I've been avoiding Paris. I've dreaded it, especially the Parisians- and prissy little pomps, can you blame them? With back-drops like this? Living up to this? With their handbags and matching shoes, their couture waistbands and oh-so-posh stance, pouting their lips like ducks. Can you blame them? Of course not, what a stupid question. And although I'd rather opt to go to Brussels than Paris, my godmother calls me crazy and compares peas to asparagus drizzled in hollandaise sauce. And I like peas just fine, but I understand the "it's a whole different ball park, kiddo" pith. I get the opportunity to sleep on the River Seine, a friend of a friend, floating right beside the Musee D'Orsay, and how can a girl say no? Well, she can't.
There's always music, always something, and old stone slabs with ornate carvings. And here I am, drinking cheap merlot, amidst it all, hormones all awry. I don't know where I'll be tomorrow, but at this very second, it just doesn't matter because I'm in Paris and tomorrow I won't be. I'm all alone on this boat, waiting for Olivier and Sonja to return, so we can pop open that champagne I bought for myself, but now am sharing due to mis-communication (in good company, all for the best), and now I'm stuck with this fruity cheap shit in the meantime that's not so bad to be honest (and for some reason I can't get drunk in Paris... but maybe I am, but doubt it). Your lips get stained and you smile in a dopey way. Why do Europeans love spliffs?
I don't know why, but I couldn't find the Eiffel tower. I was searching for it the whole day, carrying a baguette and fromage around in a plastic baggy, looking for the tower. It shouldn't be this difficult. I'm told the Eiffel is merely blocks away, but I spend the whole afternoon (and then some) making three left turns and finding myself back where I started. I get lost on a high-end street with stilettos puncturing the sidewalk and couples canoodling and toy poodles. Finally, with some dumb luck (or maybe I just decided to look up), I see it in the skyline, topping over classical buildings of limestone and Parisian balconies. I twist and turn down allies, searching for the base of this structure and finally, up the parkway and up the path, I reach my destination.
Its iron frame is bigger than you might expect and it's a bit overwhelming because after a whole day of searching, it's this revelation of, "I'm in Paris." This black iron is Paris, with light shows at night and admission fees. My tired legs curl under me and, sitting Indian style on the green lawn, I have my picnic. Dark clouds hover around the very tip of the Eiffel. At first, it's a drizzle, but soon, it's thunderous and pouring. Shit. I'm stuck in this storm, with my soggy baguette, soaking and cold, running for cover. And fuck Paris, I think. Fuck it. It's absolutely gorgeous, but fuck it. I buy a cheap umbrella and swim back to the boat, and my shoes are soaking wet, and my toes squeeze down into the cushions of my shoe, and cold water wrings out. When I finally arrive at my floating safe-house, the clouds miraculously clear and, like a Renoir, light spears through silver clouds.
The boat's rocking back and forth and everything's sort of slanted. It's too damn beautiful for words and yeah, Paris is prissy (with a huge Eiffel stick up its ass), but it's absolutely breathtaking. And, frankly, the people aren't half-bad.
I'm not drunk, I'm just tired because I'm in Paris and I bought a second-hand book today, Oscar Wilde's "The Picture of Dorian Gray." And I'm numb as a dog. God, I hate Paris, but it's so romantic. It really is. God, I love Paris. We have a love-hate relationship, but the sex is great. Oh god! The sex! Paris et moi. Je t'aime. There's the creaking of the ship, one boat down, it's the painted black "Le Quai" and it sounds like moaning. Paris is orgasmic. The long stick of bread, the phallic Eiffel, and Le Quai moaning.
I agree. Paris IS orgasmic.
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