Paris Summer 2002

In the summer of 2002, the summer after my graduation from college, I took a 10-day trip to Paris, because some insidious cultural force had whispered in my ear that I had to. It didn't whisper that I had to go to Paris, particularly, but only that I had to take a trip. Taking a trip, preferably "abroad", and traditionally in Europe, is what college students do after they graduate. I realize now that my perception of an obligation to travel after college was identical in form to my perception of an obligation to go to "senior prom" in high school (which was also a miserable time; you'd think I would have learned my lesson). This journal is the record of my Paris vacation. Among other setbacks, I found my camera broken shortly after arrival. So, other arrangements had to be made when illustrating, as you'll see.

8/3, 8:52am - As I sit here waiting for my laundry to finish, I wonder if it is proper that the thing I am looking most forward to about my trip is reading the delicious glut of email that will have undoubtedly accumulated in my inbox upon my return? I am a bit worried about administrative disasters on my trip; the kind of thing that would not cause an normal person undue stress, but that would send a head-injured, ex-pharmaceutical junkie into the abyss of madness.

For example, last night I thought I had lost my passport, but I had not thoroughly checked the place I fully expected it to be before stomping around the house in an anxious rage, waking my mother and asking her to help me look for it. Of course, it was where I thought it was. So I hope that sort of thing does not cause me to leap in front of the Train a Grande-Vitesse.

8/3, 1:18pm - I anxiously arrived at the gate about two hours before my flight was even posted, and told the ticket agent that I had needed to catch a ride to the airport at a particular time, implying that this, and not obsessive-compulsive disorder, caused my extreme earliness. So, as has become the norm, I'm sitting at the airport. But I still maintain that staring at the runway for interminable hours is preferable to even the vaguest, slightest feeling that one is pressed for time. So, I count my blessings, peer out the window, and eat Ritz Bitz, knowing full well that I would choose boredom over stress anytime.

It has been my experience that the baser, less-cultured pleasures turn out to be the best and most memorable while on vacation. For example, sitting in my hotel room watching CNN to hide from the San Antonio heat, or drinking beer from the roadside vending machines en route via bicycle from the train station to James's house in Japan. Likewise, I am enjoying my Ritz Bitz here in National Airport. I would buy more, but I'm on a budget.

I am not especially looking forward to John F. Kennedy Airport in New York, or Charles De Gaulle Airport (CDG) in Paris, for that matter. I have developed a virulent allergy to urban culture lately, and want to spend the bulk of my time in the French countryside. Another hour until we board.

8/3, 2:15pm - Now I am watching the payphones. However, I stand firm in my conviction that it is better to be early than risk having the thought of being late even begin to enter one's mind. Already, I think I feel the mentality of this trip starting to shape up: solitude, self-reflection, consideration of the delicacies of perception, and freedom from itinerary.

Along with reading my email, I am looking forward to seeing James when I get back. I have heard that a measure of a good trip is if one is glad and ready to return home upon its completion. I wonder, though, about trips where one anticipates returning home before one has even left the airport; maybe those are the best trips of all.

I think I am experiencing a phenomenon that started on my trip to Japan: my most productive writing periods are in airports, planes and trains. My ankles itch from mosquito bites. Airports are really all the same; this offers some comfort when traveling. Maybe I should be reading my guidebook.

8/3, 4:45pm - I think I am getting a portrait of Europe from observing the people on the flight from DC to New York: short, slender, vaguely unhealthy-looking people, wearing tight jeans and rubbing their hairy arms on you in Geneva Convention violations of American notions of personal space. New York might be a good conceptual transition from the sterility of suburbia to the richness and sensory overload of Paris, but of course I don't know what I'm talking about.

I just realized that I am not entirely sure what to do when I arrive at CDG tomorrow morning. I have tentative plans to take some unspecified combination of rail transportation to a Paris hostel I found online. I should probably perfect my articulation of the phrase "Je cherche un hotel de jeunes" ("I am looking for a youth hostel"). I hope I don't freak out and/or have a bad time. If worse comes to worst, I will simply camp out in CDG for ten days, making sociological observations of the travelers, which I could probably pass off as performance art. So it's really a win/win situation.

This airport is poorly lit and ugly. I wonder if I will be able to connect up with the three people with whom I am thinking about rendezvousing. Alexis will be the easiest; I have his phone number, and he lives right in Paris. Second place in terms of contacting-ease is a toss-up between Neelam and Franck. Neelam is in England, but I do not have Franck's phone number, and contact success depends on how many "Franck Vall�e"'s there are in Paris, my ability to comprehend French directory assistance, whether or not he is even listed, and whether or not he still lives in France, let alone Paris. On second thought, crossing the Channel might turn out to be a lesser barrier.

There's a French family next to me, and they're speaking French; I understand about five percent of it. Oh yeah, pictures. I hope I find some to take - I have ten rolls of film. Observation: French people have weird shoes. I'm hungry; I hope they feed us on the plane.

8/3, 6:00pm - International flights are exponentially nicer than domestic ones. I have an interactive television set to play with, it is nice and cool, there are pretty girls scampering about here and there, and I am listening to Bob Marley's "Redemption Song. " A flight attendant just reassured me that dinner would be served. Phoo - I smell onions. I wonder if it's legendary French body odor? I will be curious to see if I sniff anything of note in France.

Plan: eat lots of chocolate in France. Leaving the airport, or even the gate, is secondary (I just saw an advertisement for duty-free Toblerone, and I want one.)

8/4, 8:30am - I am feeling a need to start writing in French. After asking a couple of people, I have managed to make my way to what appears to be the proper place to begin my journey via rail to the youth hostel.

Me in an underground RER (light rail) station

OK, I'm on the train. At the very least, I will not spend my vacation in CDG. The ticket cost me 10E. I will do a re-budgeting at the hostel, I suppose. So far, people have been very willing to speak French with me, contrary to the reputation of Parisians. The light in this train is sort of unpleasant. I wish it would go somewhere, instead of just sitting here playing French elevator music at me. I am definitely going to have to get in touch with someone. First step: get to the hostel.

8/4, 10:20am - Disaster number one: the hostel that I located and went to was full, and from what I understand, for some reason other hostels are unavailable or do not exist. At this point, this journal begins to serve the function of keeping me from going mad. I wish I was home, checking my email, and not standing on a Paris street. Well, sitting, actually, at a little round plastic table next to a billboard for "Femme" magazine. I can sit here for a while; it's not costing me anything. I really wish I had a place to sleep, though.

Maybe the most intelligent thing would be to hunt down Alexis. But in a minute. I just saw a Yorkshire Terrier, and it was very cute. Bumming cigarettes in French is an adventure in language. Lesson one: a travel companion would not be such a bad idea. Maybe being a homeless Parisian is my lot in life, at least for ten days. Perhaps I should use my credit card, and conserve Euros.

Options: find a place to sleep. I could go back to the hostel that turned me down and seek a more helpful answer to the question "I am looking for a bed. " Well, that's not really a question, but I digress. Compounding problem: it is starting to get cold. But I refuse to acknowledge that this trip was a mistake, or even ill-planned. Time to read my guidebook.

8/4, 1:24pm - I finally found a place to stay, for about 20E a night. However, I spend about 30E shuttling around Paris via metro, hunting for cheap lodging. A tourism office finally sent me to a place called "The Blue Planet Hostel. " It is very touristy, and I can smell marketing minds at work as they cater to and create the hip international youngster.

Me in front of the Blue Planet Hostel

There are a quite a few rich American girls here with matching luggage, and a few hoodlumy, unshaven Italian guys. I have yet to see what my room looks like - I hope it isn't too squalid. Right now, they are cleaning, so I can't go hide until 3pm. I would like to call Alexis, except that I am really worried about money. I am not sure what I will do if I run out - I suppose have my parents wire some to me. But that would be unpleasant. I am tired of speaking French - I am really not all that good at it.

I think it is safe to say that I am not enjoying my trip thus far. I don't even feel like taking pictures; I am not sure what I would take them of. Some people like to travel alone, but I do not think I am one of them. Now that I have a place to say, I might do just that: stay here. Literally, not get out of bed all day, except during lunch, when I can go buy a "saucisse-frites," a foot-long hot dog stuffed into a baguette along with french-fries. Yum.

Like it or not, I am here for nine more days, and I had best think of ways I can fight off depression. Possibilities: 1) Talk to Franck, Neelam and/or Alexis. 2) Go the north coast. 3) See if I can join some of the variously pierced and accessorized youths here on their excursions.

My goal is to survive, to make it back home on August 13th. Ways to do this: have enough money. Ways to have enough money: budget. I wonder what kind of emergency measures I might take, i.e. If I absolutely had to get home before my scheduled return, would it be possible? I don’t think so. As in San Antonio, I am stuck here for ten days. OK, I will look at it as basic training: can I survive this? Getting home is my ultimate goal - nothing else matters. Revised plan: wake up, eat free hostel breakfast, write about how I hate life, from 11am - 3pm eat a "saucisse-frites," continue to write about how I hate life, eat another "saucisse-frites," sleep, wake up, etc.

It would actually be ideal if I could simply sleep all of the time - in my room when possible, and down here in the lobby when I am kicked out for the 11am - 3pm cleaning session. I wonder if it is physically possible to sleep for ten days? I also wish that I had brought warmer clothes. This is really a bit of a disaster. International post-adolescents keep staring at me here in the hostel lobby/kitchen, as I alternatively write and sleep with my head down on the table.

Me in front of the Blue Planet Hostel's outdoor tables

8/4, 7:28pm - I did some rough budgeting, and my situation as not as dire as I had thought. Actually, it safely works out to about 100E a day. If things get unbearable, I can almost afford a hotel. However, that would not leave much extra for food, getting back to the airport, etc.

Well, at least one thing is for sure: I am in no rush. I took a light nap from about 2pm to about 7pm. Right now, I am gazing out my hostel window into a courtyard. The building the hostel is in has about five floors; it is sort of surprisingly high-up. There are six guys in a room about the size of a small guest bedroom. I am not exactly sure what I should do about the key; there is only one, and there are six of us. One solution would be to never leave the room.

Me in my room

The path to happiness involves taking comfort in what one can; I take comfort in the fact that I probably will not run out of money, and the presence of my two little water bottles here with me on the bed [I lost them shortly thereafter]. I think a big portion of my various issues of dissatisfaction with the universe stem from a vague and unsettling feeling that the mechanics of reality are largely beyond my control.

8/7, about 7:00pm - I apologize to whomever for not having written in so long, but several depressing developments have contributed to my silence. First and foremost among them is the discovery that the shutter on my camera is stuck, so a photographic travel journal a la "Japan Summer 2001" is not to be. Also, I just haven't felt like writing.

I went out drinking at an English pub with my first set of roommates: a self-proclaimed Buddhist from Little Rock named Curtis Hazzard, who slept uncovered and naked save for his security wallet, an English computer science student, and a bulky, boisterous, rugby-ish Scotsman whose conversation consisted largely of boasting of his drinking prowess, and whom I did not particularly like. The next day, I had to change rooms since I slept through the registration hour, and took in sights with two new roommates from Northern Ireland named Rickie and Aidan.

Me at the Pompidou Center

Today, I went to the modern art museum, and am currently trying to think of an excuse not to go drinking again with the Scotsman and Southerner. I think "I don't have any money" has the advantage of being arguably true.

I just played chess with Aidan. Life is like a game of chess: it starts out all right, maybe even with some secret hopes for a lucky victory. But as the game goes on, you realize that you are suffering a slow death, made all the more unbearable by the fact that you suspect you might pull yourself out if only you had the resolve to do so. You consider suicide, but cannot even do that right or nobly. So you wait for the end, that final relief from the pain of existence coming only when you hear your opponent say "checkmate. "

Life and chess are both battles in which you are not sure whether to attribute your failure to lack of ability or lack of effort. But the feeling of relief that comes when you are finally beaten is wonderful; only that might conceivably make a game of chess worth the pain, humiliation and defeat. The purpose of life is to giddily anticipate death.

So essentially, my Paris trip is settling thusly: filling my days with unpleasant yet nonetheless time-consuming activities so as to as much as possible prevent a nervous breakdown as I wait for next Tuesday morning. I have seen a series of minutely different configurations of atoms: the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the Pompidou Art Center, Versailles, the Arc du Triomphe, and the Champs Elysees.

Me at Versailles

I tried to call Franck, but was unsuccessful. Alexis wasn't home either, but I got his voice mail; maybe I’ll try him again later on this evening. I ate too much today. Oh, that's another thing: I am overweight and poorly dressed - being in Paris just throws it into sharp relief.

On the up side, my camera not working adds about $150 to my travel budget, since I obviously will not be developing any film. Aidan has been trying to help lift me out of depression by encouraging me to go to Normandy, as I had originally planned to do. But I am afraid of spending too much money on a train ticket, not being able to find a place to stay, the weather being too cold, being bored, and not being able to make it back to the airport in time. I guess I could call a hostel somewhere in Normandy. The problem is, my guidebook gives poor reviews to all of the coastal towns. I might still be able to get a hold of Alexis. Five more days.

8/7, 11:37pm - I called Alexis, and he seemed slightly put-off by the fact that I had actually gone ahead and contacted him, invading his Parisian life with fat, American loudness. He sort of hesitantly invited me to joint him at a party, but the address he have me did not exist, and not even a local hotel manager could tell where the mysterious street was. So, I metroed back to the hostel, thoroughly saddened over the fact that my last hope for anything approaching a good time in Paris had been snuffed out. So, five more days. I might find something to do, but the fact is that my feet hurt all of the time.

I think my best hope for preserving sanity is to focus on the routine of the hostel, and write in my journal. This is actually very similar to my semi-facetious plan of a few days ago (wake up, eat free hostel breakfast, write about how I hate life, eat, continue to write about how I hate life, eat, sleep, wake up, etc).

Maybe I’ll go to the Sorbonne to kill time... Really, that is the function of sight-seeing: killing time. Tomorrow is the hump-day of this stressful vacation. I just hope I can get home without a hitch. Aidan, who has been so nice and sympathetic to my depression, is leaving tomorrow. I can only hope that more nice people replace Rickie and him.

In the interest of accuracy, I should point out the good things, few though they may be: the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe were both beautiful when lit up at night, and I have enjoyed interacting with the Parisians, who have proven polite and helpful. I think Parisians are more preoccupied and over-stimulated than they are cold and rude, as their reputation in America dictates. I have also enjoyed maintaining personal hygiene under such adverse conditions (a limited amount of clothing, temperature-fluctuating showers, etc). Tomorrow, my adventure will be doing my laundry.

Me at L'Arc Du Triomphe

The really awful thing is that I do not really have that much to come home to; that would be ironic if it turned out I was happier in Paris.

8/8, late morning - I had what bordered on a good time this morning doing my laundry and eating a 7E ham sandwich. I've got some new roommates: Neil and Rickie v.2, both from Scotland. They both seem like nice people, based on a few minutes of interaction; maybe they will play with me.

I tried to call Neelam, but no answer. I think my best bet is to nap/write, get dinner, and then hide in the hostel all night. Everyone I talk to tells me to go somewhere, as opposed to moping about in Paris for ten days. Truly, traveling alone is not for me. I called home today, more just to test the functionality of my "carte-telephonique" than anything else, but in a stroke of luck wound up reaching my mother as she was getting up for work.

I also called Alexis once more to explain my no-show last night, but he didn't pick up. I think I can now safely scrap all of my dubious contact information. I still entertain vague fantasies of traveling somewhere else, but I don't object too strenuously to allowing indecisiveness and time to transform these notions into an impossibility. I have just started to get relatively comfortable here in this Paris hostel, and am unwilling to trade my security for adventure. I do not think I am a very adventurous guy. One is supposed to be, and I tried to obey the social mandate by going to France; I think I have learned my lesson.

When I get back (I think it is pretty certain that I will get back now), I am going to try to settle into a routine. Like the pathologically stupid and the mentally ill, routine is what suits me the best.

8/8, 6:30pm - I've made friends with Neil and Rickie v.2, and they have asked if I would care to join them at the Louvre. I would like the company, but I’ve already seen it, and my memories involve innumerable, identical Etruscan heads and aching feet. However, I enthusiastically offered my company on a trip to Sacre-Coer tomorrow, and sealed the deal by giving each of them a business card. I find myself using UK slang more and more, as the scope of my interactions has been concentrated into this little UK universe: talking about quid and queues and things being shite.

Me at the Louvre

My poop has fully normalized, as my colon has stopped mounting a desperate defense in the face of the invasion of Parisian bacteria, who are ousting the Gaithersburg regime in a bloody coup-d'etat. Maybe I can take the Cartesian mind-body problem and fashion from it an analysis of my mental state's slight improvement, but I do not think my brain is as happy in Paris as my gut. Not only does it have to process, like a bureaucratic office, the never-ending tide of unpleasant nerve impulses (sore feet, bloated gut, aching back), but it still has to deal with a muddled visual processing center and an uneasy balance of confusion, fear and boredom. The poor thing really has a raw deal. I want to get down to the Sorbonne and the Latin Quarter; I only wish my feet didn't hurt so much.

8/8, 7:41pm - I went to go buy dinner, cheaply at 4,50E. It's raining now, so I have a good excuse to stay in my room. I guess Paris is not especially more or less pleasant than anywhere else; I just wish I had a television, computer, bike, guitar, and familiarity with the surrounding five miles. It's really pouring outsie; Neil and Rickie v.2 are likely caught in it. I do not remember it ever raining this hard in America. I have observed Paris weather to change in seconds; the clap of thunder followed by immediate torrents of rain doesn't just happen in the movies here. And me without an umbrella - tisk tisk. I am bored, and want to go home. 110 hours, 32 minutes until my flight leaves. Maybe it is best not to think of it that way. 6,632 minutes. For some reason, that's more tolerable. 396,920 seconds. I am staring out of my little window at the cold, grey, early evening sky. It's 8:30pm - only about two hours before I can realistically go to sleep.

One interesting thing is that I have hardly been jet lagged at all; so much for my "flying east causes jet lag" theory. Here is my revised theory: one tends to be less jet lagged when arriving at a vacation spot than when returning home, simply because one tends to follow a very daytime-active schedule when on vacation, and lie around the house all day when at home (or maybe that's just me). Anyway, it is easy to let pre-established sleep rhythms take over if nothing is done to convince one's body it needs to be awake during the day.

I wish there was some way of entering suspended animation for four days. Well, if I split it up, only three more days in Paris; I plan to spend Monday night at a hotel near CDG. I am accumulating a lot of useless small change not even accepted by the Parisian pay toilets. I was thinking about finding a beggar to whom I could give my collection, but there are never any around when you need them.

I just made the coins into an "anarchy" symbol on the floor in front of the sink. Maybe it can serve as a conversation piece for Neil, Rickie v.2 and me. I am sitting in a Paris youth hostel reading a guidebook about Paris: almost as good as being there.

8/8, 11:00pm - I took a big first step: I called a hostel in Caen, a town in Normandy. Supposedly, I need to call them tomorrow morning in order to reserve a bed for tomorrow evening. I don't know about all of this... OK, I guess I will get up tomorrow and take off for Caen, staying until Monday, when I will make my way back to CDG.

8/9, 9:11am - Well, the Caen deal fell through. A receptionist in a Caen hostel told me her establishment was booked through Wednesday, despite the fact that I was told to call this morning in order to reserve a room for tonight. The receptionist gave me the telephone number of another hostel, and the receptionist there only picked up the phone after about a minute of ringing. Then, she agreed to a reservation, but after hearing the first three letters of my last name, hung up on me. I think my phone call had woken her up, and she was in no mood to struggle with my broken French. So, I decided to curb my tenuous longings for Normandy adventures, and purchased three additional nights at this Paris hostel.

Trying to look on the bright side, this means that I will be able to enjoy tourist activities with Neil and Rickie v.2. This is a long and stressful vacation. Again striving for the up side of things, I should come out well under budget. Today, I will see Sacre-Coer, and possibly the Eiffel Tower again, depending on whether or not my need for the comfort of companionship outweighs the banality of the Eiffel Tower twice in three days.

Me at the Eiffel Tower

Today, tomorrow, the day after, and then I can start to consider making my way up to the airport when I wake up on Monday. I might even take in a sight, depending on how tired of Paris I am. Too bad about not being able to muster the courage to leave the city, but I’ll survive.

8/9, 6:02pm - I went out on another petit tour with Neil and Rickie v.2, arguably the most pleasant excursion yet. We saw Sacre-Coer, where the cathedral doubles as a tourist center complete with souvenir coin vending machines, and as a vehicle for genuine, ritualistic, weepy French Catholicism, exemplified by young Joan d'Arc-ish women blinking back the tears from their big, brown eyes as they kneel before medieval icons.

Me at Sacre Coeur

That evening, my roommates and I went to a restaurant where I had a real French meal, which was repulsive. I suppose it did not have to be, but I felt a characteristic need to order the weirdest thing on the menu (veal tongue, in this case), thus hammering the point of my urbane and cosmopolitan nature home to all who bore witness. The wine was good, though. The thing about tongue is that it really does look very much like a tongue, dissected into cross sections as if in preparation for microscope mounting. The texture wasn't helpful either; kind of a cross between a sponge and a blob of chicken fat. Neil and Rickie v.2 did not suffer as I did, both having opted for roasted chicken and french-fries. Then, we three found a city park and lay about in the sunshine for an hour or so, listening to the opera faintly emanating from a nearby concert hall, and intermingling with the rustles, scrapes and chirps that are the standard battery of city park sounds.

When I arrived back at the hostel, my feet were hardly bothering me at all. 88 hours and 25 minutes to go. Coming home is going to be a little bit strange; after I check my email, and especially after James leaves, I will be a bit in the dark as to what I should do next. I supposed my options are either to move to Vancouver, get a job around the DC area, or start selling my body to science at the NIH. Even if I opt to stay in the DC area, the questions remains of whether to get my own place or to continue to live with my mother. Living with one's mommy is not particularly conducive to girl-seeking, cheap and convenient though it may be. Despite these misgivings, I would rather be in Gaithersburg than Paris (I think). Maybe this will change, and I will feel a sense of dread before returning home.

8/10, 12:16am - Neil, Rickie v.2 and I, after a short nap headed out again to see the Eiffel Tower. I had already seen it once, but did not mind seeing it again, since this time the view was enjoyed during the day. Then, we went out for a couple of Amstels at a French bar. Dare I say that today felt like a real day of vacation?

Me at the Eiffel Tower during the day

Analysis: Parisians are not any more facially attractive than Americans (and might even be less so); they merely put effort into maintaining a standard human figure, instead of allowing Coors Light and Sarah Lee to feed voluminous beer guts and rippling thighs, respectively. As far as their knack for fashion, I might describe their collective sense as having a touch of the odd; as creativity versus simply shopping at the Gap by price. Each outfit has personality and creative expression, and is determined not so much by conscious trendiness as by a genuine and thoughtful aesthetic.

My new friends, Neil and Rickie v.2, are leaving tomorrow. Tonight at the bar, I discovered them to be 18 and 19 years old; maybe European kids are more mature than American ones. I think I just pooped out my veal tongue. Today was nice.

8/10, 10:30am - There is something to be said for sitting in a room with someone, silently sharing space. I used to think it uncomfortable and useless, but now that Neil and Rickie v.2 have bid me a good journey and are on their way to Barcelona (I think), I feel the same sort of loneliness I always felt in my apartment in Baltimore while Andy or Omar were out exercising their mighty, gleaming, rippling social muscles. Maybe people are not so bad after all. I think this is what I have heard the appeal of urban life to be - privacy without loneliness. It resolves that ongoing, perverse, universal human conflict of interest: "I hate everyone but I'm lonely. " In a city, one is surrounded by a constant glowing aura of human energy, but at the same time everyone stares straight ahead in the elevator, and I think there is a mutual understanding that such an overwhelming wave of social energy needs to be countered with a certain degree of not necessarily hostility, but maybe standoffishness.

It is such putrid weather that I do not feel like leaving the hostel for the four-hour mandatory mass-exodus that facilitates cleaning. It makes me feel like a kid being thrown out of the house and forced to go and play by a well-meaning parent, eager to ensure that my day is active and psychologically healthy.

By the time this trip is over, I am going to be some kind of local legend; the Hunchback of the Hostel, skulking about for days on end as travelers scurry through. I am already on friendly terms with several clerks. It really is a bit strange that I have opted to stay here for so long; most kids stay three days at the most as they pit-stop in Paris on their way to Barcelona, Rome, Amsterdam or Prague.

Me at Notre Dame

8/10, 4:45pm - Today, I went to the Ile de la Cite, knowing there to exist in the vicinity several buildings of a historical nature. I managed, after strolling around the island for a while, to find Notre Dame ("Pardon me, sir... It is possible that I am stupid, but I cannot find Notre Dame"), which was quite spectacularly ornate from the outside. I could not quite bring myself to enter the line to climb the towers. Then, I sat on the stone banks of the Seinne, contemplating life in a Parisian manner before returning to home-base. There, I met a German girl who spoke passable English, and accompanied her to Jim Morrison's grave, which was sort of not worth the price of a metro ticket. But it nevertheless effectively ate up a couple of hours.

Me at Jim Morrison's grave

She planned to go to the Eiffel Tower afterwards, and I briefly considered joining her, but managed to preserve an iota of dignity by politely stating that I had been there before (I did not mention that I had been twice).

So now, here in the breezy, austere, sterile decor of the hostel, I anticipate dinner, sleep, and one more day in Paris during which I plan to visit the Latin Quarter and the Sorbonne (and entertain fantasies of "University of Paris" tee-shirts). Then on Monday, after a leisurely morning, I will make my way to CDG and spend my final night at the Marriot adjacent to the airport, provided they have available accommodations. Which reminds me: it might be in my best interest to make a good-faith effort at communication with French directory assistance and the clerk at the Marriot so as to avoid sleeping at the airport, or engaging in the stressful last-minute accommodations searches with which I am all too familiar.

The secrets to visiting a European city, as I have discovered them, are frequent bowel movements and a subway map.

8/10, 7:24pm - I just had my biggest French language adventure yet. I called French directory assistance, and asked for the number of "the Marriot next to CDG. " Then, I managed to decipher the computer voice that read the number back. I dialed, and nobody picked up for a long while, so I double-checked the number with directory assistance, and asked the operator to tell me the number himself, since "computers are difficult and my French is not the best. " It turned out to be the correct number. So I dialed it again, and this time the phone was answered. I asked the hotel clerk if I might make a reservation for the 12th of August, and understood the reply to be something along the lines of "we don't take reservations, but that doesn't matter;" it was definitely in the "no, but..." family of replies. So, I asked if there were "many rooms for me," to which I got an enthusiastic reply. So hopefully, all will go according to plan. If that's not a good faith effort, then I don't know what is (I later discovered that the hotel I was thinking of was the Sheraton, not the Marriot, so it would not have mattered anyway. But the whole investigation gave me an excuse to speak French. )

Anyway, the language adventures continued: I bought some ham and cheese at a little nearby supermarket called "G20" (pronounced "szhay-vah[n]"), and was on my way to buy a baguette. The bakery I had made a familiar haunt was closed, so I embarked on a quest through the Paris streets in search of bread. I asked about five people for directions ("I am looking for bread. Is there a bakery close to here?"), even exchanging witty banter with one woman about the emptiness of Paris in August. Finally, someone told me that a bakery lay in his direction, If I did not mind walking for a bit. He engaged me in a conversation about French racism and language education, of which I understood about thirty percent.

So I was led to a bakery, where I bought a baguette, and sat outside making Camembert and Italian ham sandwiches, feeding pigeons and being stared at by elderly passers-by. So, the upshot is that I will not longer feel a twinge of dishonest guilt when I tell people that I speak French.

8/10, 9:30pm - Two new roommates have arrived, one from Mexico City and the other from Cambridge. I have gotten along well with all of my roommates, save for the YY-chromosome, alcoholic, speech-impaired southern American and Scotsman who constituted my first set (it seems so long ago).

Both of these two new arrivals made me feel somewhat guilty about not having left Paris to go gallivanting around Europe in proper post-collegiate fashion. It's true - certainly a normal person would have, and would also probably be justified in feeling as though he or she were missing out if they sat in the same youth hostel for ten days. But I truly feel that for me, leaving the airport at all was a non-trivial accomplishment.

8/11, 8:13am - I woke up this morning feeling a familiar kind of violent, hateful, psychotic depression that seems to have been largely replaced during the bulk of this trip by a sweeter, sadder sort of angst. Maybe the remains of the day will be better; at least it's sunny ouside. The temperature in Paris changes by a noticable margin, depending on whether the sun is out. This is in contrast to Maryland, where the heat hangs in the air, trees and concrete like a filthy, damp rag, and is not even chased away by the cover of night.

8/11, 6:49pm - I had another good day, in spite of my subconscious resolve to remain in self-indulgent depression for the remainder of my trip. Today I jaunted about with my new Mexican roommate, Marcelo, who proved a good travel companion. We made a quick stop at Sacre-Coer, and then found ourselves (really!) In the Parisian red light district surrounding the Moulin-Rouge. We paid 20E each to enter a randomly chosen venue, and two dancers immediately latched onto us like remora eels, sitting next to us and trying to siphon additional money from our security wallets, using such techniques as asking us to buy them drinks that cost 20E each, as well as marketing other, less wholesome products.

It was made pretty clear to us that to buy the dancers at least one drink was, if not downright mandatory, at the very least heavily endorsed by strip-club doctrine. Then, another woman actually danced for us. She was pretty miserable at it, and Marcelo later told me that she had mentioned that it was her first performance (I later deduced that the daylight hours, being so sparsely-cliented, are used as a training barracks for novice dancers, the lost revenue risked by sub-par performances being minimal. )

The experience, while somewhat interesting, did not merit the sacrifice of 40E. In retrospect, the most entertaining thing about it was trying to carry on a conversation with the non-Anglophonic stripper ("No, thank you... You are very beautiful, but I am very poor. ")

After leaving the dark, empty club, Marcelo and I metroed to the Champs Elysees, where we peered into shops and bought CD's. My booty was purchased based on a recommendation by a clerk after I asked his advice ("Pardon me sir... Your opinion? I am looking for very hard French rap. ") I also bought an acid/club/electro/whatever jazz compilation that had some French words in the title. All told, I spent over 100E today.

It was a long day, and several hours of it were spent walking. My feet are really doing well - I am very proud of them. They have toughened up, and no longer whimper plaintively at the threat of more sight-seeing.

I decided to spend another night in Paris at the hostel rather than risk astronomical prices and mind-numbing boredom at the airport Marriot. I will just have to squelch the nagging anxiety I feel about missing my flight. In truth, arriving at the airport 24 hours early seems a bit excessive.

8/12, 12:03am - I think I have grown quite comfortable with Paris, as evidenced by the fact that I just wandered out of the hostel and about the streets at 11:30 at night and with bare feet, on a quest for french-fries for my roommates and me.

8/12, 9:30am - I lost my soap, and so this morning scrubbed myself with toothpaste; I do not recommend it. I double-checked the train schedule for tomorrow morning, and, based on the information I received, have decided to wake up at 6am instead of 5am. Being only three hours early for a flight is a big step for me. The G20 should be open now, so I am going to go buy a bar of soap.

8/12, 3:24pm - Simon the Englishman and I went to the Sorbonne, the surrounding Latin Quarter, and a big tall black building that stands 100m shorter than the Eiffel Tower. Simon did not want to spend 7E for a view from the top floor, and so decided to wait for me at the base of the building. I could not find him when I got back down, and so after a short while simply bought a Coke, an Evian and a chocolate-almond crepe, and then took the metro back to the hostel; I hope Simon's not mad. Today's promenade was not exactly fascinating, but I am in the home stretch now, and cannot be discouraged.

Me at the Sorbonne.

Today in Paris, I felt the same sort of comfortable complacency and easy boredom that I usually feel in Gaithersburg. I have also caught myself on several occasions both thinking and talking to myself in French. My French has noticeably improved in ten days. As the week drew on, I found myself growing lazier with my carefully sculpted Parisian accent, as well as faster and more fluent in my speech. As a result, it seems a more natural speech pattern has been uncovered: three people have recognized me to be Quebecois by birth. I guess there were some early language acquisition impulses firing among neurons I thought had long ago been retired.

I am supposed to meet Marcelo and Simon this evening at the hostel, but I am not sure that any of us will have the physical or mental energy to march around Paris looking at buildings and buying snack food. 20 hours to go.

8/12, 8:00pm - 14 hours, 40 minutes to go. Marcelo and Simon are off to see the Eiffel Tower. Waiting... Waiting... I had a meat sandwich for 3,50E. Waiting... I tried to read a copy of "The Pickwick Papers" that was lying around, but it was just stupid. Waiting... Waiting...

8/13, 8:17am - I am back in my element now: siting in an airport at the gate, two hours before my flight boards, watching airport service vehicles roll randomly about the pavement. I surrendered to airport anxiety last night, and bumped my alarm back to 5am.

Seven hours across the Atlantic, and I will no longer begin every sentence with "Pardon-moi madame/monsieur, je cherche..." ("Pardon me ma'am/sir, I am looking for..."). I am not sorry I came to Paris, but my trip was admittedly somewhat torturous, especially the first half. Overall, I think I would rate it a 4.5/10, the relaxed and pleasant interaction with other travelers not being quite enough to counter the purgatorial first five days, and send my rating over a neutral 5/10. I do not think I will do any more traveling for a long while.

The journey to the airport was relatively stress-free, the only hitch occurring when I discovered that my subway transfer did not allow me to exit the train station into the airport. As there were no ticket machines, I felt I was reasonably justified in hopping over the turnstile, thus getting from central Paris to CDG on a record 1,30E.

8/13, 4:34pm - It is nice to be on the final leg of my journey. I think I realized something: I am a little bit afraid of flying, and the more I do it, the worse it gets. It is probably a reaction to the memory of my anxious response to the stimulus of flying; a self-perpetuating loop of behavior.

Anyway, that's all. Bye-bye.