. I stopped for a beer. Danes speak beautiful English and carry beer with them everywhere.
I pretended to look for a different spot to pitch my single tent, then came trotting back to Camp Niko. “Guess I have to live with you guys,” I shrugged. Didn’t give them much of a choice.
Potential expansions to this blog post included:
Planking every morning for my back, much to the amusement of other campers.
Peeing in my tent accidentally – trying to aim into a bag?
Almost tipping over an employee trailer, from the inside (employee was present.)
The time I woke up with a video on my phone of an uncircumcised penis wearing sunglasses and laughing — no recollection of this being recorded.
Names — Niko, Lasser, Chris, Christina, Bender? The one always wearing overalls with no undershirt, what was his name? Biscuit?
Spoke at length with Chelsea Wolfe and Amalie of Myrkur, nearly peed myself a second time.
Camp Red Warszawa was a camp of female punk rockers and their pleasantly drunken male cohorts. I stopped in and noticed Dunner immediately. He was nearly seven feet tall, had crappy tattoos, was wearing socks and slip-on sandals. He held a water fountain on for me while I rinsed the salt/dirt/beer/urine from my face.
I taught him how to pitch a tent properly. He had propped it up, damn city fool—what did he do? Poles inside the tent? Man, if that whole ordeal wasn’t to become a really effective metaphor. He gashed his hands open on the metal stakes, I tasted his blood in my mouth, tasted his mouth on my mouth.
Eight days. Survived.
August 5, 2015
Kristina, smexy red-haired hot-blooded sugar mama waitress wonder woman, booked us a night in a swanky hotel called The Phoenix where all of the highbrow employees didn’t even bother to hide their confounded staring — what the fuck are these muddy brokeass chicks doing in our establishment? We got stoned, delineated The Friend Zone, shared our ex-boyfriend histories start to finish and fell asleep to late-night Danish television: documentaries on hawks, strange compilations of sleeping people dressed as animals, surveillance videos of empty hallways. There are so many questions about the Danes that will never be answered.
Sick in the shitty hostel: Lame efforts to get out (invent a tolerable mucus metaphor?)
Not worthy of further elaboration.
this is why I haven’t written about any of this
Dunner’s apartment took me a bit aback. I hadn’t expected a 35-year-old seven-foot Danish metalhead to be so neatly organized or so devoted to such a strict color scheme (purple and orange — how thoroughly metal of you.)
We had agreed to one (1) weekend visit. By that I mean we were both drunk in the dark in his dilapidated, bloodstained ten-person tent on Night Eight Of Roskilde and I straddled him on the twin inflatable mattress and said, “Can I come visit you when this is over? Just for a weekend,” to which he (presumably) agreed.
But the weekend after the festival, the flu set in. Everyone said it was due to over-inhalation of the piss-dust for which Roskilde Festival is particularly notorious, which might be true. I spent the one (1) weekend visit collapsed on Danish Dunner’s Danish furniture, blowing chunks in his Danish toilet, sliming up his purple Danish shag rug. When the weekend was over, he headed down south with a group of friends, a trip he’d had planned all year. I bought a bus ticket to Berlin. He left the apartment, lingered down in the stairwell blinking up at me, wrapped in a blanket in his doorway.
My entire three (3)-week stay with Dunner was to be an eternal series of us saying goodbye for the last time, once, twice, three times. I repeatedly intended to leave, but was repeatedly too ill to go. Week One I passed locked alone inside his apartment, without a spare key to leave or go buy medicine or food. When he returned he found me red-eyed in a blanket fort re-watching his downloads of The Simpsons, having subsisted on canned tuna and corn for three days. On Week Two, he made me an offer: he’d cancel his family vacation if I canceled my bus to Berlin. We started Game of Thrones. Life was free and air-conditioned and Dunner cooked a good deal of dishes involving bacon while wearing nothing but his boxer briefs. On Week 3 he drove me to the hospital, where I was curtly informed that the antibiotics I needed were impossible to acquire in Denmark. We explored the Danish countryside, the harbors, the farms, the flatness, the city — through the remains of the destroyed Youth House in Norrebrø, in and out of squats, over public structures and playgrounds and cemeteries, where the trees smelled mysteriously of semen. I limped around and he limped with me, just to make me feel better.
When I was well enough he dropped me off in Copenhagen, his eyes rimmed with tears, pressing his spare apartment key into my palm for “just in case.” He told me he loved me. I told him I was late for my bus.
Ferry, København to Berlin
August 22, 2015
Yesterday I received my Spain placement. In IBIZA.
IN MOTHERFUCKING IBIZA.
Perhaps this is some kind of sick joke from the higher powers/malignant forces of evil in the world? The exact last place I would have chosen. Nasty tourist rave-kid madhouse in summer and a total ghost town in the winter. Mallorca (the bigger island) is covered in mountains, a cycling paradise, good climbing rocks. Ibiza is covered in used condoms, discarded bikinis and probably AIDS. Do I have to get a Brazilian now? Will they even let me access the island without one? I will trade my post with someone, if possible. Otherwise… I don’t know, I’m so conflicted. Who am I to moan and groan, homeless as I am? Beggars can’t be choosers, and at this point I’m only a step away from beggar. Might as well get the visa and see where it goes from there. Going back to the US is not a viable option. It’s not what my gut is telling me to do, but my gut is also not feeling Ibiza.
More good news — French debit card has been shut down, I just got a text that my phone usage rates have gone up to 3€ a minute, my bank login info is stuck on my computer, which is still in Milan — sometimes I am a dipshitty, rookie traveler. Another white kid with a backpack. I brought too many clothes and the wrong type of shoes, gave up on my only pair of pants too early (although the thigh holes have been giving me rashes and I already failed at fixing the shorts.) I’m too grubby-looking to avoid being surveyed with considerable distaste in public but not nearly grubby enough to be taken seriously by other hobos. I feel an urgent need to somehow turn all my shit a darker color, maybe sprout a couple of natty dreads for Street Cred. Darken my sleeping bag so I can’t be found so easily at night. Urban camouflage? Dirt is not dirty enough — I mean what can I use, like actual shit?? Certainly not DYE. That costs money and requires washing services (those cost money too.) Now I need a shit phone with some breed of prepaid plan. I’m the fattest I’ve ever been and my fucking back aches like a shitty ole bitch.
Tired fatty just wants to lie down.
the bike trail ends before the bridge so we take the gravel path
continue north, beside the river, splatters of mud up our backs
so important, those bikes: a black fuji fixed, an orange 80’s peugot
a blue gitane with purple bar tape (though he preferred green)
the bars he had set up at the good shop downtown, a gift for the girl
he said he loved
The stories are clawing at my insides.
I’ve been on the road for months now, haven’t paid rent since May. Been living out of a sack, the same peeling yellow plastic bag of crumpled clothes that still smell like air-conditioning vents and jaundiced summer subway air and the sad empty space under hostel beds no matter how many times I’ve managed to launder them, at least until I discovered the indispensable trick of stuffing a sack of espresso grinds in my pack. Keeps yeh fresh.
The backpack pockets are crammed with paraphernalia of the deliberately homeless, essentials built up over months of wandering: a watercolor palette, crayons charbon of different hardness levels, an emergency thermal blanket and a roll of duct tape, a pack of band-aids, a rather rag-tag assortment of crumpled condoms, a glue stick and sewing supplies, four or five dirty kitchen spoons – I collect spoons wherever I go, the way most people collect accidentally stolen pens — a torn Ziploc sack full of pennies and two-cents and Danish kroner and Moroccan dirhams, my loose bus/café fare.
In the top of my pack I have clipped the spare keys to Dennis’s apartment in Ishøj, Denmark, which he insisted I take just in case I decided to come back. “You know that’s not possible,” I told him. “This is it. I’m sorry.”
Still, he insisted. I guess some folks just need something to hold on to.
FIVE MONTHS AGO, the end of April in Lyon. The sun was beginning to make appearances from time to time, people blinking sluggishly up as if in a state of mild surprise: « Qu’est-e que c’est ? » I had just turned twenty-two on a brilliant rainy day with a double rainbow smeared across the sky. The wind was turning, getting warmer, buzzing with a hint of electricity, a hint of change.
School was not going so well, mainly because I was giving up on it. Spending more and more time in the real world instead of the classroom, traveling instead of studying, speaking French instead of taking notes in it. I had bombed a final already and suspected I might blow a few more in the coming week. My mind had been made up; I was not going back. I watched idly as the other study abroad students packed their suitcases and figured out their flights home, made plans with their families for their return, registered for classes in the coming semester. I had decided to move to Spain and teach English and was waiting on my formal acceptance letter. In the meantime I searched online for volunteer jobs across Europe; tutoring, gardening, painting, repair work, childcare, whatever I could get. I wasn’t sure where I would travel, only that I would.
Camille and I met on the 30th of April. We had matched on Tinder, which I had downloaded that morning on a whim, and scheduled a date for the same night without hesitation. I rode up on my bike, tires slicing lines on slick pavement, and found him next to the fountain at Terreaux in Lyon city center. He had arrived early. He smiled at me. His eyes were a fiercely glowing blue and we were both wearing flannel shirts.
Our first date lasted twelve hours. Our second, over forty.
Within the week I had found a job bartending at a dingy little pub in the center of Rue de Sainte Catherine, Lyon’s most notoriously filthy and unscrupulous pub street, under a tightly-wound, beady-eyed little Frenchman with a temper like Mount Vesuvius in Year 79. His name was Tom. On my first night, Tom approached me and said curtly in his dreadful thick French accent (for, although we conducted the interview only in French and he knew I was fluent, refused to speak French to me): “Gessica. You must clean ze farst bathrhoom. You go to ze middle of ze bar, you find ze glove, you pick up ze vomit and you trow it away. You do not trow away ze glove. Okay? It iz ze only one we have-uh.” I approached the bathroom with a deep breath and an open mind, C’est que du vomi, can’t be that bad, to find a partially-digested pound or so of what appeared to be a rump of ham artfully deconstructed and spewed into the men’s urinal. Scooping out the chunks with my single preciously-gloved hand, I was soon fishing out handfuls of pubic hair and unidentifiable slime from under a small lip in the bottom of the urinal – quite possibly more pubic hair than vomit, of which there was plenty. When I asked my coworker when the urinal had last been cleaned, he looked at me like I was insane. “I dunno,” he said with a shrug, “Not since I’ve been here. You don’t clean the urinal. Takes too long.” Silly me.
Later, Tom informed me that the customers were not allowed to bring cups into the street – not even plastic ones. “Oh really? Okay,” I responded with a nod. In ten minutes or so he came back and demanded, “Gessica I must see you outside, NOW.” The bar was swarmed with customers and I had an entire row of pints filling, but my coworker urged me out. “Run, run, go go go! Don’t make him wait!” In the street Tom started shouting and throwing his stumpy little hands about. “I do not want your o-pinion,” he said hotly. “When I say somezing to you, you do not respond Oh rheally? OH-KAI. If I say somezing to you you say Yes sirh, yes Tohm. Nozzing elze. I do not hire you to listen to your o-pinion. UNDERZTAND?” He was a head shorter than I and I was acutely aware that I would be able to break his nose with only a minimal amount of effort. “Yes, Tohm.” A growl through tightly clenched teeth. First night of many, folks.
YET IT WAS WORTH IT, every second of it. Cam and I had fallen in love perhaps the moment we met, then a little bit more every passing day. He was raised between Grenoble and Côte d’Ivoire in Africa and had taught himself perfect English through punk rock music. We could talk and joke for ten hours without noticing the time, bouncing between French and English, learning from each other. He was a world traveler, a constant nomad, loved camping, hiking, trail running, cycling and good beer. He looked like a tattooed lumberjack and, just like an Oregonian, he refused to use an umbrella in the rain. In short, he was perfect, and though I was wary, I let myself fall.
It was late May when I received my placement in Spain, in the Balearic Islands. I was working a private party at the bar, got the e-mail, went through the rest of the night in a daze. At home I woke up Cam to tell him, stammering, unsure of how to approach the subject. There was stillness, silence. We were both stunned, though of course we’d known it was coming. Perhaps we’d thought it wouldn’t happen, that reality would never set in — but there it was, inconveniently, as reality tends to be.
It was fast, all so fast, and then he was slipping away before I even had a chance to make a decision. He would not ask me to stay, because he knew better than to try and hold me back, but was unwilling to stay together if I left. Cam does not believe in the possibility of long-distance relationships, and a year ago I would have agreed with him wholeheartedly. Now, I’m not so sure.
I’m willing to try. I know it will be hard. Mais je ferais n’importe quoi, pour toi.
He was a nihilist to the core, embittered, chasing the life he believed he was supposed to have. Done with all that now, he said. Much like his predecessor, he now wanted stillness. He sought routine. He hated France, but felt he had no choice but to anchor himself there. I could taste his nomadic soul, like the other half of my own, but he said he didn’t want to be wild anymore. Said he didn’t own anything, no house, no car, no nine-to-five grown-up career. It was time to settle down.
“Then this can’t work,” I told him. “If you’re looking to settle, you’re not looking for me.”
He was mine, and I loved him, and I might have been the one to tame him. But I let him go.
In early June I applied for a position at a children’s arts camp based in Rovereto, Italy. I interviewed over Skype the next evening, and the program manager told me she needed me to start in four days. In a whirlwind I packed all of my belongings, scrubbed my apartment from ceiling to floor, and rode around the city like a madman tying up loose ends. There was no time to be heartbroken. I hopped a bus for Pavia, crossing the Alps away from everything I had come to know and with absolutely nothing left to lose, for I’d already given it away.
Ca va aller.
-TO BE CONTINUED-
And for those of you who are interested, here’s a low-quality video of me being a high-quality employee at the pub in Lyon.
Started work this week. I guess I’m a teacher now.
I too find this hard to believe, but it must be true because I hang out in the teacher’s lounge and use the teachers’ automatic espresso machine and can make copies, like as many copies I want of anything I believe needs copying. I stand in front of classes full of high-school shitheads and get to choose whether they call me “Jess” or “Prof” or “Prof Jess”, which does have a pretty nice ring to it, and I get to pick on the ones that won’t shut up when I’m talking. The other lady teachers invite me to smoke with them behind the building and the only male teacher, Stéphan, asked me out for a pint today, to which I agreed, and though he does have an admittedly nice ass for a 42-year old man I didn’t read too much into the offer, considering he wears a wedding ring and it was only three in the afternoon.
So we meet up in the lounge, and after only a few words Stéphan turns and storms out of the building, me at his heels, his long woolen coat blowing up behind him. He unlocks his little two-door silver Peugeot and drops himself in, lighting an enormous hand-rolled cigarette. “I’m so furious,” he breathes, launching into a French/English mashup tirade about some stupid worthless connasse of a colleague he’s got. I give some sympathetic nods and occasionally even make mouth noises, though I cannot make out enough of either language to know for sure what he’s actually on about. Despite his fuming he is driving quite cautiously along, taking great care to stop at each and every yellow light; I am becoming aware that he is pumping the car full of weed smoke. He might have noticed me sniffing. “You smoke?” he asks.
“Sometimes.” A sheepish smile. It’s a Friday. He hands me the joint and I take a drag.
Potentially stoned by now, Stéphan seems to relax a bit. He rolls his shoulders around, tosses his head, and leans over to pick up a CD case on the floor by my feet. “Now this, this is a record I’ve done,” he says, stopping at a green light.
I trade him the joint for the case and point ahead. “You sing?”
“I rap.” A clear emphasis. A car honks from behind and he steps on the gas. “Do you want to hear it?”
Trapped in a rather unfair position, I nod. I extend the CD towards him, but he hastily waves it away. “No, I’ll do it for you live.” As if I’d bought a ticket. Lucky me!
Now, if you have ever heard a middle-aged caucasian Frenchman rap in English, perhaps you can share my sympathies. Stéphan The Rapper lays his lyric on me soft and sweet with the rhythm of an elderly woman crossing an unstable wooden bridge, with the sporadic jerking of a newly severed limb, with the intermittent forgetting-of-words demonstrated by any human being doltish enough to attempt rapping in his or her non-native language. He beats the steering wheel with his palm at times, accentuating such elements as the “brightly shining bosom” (beat beat beat) of the woman he has targeted in his make-believe audience and, after he has presumably bedded said woman via his untold libidinous rapper talents, the way she “screams” (beat) his “name” (beat) “in bold lettahs” (beat beat).
I am focused on the road, 60% of my fist in my mouth to keep from spitting up on the dashboard, eyes watering from the thickening smoke and the emotional torment of not cackling aloud. Stéphan, noting this clear enthusiasm, entreats me to four complete raps, each one more graphically depictive of his palpable sexual prowess. I am relieved as he finally parks alongside a curb boldly marked « PAS DE PARKING » and we walk to the pub, him chattering all the way. At the bar I sip on the beer he slides me, grateful for something to occupy my hands as he guzzles three full pints and rants at the barmaid, with whom he is on a first-name basis.
After about an hour Stéphan is ready to go. I reluctantly follow him back to the Peugeot which, remarkably, is without a parking ticket. We’re on the road for all of thirty seconds when he veers slightly into oncoming traffic, self-correcting with an abrupt jerk of the wheel and an “Hup, sorry, I’m a bit drunk now.” Contrary to what you might think, dear readers, I do have my limits, this being one of them. I ask him to pull over, claiming to have a friend up the street just a block, waving my hand in an indiscriminate roundish direction. “Ah, I’ll just park here,” says Stéphan gaily, and rolls his two right tires up onto the curb. This is fine with me. I am out of the car and jogging in the opposite direction. “Thanks for the pint, Stéphan!” I shout behind me, not looking back.
Yes, thank you, Stéphan. I sincerely look forward to working together.
Just returned from Paris, two weeks living with basically the staff of the UN. How I ended up in a Villejuif apartment with two Turks, a Syrian and two Australians (one of whom is also Chinese) I cannot tell you. That last sentence was a lie, I am going to tell you now.
I met Leanne (Australian #1) kind of because we had a class together but mostly because four years ago she suffered the same exact type of spinal injury, except hers was for an acceptable reason (falling down a flight of stairs) rather than a dumbass reason (falling out of a tree.) Leanne is the definition of badassery: 30-something, multiple (legal!) passports, over 60 visited countries under her belt (her life goal is 200, lofty considering there are only currently 196 in existence.) She has been a dirty hippie and a rich bitch, been fat and been thin, and has left a trail of lovers all over the world (basically I’m aspiring to spiritually become her.) Leanne’s magnetic personality and clinically confirmed “unrealistic optimism” about all things in life make her an exceptionally adaptive human being and quick to build a social circle, hence the mixed-heritage carpool plan. We (the Syrian, the American and the other Aussie) “helped” her move out of Lyon to join her Turkish boyfriend Ilkem and his roommate/best mate Erke at their flat in Paris. (Worthy of note: Erke and I shared a white-hot romantic chemistry which culminated in his uncomfortably placing a hand on my shoulder/armpit area in the kitchen on the fifth or so night and stammering, “You’re good.” Mon dieu, Erke. Seductive skills top-notch.)
Aside from this whirlwind romance, the highlights of the trip are as follows.
- Commuting: Driving in France is a lot like being on a bumper car track if everyone else on the route has had a considerable amount of wine and a couple hits of crack cocaine. On the freeway, after being cut off by a middle-aged fellow in a small van, Leanne honked and Gareth stuck up his finger, and the force of his gesture fired an invisible channel of lightning directly up the man’s ass. He immediately began screaming and swung the van as near as he could alongside us, rolled down his window and slapped at the rear view mirror on our car, finally managing to knock it sideways. He continued in this manner for the better part of ten minutes, not allowing us to get away, throwing things (mainly lighters, what a sad waste of lighters which are often inconveniently expensive in these parts), swerving and basically having a time of it all over the freeway. It was almost cute, in a way.
- Getting cozy: Sharing a single-sized futon every night with Gareth, a lovely gay Chinese-Australian fellow, which was pretty easy for him as I now sleep like a log thanks to a combination of busted back (read: no moving) and a good-sized dose of Nortriptyline (read: no moving, no dreaming, no breathing or making of sounds whatsoever); more difficult on my end due to Gareth’s considerable snoring problem and random jerking about of limbs. Usually this resulted in sleeping Gareth slapping the side of my ass, which did not have pants to cover it after night #2 when I gave up on that venture. Anyway, Gareth and I got real close real quick.
- Nightlife: Had a nice little break from street harassment, believe it or not, but traded it in for a lot of bar harassment. One guy asked to take a picture with me in the bathroom, and before I had a chance to refuse he leaned over to snap a selfie and hurried to set it as his Facebook profile photo. Another night, a little tiny Arab guy drunk off his tits actually bought me a rose from one of the unfortunate souls that toots about selling single flowers out of bouquets at bars on the nightly (a common profession in France though doubtfully very profitable.) Little fella just couldn’t take no for an answer and consorted to kissing me all over the freaking face while I mostly just made noises and swung my hands about in a flurry, turns out I really need to work on my ‘no’ skills. When he stumbled to the toilet Gareth and I ducked out and jogged a good half-mile away from the bar, only to realize his scarf was gone. Though I offered in earnest to replace the scarf, as it was 100% wool it was clear that neither of us actually possessed the replacement funds; we opted instead to go back. Of course, we ran into the little meatball halfway up the hill and were forced to duck into a fancy Chinese restaurant to escape confrontation, where we were promptly seated and served with shrimp crisps while we perused the menu with no money. Leaving was uncomfortable.
- #MuslimXmas2014: A valiant effort on Leanne’s part to get the Turks, both raised Muslim, excited for a Christian holiday. It ended up being pretty fucking adorable: some really terrible Christmas music accompanied by Erke crooning “Jesus, Jesus” over and over, a baby tree topped with a mishmash star I folded out of wrapping paper, a raclette dinner, a small white elephant exchange and a breakfast of TimTams (a fine Australian delicacy/art form), shitty mimosas and earl grey, all helped along by that friend among all cultures, a healthy dose of Jackie D. We ended the day by smoking under the eiffel tower, as one does.
- Getting lost: Busting out on my own now and then, wandering through Belleville and hunting for street art, discovering “the only 666% metal bar in Paris” which was important, though laughably over the top, getting lost in the international district, drinking espresso between old French men and their newspapers, eating the best almond croissant I’ve ever dreamed of, bumbling through vintage shops, and trancing out watching an old homeless man feeding pigeons, surrounding him like gusts of wind in enormous waves.
- La Vielle: One grey morning in line at the bustling pâtisserie, a lovely old Parisian woman fawned all over my hair, so curious about my life and studies, insisting I had to see Florence because apparently Florence is just the best place ever. She then bought me an entire box of baby macarons and wished me a très bonne fête, which blew my heart up like a gross meat balloon to the point of bloody bursting.
- Queueing: The Catacombs, bane of my existence at this point. Number one thing I planned to visit, and visit I did — three days in a row without ever getting in. The queue is a debatable 2 to 4 hour wait, they stop taking people in an hour before close, AND close two hours early sometimes without warning, hooray! The catacombs literally employs people to just hang about near the end of the queue on the daily and tell folks who have been in line for hours that they probably won’t get in, which is likely the second worst job to have in Paris (#1 is definitely working the counter in paid toilets and turning away people with no money who need to shit.) Fortunately the hours on hours spent queueing for the ‘combs was time enough to make fast friends with a lovely group of British/English gals on holiday from Sheffield-slash-Yorkshire-I-never-quite-figured-it-out. Awesome people, feminists and kindred spirits with whom Gareth and I spent
- NEW YEAR’S! Jogging through the Paris metro with a gaggle of people all shouting and laughing in different languages, bursting out of the elevator and scattering up the hill in Monmarte, pushing up towards Sacre-Coeur and the bustling crowds of semi-drunks all singing and screaming and kissing each other, the sky alight with gold and bursts of fireworks, the tower and all of Paris sparkling out before us. We shared two bottles of cheap champagne and a beefy cigar (which I then pawned off on a drunk in a truck — we concluded cigars are on the whole little more than a really nasty-tasting design to stroke the male ego.)
To think, last year at New Years I was sick with the flu in my brother’s old twin bed, asleep by 9 PM. Feels like eons away now, a different era — or maybe it’s just hard to see through all the torrential merde that 2014 slung about. Shitfest that it was though, it was transformative beyond measure. I see myself so much clearer for its trials and triumphs; my awe and gratitude are too great for words — for the incredible love and incredible loss, all of the pain and the enormous joy. I’m resting with open heart and open mind for new lessons, new adventures, new chaos and new passions.
Buckle up, ladies and gents — 2015 is gonna be a wild one.