More bare bones journal sketches from my first trip to France in Winter 2006...
The next morning I sett off to meet L. at Pere La Chaise. Because of the ice the cemetery is closed, so we hop on the Metro. It's full if life, with guys hawking books, musicians doing their thing, crazy people arguing with the inivisible. When a guy gets on with an actual ladder I decide I must be at the circus. L., an 18-year resident of Paris, seems to notice little.
We have espresso in an old working class neighborhood. Out the window, on a newsstand with a magazine whose cover has a young pretty man with the kanji for "old" tattooed on his midriff. L and I set out to continue the walk I began yesterday. Our conversation to some extent takes us out of our immediate surroundings, but L.'s knowledge of architecture and local history kept us rooted. We stop twice, both at Hemingway haunts -- one is Falstaff's, for lunch, and the other was Café de Flore, for a coffee and crepe. The highlight of the day was Man Ray's old studio, in an incredible building which promised fantastic light on sunnier days. A flat is currently open, the rent $4000/month. We move on to Les Halles, where we part ways, the snow beginning to fall.
I rush to S's flat, packing hurriedly, and head to the station. It's a rough go. I'm getting damp in the wet snow and can't seem to find the Metro. Once inside, there is nowhere to buy tickets, so I simply jump the wickets, then steam dry in the crowded car. I get to Bercy, but possess a ticket for a carriage that apparently doesn't exist.
Once aboard, I'm happy to find my couchette for four contains only one other, a young Chinese woman studying anime in Beijing. She shares her food with me and I share my music with her. She writes down dozens of names to steal off the internet. At 11 pm we finally crash, but are awakened some time later at the Swiss border for the long delay for passport check. When we pull out again we're too excited to sleep, laying in our respective berths on our stomachs, looking out at the snow-covered countryside lit by the full moon (my regular travelling companion of late). We trace the contours of Lake Geneva, passing through Lausanne and Montreaux. The mountains and farms are punctuated by the villages with their castles and comfy doll houses. I drift off warm in here on my bunk. I don't usually sleep well on these types of things, but tonight I drop off...
On the turntable: Cibo Matto, "Viva! La Woman"
