Cul-de-Sac

Would-Be Lover’s Parisian Odyssey: From Cobblestone Streets to Crap Poetry

A Young American’s Quest for Love and Understanding

Monday, August 20th, 1990 Hôtel des Carmes Paris, France

Where should I begin?

As Lewis Carroll writes in Alice in Wonderland: “Begin at the beginning, and go until you come to the end: then stop.”

Sound advice for the King of Hearts, but is life as simple as A to B?

I’m in Paris. Laura and I arrived late afternoon at Gare du Nord from Calais. I’ve since found love.

For a short time, I’ve known such love — as I have imagined: small, secluded streets, tree-lined avenues, the Seine, and Notre Dame.

In London, morning — evening in Paris. A Tale of Two Cities. Where have I heard that?

Tuesday, August 21, 1990 Hôtel des Carmes Paris, France

Here I am again.

Same table, same pain, same journal, same writer — but am I the same writer?

It was a day enjoyable. Laura and I woke at a quarter to twelve. An hour later, we left in lovely weather. The goal — sip red wine with French bread and fruit in Luxembourg Gardens: all the Romantic elements without the Romance.

If I can’t have one, I’ll have the setting. Since Paris is the city of Romance, the City of Love and the City of Lights — ahh, what rot —

The hotel is cheap, about $40, with a shower, sink. The toilet, down the hall. The window does not lock. Views into other rooms. Laura asked about the room. The one bed — a queen. Could be worse — a Jack!

How weird, right? Not knowing someone and then spending every minute for five weeks? In a queen bed?

Last night, I was writing. She, listening to music. Was she crying? She went to the bath. Now, she was really crying.

Was she homesick? Like those barrels of tears at JFK airport?

She feels “lonesome.” Having to deal with Walter Bowne with no time-honored friends — well, that’s tough. Hell, I’d do anything for a hug now.

Fuck, I’d pay someone just to hug me.

Today, more relaxed. Two bottles of wine, merci!

We talked for an hour with a couple in Luxembourg Gardens — The Goldsteins. He told us about the places we had planned to visit. We talked politics, the current climate in the States. They own a house in the South of France.

I love outgoing, smart, cultured people. Could I be more like them?

The day’s low point — walking home. We got lost, a few blocks away. Laura got scared. I can’t change her, but why so upset? We were only lost — briefly. Or — was it something else? Walter Sickness?

We found our way and fell asleep. Around 10, we talked about music, listening to her tapes and then mine. It’s now 1 a.m. Laura is sleeping. Elton John is playing. I’m not sleepy.

Thursday, August 22, 1990 Hôtel des Carmes Paris, France

Yesterday, we visited the Eiffel Tower and had a garden lunch, but I’ll say Laura is difficult, especially with money — well, francs.

Every day, the squabble over francs. Take, for instance, yesterday. We woke up late, missed breakfast, once again, and headed out around 10:30. We exchanged money on the corner of Rue Saint Germain and St. Jacques.

Fine, over and done. Then — she says she’s “hungry” and could go for a real meal — not just bread and fruit and wine. So I started looking for an inexpensive brassiere, and then she said, “What are you looking for?” And I say in French, “Un restaurant.” She doesn’t want to spend money on a cooked lunch. She wanted another picnic.

Does this sound logical?

We hop on the Metro to the Eiffel Tower and have lunch in the park. I had three salami and cheese sandwiches, jam and bread, and a Coke. But Laura ate too much. Felt sick. Or was it Walter Sickness?

We climbed the Eiffel Tower, even though she was afraid of heights, but we made it. The views were beautiful.

After I danced through a few sprinklers, we headed back. She didn’t join me for the dance.

Laura found a hairdryer at the front desk, and we each took a shower. So much depends upon — a hairdryer! Afterward, we headed toward Notre Dame, walked along the Seine, and sat by the river. We talked and watched the boats and the people.

We crossed the Seine. We walked around Notre Dame, admiring stained glass and pictures and candles — all that church stuff!

In the courtyard, a music crew from Czechoslovakia performed in traditional clothing. Very interesting and enjoyable. Even though we couldn’t understand, we felt the emotion. Or I did. They collected money for the student movement. I gave some francs.

Laura thought that was nice. We sat in the courtyard a while. And walked across the island of Ile de St. Louis, down St. Chapelle and the Seine. Things seemed to be going well. No aggravation. No turmoil.

At Pont Neuf, Laura felt like a bottle of wine and a loaf of bread. Again, okay. Near the hotel, we bought an 11-franc bottle of Rose and a 3-franc loaf of French bread. We head back to the hotel. We’re sitting on the bed with the wine, a can of Kronenberg beer, bread, and jam, and we’re talking, seemingly enjoying each other.

This is what happened:

Somehow, I don’t know how, but she got on politics, and things exploded. We argued a long time. We decided to leave, and then I got mad and punched the wall. A real man, right? She went back into the room, and closed the door. After a bit, I came back. Knocked softly. I was sorry.

She stormed past me and sat on the curb on the Rue des Carmes. The argument was based on America and anti-American views — Vietnam and Reagan.

We finally walked, stopped, and she went to call her folks — Mr. and Mrs. Oliver Fucking North. I’m attached to family, perhaps too close, but Laura — even more sickening. She was on the phone for fifteen minutes — crying and crying and crying.

I went back to the hotel, tired of waiting, took a shit, wrote a story, and fell asleep.

Vive la France! Fraternité, égalité, liberté!

Monday, August 23, 1990 Champs de Mars, Paris

I’m sitting beneath the Eiffel Tower, underneath a tree beside a sprinkler. My shirt is off. Two wonderful French ladies are beside me, talking. Do they think I’m sexy?

Laura — stretched out on the grass — looking heavily in the soft August sun. I’m reflecting on the past days. The sky is high and blue and cloudless — a comfortable breeze blows across the Seine, into the Champs de Mars.

I am relaxed. No beheadings. We will spend our last day here, and then depart late to Zurich — a cheap way to spend the night, Laura thought. Her idea. Speaking of that, let me tell you about yesterday —

We woke for our continental. It felt good to have coffee and croissants. Laura wanted juice. Could she have Orangina? Well, it cost 9 francs! We went back to the room, and before I knew it, we had another fight — No!— a disagreement over the “travel arrangements.”

(Wait! I’m getting hot! I want to run through the sprinkler! Yeah, that was nice! Should I speak to those French women.)

Anyway, we were looking through our EuroRail booklets, thinking of changing the itinerary. We had no plans for Friday night. Why not leave early on Friday and arrive somewhere in Europe in the early afternoon — time to explore?

That meant another night in a hotel. Then, leave for Geneva on Saturday for our hotel reservation.

Well, to save money, Laura wanted to spend the night on a train. Not a bad idea, but I disagreed. Laura accused me of being a control freak. Uncompromising. Why did she have to give in and agree? Did she know I also carried her extra suitcase, along with my stuff because she was too cheap to check her bag back at Heathrow?

Never mind — off-topic. Issues, man, issues.

Although I do enjoy being in control, was she unfair? I wanted to save money, too. Then she told me in order not to disturb me, she would go “along with everything.” If she ran out of money, she’d go back to London where she would live with that “friend.”

I said if this thing with us, whatever, would work — we’d have to make it work together. Both of us talking and deciding — that one-sided shit — wouldn’t work.

We left the hotel, pissed off. She told me all the things she kept inside all summer — especially about the time she told me she knew some guy who would like to travel with us. I told her I would not feel comfortable. Would I feel like a third wheel? Oui, oui.

And I know from experience that traveling with more than two people, especially those who do not know each other well, as in this scenario, can be a real pain in the backside.

Hell, just the two of us were having trouble! Whether right or wrong, I was honest. Maybe, perhaps, I thought of Laura and me together.

Do I feel that way now?

As I sit here, though, things seem okay. In those times, however, you must be on your guard. I just can’t say one thing anti-American — she has the attitude of “love it or leave it.”

So how was Paris? I like it more than London — I was in London with my buddy Tim in January of 1990 with a college group for three weeks, and so I know that city better. That trip was amazing. Plus, the three days in London with Laura before we reached Paris. Traveling with one of your best buddies is totally different than this.

Last night we saw the sights at night. I haven’t had the time to see what I wanted to see — the d’Orsay, Montmartre, and Versailles.

We spent most of the day in the Louvre, a marvelous place, just wandering around, admiring the masterpieces. The Lourve had Greek and Roman busts of Homer, Aristotle, Athena, Hercules, Plato, Socrates, Hermes, and thousands of other sculptures.

Of course, we saw the Venus de Milo and Winged Victory. A trip to the Louvre would not be complete without gazing upon the small portrait of the Mona Lisa by DaVinci. It’s great seeing this in person, and not from an art book where Art loses its punch. The artwork is meant to be seen in real life.

Laura and I ate at The Cafe at the Louvre. We sat with an interesting couple. She was from California, and he Magnus from Northern Scotland with the deepest accent. A bottle of Evian bottled water and a blueberry croissant cost me twenty francs or four dollars.

Now, the outside of the Lourve is beautiful and controversial. The new Louvre Pyramid had just been constructed. Three glass pyramids surrounded by water fountains and pools. It was made by I.M. Pei — a Chinese-American architect.

Here is what it looks like:

This is my interpretation of the Louvre:

This is my Mona Lisa:

This is what will happen to me if I continue drawing:

It’s amazing, however, what the world considers its “masterpieces.” The Mona Lisa, the statue of David, the Venus de Milo, The Last Supper in Milan.

How did these things become so great? Who decided how much money they’re worth? Why the Mona Lisa, and not something from Turner or Monet or Picasso? Uh, they’re great, too. But why?

At Gare de l’Est, we got our passes validated and tickets for Zürich, Switzerland for the 10:45 train. With no couchettes, we settled for seats.

We took the Metro back, bought food at Petite Marche, and had another picnic in our room. I was in ecstasy! I bought chocolate chip cookies.

Laura was tired, and I had so much energy — would I explode? She stayed in the room — I explored Paris.

We needed our space. I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t know where I had been. I just kept taking different rues and boulevards, small and narrow cobblestone alleys, Parisian thoroughfares. How nice to get out on my own?

I didn’t have to worry about Laura. It was heavenly. I hope Laura felt the same way.

I can be a royal asshole. On my way back, I picked up a 2-pint bottle of 1664 beer and drank it back to the hotel before Laura and I took off for a night on the town.

I’ve been in the park for three and a half hours. I went for lunch, and we had a satisfying meal. Laura still read underneath the shade, and I’m still writing “Cul de Sac.” Most of the time, however, I just watch people. What I see goes into this story — straight from The Lost Generation.

It is lovely right now. Three English ladies, young ladies, and beautiful, are next to me — some five feet or so. It’s interesting to hear their words. Would I have talked to them if it wasn’t for Laura? They were backpackers. I’ve grown comfortable with my hunter green backpack, but Laura’s suitcase is an Albatross — a curse straight from Coleridge’s “Ancient Mariner!”

About last night:

I handed over the Metro map. Would she like to get us to the Champs-Élysées? She felt delighted to be in charge. Well, we get there just as the sky was darkening. Yellow headlights flickered on the main boulevard. All the major arteries lead to the Arc de Triomphe.

We were both impressed — the lights and cars and people were so exciting. For the first time I took Lisa’s arm. She laughed. Called me a “creep.” Ah, romance!

I counted motorcycles. Chaos. We reached the end of the Champs-Élysées. I took pictures of the impressive Arc de Triumphe, engulfed in light.

After this, Laura took me to the Eiffel Tower. It took us a while. The Tower at night was sensational. The entire park was happening — people stretched out on the lawns with guitars and the stars and others sleeping or kissing or relaxing.

Laura and I sat down — taking it all in. We bought a Coke, and then walked to the Metro.

But first, we walked to Notre Dame. Took pictures. I walked Laura back to the hotel. I went to call Mum. I miss her. It felt great to hear her voice. Why was she worried about me?

I still haven’t gotten to bed. Oui, I’m still in the park. Enjoying restful seconds. The sun is going down. The park is cool. Shaded — still busy.

It’s just past six. In the morning, we’ll be in Switzerland.

Now, here is some real crap poetry:

To a Lost Friend

Do you not know these hands? The very ones that held you — Dear lady, look again — For you were all I knew!

Can you not hear me now? Though my voice is still heard? Above those of others Whose emotions you stirred!

I loved you once in silence, Now I grieve just the same — Fools in love play many parts — The worst? Foolish shame!

Ode to Paris

City, I hardly know you Past your gilded boulevards And Points de Tourism You’re a stranger to me.

For the Would-Be Lover

Do not talk to me of romance — Don’t talk to me at all. For the Would-Be Lover — Needs no soft music playing — Nor tender words a-saying Things lovers aught to say.

The Would-Be Lover walks alone — While others walk hand in hand — Along streets of cobblestone — Past foreign billboards and marquees — Over bridges, a-crossing the Seine.

The Would-Be Lover sits with his drink Along the Rue de St. Germaine — He drinks and he dreams and he drinks — Till he dreams no more.

(All of the above — CRAP!— 9/7/90). WTB.

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