ps. Look down there at the time stamp, windows live spaces’ server hasn’t changed it’s time yet. It’s 3am now!

 

 

 

I can’t believe this city. On a Saturday night, there’s no metro running after 12am. Is it 21^st century yet?

What are people supposed to do? Knitting at home?

Ten years ago when I lived here, they were talking about running metro 24 hours. I guess they already had too much money to make with tourists filled the streets all year long.  They don’t care what everybody do with their night life.

I knew I would have to walk a lot. But I didn’t know how much exactly is a lot. I was rushing to see my friends at a bar which is a boat floating on the left bank of Seine. When I got to the metro it was 12:30am and people were being told to leave by the blasting radio. So I decided to walk. I walked from Republique to Gai de la gare. It took me an hour and a half to arrive. Including 20 minutes on the wrong track and I had to turn around. I almost walked to Place D’Italie.

That would be 1/3 of Paris, the distance I walked. So finally I found out that Paris is actually not that big. You can walk to anywhere, if you have enough time. I was thinking, if Paris was built toward the goodness of humanity, then New York must have built toward the evil. That explained why Gotham always looked dark and devilish. Paris is beautiful but like an overtly friendly old man who is too kind to ever get angry. I found that kind of personality annoying. Whileas New York is all about challenge and relentlessness.

It’s scary how dysfunctional my memory is. On my way back I thought I’d pass by the building I used to live. It was late at night. The streets were quiet and empty. I took a right turn at St. Paul from rue de Rivoli to rue Malher. The second block was rue des Rosiers. The Jewish schools were still there. I used to have to pass by lots of students smoking out on the tiny sidewalk. The brand clothing stores were more than there used to be. And Issey Miyake had a new store here.

I had no idea why I felt kind of nervous. It seemed like no time had passed. There’s no one in sight. The street lamps were gently lighting each corner with brownish aura. I stood across the street suddenly couldn’t remember it was No 8 or No10 of rue des Rosiers I used to live in. I stood still in front of the building trying to recall any sign that would remind me of anything specific. But the Haagen-Dasz store straight across from my door was not there any more. So I simply just let go.

The streets were definitely cleaner. It used to be dirty and a bit smelly. With Jewish grocery stores and butchers on either side of the streets. I turned at the nearest corner trying to get out of there asap and scared a bunch of peigons. They flapped their wings ever loudly and flied away. The flapping sound was so loud it scared the shit out of me.

 ***

Most French men have smaller build, compare to Americans. Skinhead is in fashion. I saw lots of shaved heads. With the disadvantage of shorter build, shaved head is the most effective way to look butch, I figured. The anxiety of gaining masculinity is newly found here, which is not surprising under the power of American culture. Often they stated ‘masculine and virile’. What a vocabulary. I mean, if you use the word ‘virile’, then you are probably out of the line of masculinity.

 ***

Olivier has a nice L.P. collection. Which he played on a plastic player you could buy at a place like urban outfitter. The sound quality was not that great nevertheless it worked fine. We were all sitting at the kitchen table at his place in Montmartre.  Me typing away on my laptop, he was cooking and Teona cleaning. The sky was gray and drizzling from time to time. He put on Ah-ha’s ‘Hunting high and low’. And then Screamin’ Jay Hawkins’ ‘I put a spell on you’.  I recalled hearing it in one of Jim Jarmusch’s movie. But which one I can not remember.

While Jay Hawkins was singing scratchyly ‘There’s something wrong with you’, Olivier announced, ‘Dinner is ready. À table. ’

 

It seems so unfair.

In summer, Paris has daylight until 10:30. New york can stretch it most to 9:30. In winter, it’s now December, new york say goodbye to sunlight at 4:30. And Paris is still having her magic hour at 5:00. I can’t think why. I thought New York is in higher altitude than Paris.  But for all I am concerned, I could love Paris a bit more just for these extra one hour daylight.

Yes I am in Paris. Sitting acorss a tiny street, rue des Francs Bourgeois, from Archives Nationales outside of a coffee shop.

I had too much caffeine intake.

I am more of a tea person. Caffeine burns my nerves. My hands would shake like a seasoned alcoholic. It’s almost impossible in Paris not to drink coffee. And then it makes me think of cigarattes. I don’t smoke either.

I have been drinking one cup of coffee per day. It’s nothing for most people but that keeps me awake and can only get minimal sleep.

The situation of the room I stay in didn’t help either. I stay at a friend’s friend’s flat. I shouldn’t complaint cause it’s free and it’s in central Paris near Republique. But the guy probably hasn’t lived in that place for awhile. It’s dampy and dark. The sheet is yellowish,  the comforter and the pillows are dampy. There’s nothing but a futon on the floor and a short table which you have to sit on the floor to be able to get to it. There’s no heating system. Only a fan blowing out warm air in an unsteady  state. I felt like I had fallen back to my college life perhaps some 15 years ago.

While I was out in a coffee shop in Montmartre with my friend Teona, she ordered a hot chocolate. I thought that was a great idea, decided I should order that as well thereafter. But then just now after  I sit down and checked out the menu, I saw French Coffee. Which is cognac with coffee. I couldn’t  resist it. So there I downed another full glass of caffeine.

When the order arrived, it was filled in a wine glass topped with whipped cream and 2 decorative coffee beans. It looks like a screaming festive sundae. I was trying to pretend all masculine and virile. But the effort was instantly failed by that thing sitting on my table.

And it cost me eight euros. As the comedian Catherine Tate would say, ‘dirty, robbing bastards.’