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PREFACE
On Tuesday, August 11th, 1998—my brother’s fortieth birthday—at 3:11 PM, my then boyfriend,
Nigel, called me with a question. Nigel’s job had him travelling every so often, and his next trip would be taking him
to San Francisco, London, Paris, Stockholm, and Munich, over the course of two weeks. When I answered Nigel’s call that
day, I was running late for work, since I’d been busily packing for my trip to San Francisco. I was departing for California
the next day for a weeklong visit. Nigel’s first question to me when I answered the phone was, "Do you have a passport?"
I felt some sort of wave coming over me as I sat down and responded, "No, but I can get one in one day in San Francisco—Why?"
Just the previous Sunday, in the travel section of The Denver Post there had been a front-page article about passports.
In the article, there had been a section explaining how to get your passport in a hurry, so I knew that San Francisco was
one of the cities in which you may obtain a passport in one day. Nigel then asked me if I would take the time off from work,
if he flew me to Paris, via London, for Labor Day weekend? He had been shopping around on the net and had found a great airfare.
I’m thinking to myself—Are you crazy?! Can you say, "I quit!" I sat down on my bed, as I replied somewhat calmly,
"Oh, yes, I would love to go to Paris with you. Book the ticket." If I’d had to pick any one city in the world to visit,
Paris would’ve been it. That night after work, I walked about four blocks down to Kinko’s and spent $13 for some
passport photos. I was bound and determined to have an excellent photograph in my passport, so I was prepared to pose for,
and pay for, as many shots as it took. Fortunately, it took only one.
Two days later, I was at San Francisco’s Passport Agency bright and early. Well, bright and early for me—about
9:00 AM. I took a number and waited for a little more than hour before they called my number, forty-four. I asked the clerk
about the one-day passport. He replied that for an additional $35, on top of the base price of $60, plus proof of eminent
departure, I could have my passport waiting for me at the ‘will call’ window after 3:30 PM the next day, Friday.
Fortunately, Nigel had provided me a copy of my itinerary before I’d left Denver, and, luckily, I’d grabbed it
before I left the house that morning in San Francisco. I was actually a little nonchalant once I knew my passport would be
ready for me on Friday afternoon; I didn’t get down to the Passport Agency until Monday afternoon, the day before I
flew back to Denver.
As soon as I landed on Colorado soil, I began preparing in earnest for my upcoming London/Paris trip. I would fly to London,
have a few hours there before meeting Nigel. Then, we would embark upon a train ride under the English Channel into Paris.
There were lots of lists to be made, lots of websites to be visited, lots of planning and organizing to be done. And I had
two weeks and two days to do it. On your mark. Get set! GO!!
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 3RD, 1998: My flight out of Denver International Airport was at 12:35 PM on Thursday afternoon.
I arrived at the airport an hour early, as they suggest, to allow time for any difficulties. DIA has been having problems
with their brand-new trains being delayed or stalled in the tunnels—one incident lasted over four hours. I parked in
the outdoor, long-term lot, which is adjacent to the covered terminal parking. Before leaving the Main Concourse for Concourse
B, which is the one United uses, I went to the airport’s money exchange office. There, I turned $39 into twenty British
pounds and $278 into 1500 French francs. Also, I bought $200 in U.S. traveler’s checks. When I had taken Nigel to the
airport for his flight to San Francisco, I had turned $53 into thirty pounds and turned $40 into 220 francs. So, I boarded
my plane for Europe with $600 in foreign money and US traveler’s checks.
As soon as I sat down in my seat by the window, I set my watch forward the seven hours to London time. I wanted to adjust
myself to my European time difference as soon as possible. So, when the plane left Colorado soil at about 12:30 PM, it was
already 7:30 PM in London. I left DIA in a Boeing 727, and, after a roughly three-hour flight, I had to switch planes at Newark
onto a Boeing 777. There was a nearly two-hour layover in Newark before I boarded my plane to London. Once seated, I took
a 3-mg. tablet of melatonin, which helps to regulate one’s sleep cycle, and a 10-mg. tablet of Ambien, a sleeping pill.
If I wanted to hit the ground running on London local time, I had to force myself to go to sleep right then and there. It
worked: I slept about five hours of the six-and-a-half hour flight. From the bustling activity of the plane’s inhabitants,
I could sense that we were ready to land, and I began the process of waking up from my vertical sleep. The flight attendant
angel-lady brought me a cup of coffee, enabling me to sufficiently disembark myself from the aircraft.
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 4TH, 1998: My fabulous journey officially began when I arrived at London’s Heathrow
airport at about 8:00 AM Friday morning. Customs was relatively easy for me. I presented my entry form that I had filled out
on the plane to the Customs agent, showed him my return plane ticket at his request, and presented my passport a couple of
other times to various other people. I directly found my way to the airport’s underground station and bought a one-day
London transport pass for 7.30 pounds ($13). I’d read in my travel guides that London and Paris each had excellent public
transit systems, and I fully intended to make use of them. Before I’d left Denver, I purchased ‘Streetwise London’
and ‘Streetwise Paris’ maps, complete with their respective underground systems on the back. In any city I’m
visiting, I always use public transit. It is on these buses and trains that one truly sees the flavor of the city, or country.
My number-one priority on any vacation is to people-watch. Here I was on the verge of two different countries, so people-watch
is what I did for the duration of my weekend trip.
Once underground, I took the ‘Tube’ from Heathrow to the Waterloo train station in downtown London, where I
was to meet Nigel at 3:30 that afternoon for our 4:23 PM first-class train ride into Paris. From the airport, I took the Piccadilly
line into downtown London, which took about 30 minutes. I changed lines at the Leister Square station and hopped aboard the
Northern line to go a few stops south to Waterloo.
In the train station, I searched for, and inquired about, lockers in which I could entrust my two bags for a few hours,
since I didn’t want to lug my luggage around London. I couldn’t find any, and the few people I queried could offer
no assistance. I did find a little cubbyhole of a room, with two attendants who checked the bags. I unzipped my suitcase,
and retrieved my black, Kenneth Cole shoulder bag. I filled it with all I would need for the day-trip in London and zipped
and locked the suitcase. I checked the rolling-suitcase and my Eddie Bauer soft-side attaché at this ‘left luggage’
area at 2.99 pounds per bag ($10). I utilized the men’s room in the train station and freshened up for my few hours
in the royal domain. Before leaving the train station, I made a reconnaissance mission around Eurostar’s international
terminal, so I wouldn’t be scrambling to find it later in the day. A travel professional is always on the alert.
Leaving Waterloo, I entered the streets in search of the nearby Westminster Bridge. Just across the bridge are Big Ben,
the Houses of Parliament, and Westminster Abbey—all clumped together. How serendipitous that the Abbey is so close to
Waterloo and that Westminster was first on my list of things to do in London. I wandered around trying to find the bridge
for probably about twenty minutes or so. The streets that I encountered in London were a little difficult to translate on
the map, since they run in such an array of directions. Ultimately, I happened upon the bridge I’d been seeking. I walked
across Westminster Bridge over the River Thames. While walking across the bridge, I saw a multitude of tourists snapping photographs
of each other in front of Parliament, Ben, which wasn’t all that big, and the bridge itself—jostling themselves,
and others, in the process. It was like a flock of blackbirds swooping down upon the ‘prey’ that was the view.
A couple of times, I stopped on the bridge, readied my camera, and framed a shot. Neither time did the shot seem right, so
I didn’t snap a picture from Westminster Bridge. I then realized with dismay that I was going to be a blackbird, just
like the others, and be a slave to my camera for the duration of my trip. To fuel my photographic fervor, I’d brought
along eight rolls of twenty-four-exposure film for my four-to-five day excursion.
When I reached Westminster, a little after 10:30 AM, there was a sign on the door stating that the Abbey was closed for
a few hours, due to an ongoing funeral. I decided to come back later and took the Tube from the Westminster station to Kensington
Palace, where there would no doubt be some sort of tribute to Princess Diana, since the one-year anniversary of her death
had been just days earlier. Kensington was number two on my list of things to do in London. From the Westminster Tube station,
I took the Circle line to the Palace. Unfortunately, I went one stop too many, so I came above ground at the Gloucester Road
station, from which I would have to walk a bit of a distance to get back to Kensington. Above ground, with my ‘Streetwise’
map in hand, I asked two locals which direction north was. We were on a street which ran north-south to the palace, so I was
ready to begin my journey, once I had determined which way was north. Since I didn’t want to be a typical Yankee tourist
and ask "Which way to where Diana lived?" I merely asked my querants which way north was. Neither person I asked could answer
my question. Shortly after my second, non-productive encounter in the street, I spied a pub that served fish ‘n’
chips. Eating authentic British fish ‘n’ chips was another priority on my brief London excursion, and it proved
to be a relaxing, delicious luncheon. With my diet soda, the bill was a six pounds ($10). After lunch, I walked right past
a used-bookstore on the same block as the pub. Imagine this book lover's delight at having come across such a find as this!
And it was SO on my way. I browsed for quite a while, but saw nothing that I had to have. In used-bookstores, browsing is
half the fun, after all. Across the street from the bookstore, I noticed a little tourist-type shop that had postcard stands
outside on the street. I bought twenty cards, with Westminster Abbey and Big Ben pictured on them. The shopkeeper told me
that for every ten cards I bought I got one free, so I went back to the racks and got my two cards for free. At this point
in my short London excursion, I realized that I probably didn’t have enough time to walk to the palace and see the Abbey
too. Since Westminster was primary on my list, I nixed the Palace idea and headed back to the Tube to get back to the Abbey.
Across from the Gloucester station, I noticed a post office/money exchange, and I sauntered right in and bought twenty postcards
stamps. All these things I did there and never got more than three blocks from the underground station.
I used the same Circle line to get from the Kensington area back to the Westminster area. Just as I came above ground,
right across from the Abbey, I suddenly realized that I didn’t have my camera swinging from my wrist any longer. Panic!
It could be anywhere. My first thought was to rush right back to Gloucester Road and look for the camera, but I quickly realized
the futility of this. It could have been anywhere—it could have been nowhere. Just get over it! I crossed the street
and ambled, somewhat dejectedly, over towards the Abbey. It was 1:20 PM, and the Abbey had reopened after the funeral some
five minutes earlier. There was a mob of people waiting to get in. My travel-induced mental haze, which had allowed me to
leave my beloved camera somewhere that it shouldn’t be, and my scarcity of time before I had to meet Nigel, caused me
to skip the notion of going inside Westminster Abbey altogether. Maybe next time. Definitely next time! Instead, I went back
to Waterloo station to spend my remaining few hours in England.
With the streets being skewed as they were, I had a difficult time finding the entrance to the station, not to mention
the station itself. I entered on a lower level than from which I’d departed. Right in front of me, as I entered, I saw
the room where the luggage lockers were. I wondered how much money I could have saved by using these lockers instead of the
‘left luggage’ upstairs. Waterloo station is seemingly a complex of buildings covered by an enormous glass atrium,
and at the bottom of the buildings are several little news shops, restaurants, pubs, ticket booths, and various other commuter-oriented
industries. While browsing around, I bought a copy of an essential London glossy magazine, "Hello." It was a Diana ‘one-year
later’ type of issue; we were there just a few days after the anniversary. And, at a little jewelry kiosk in the center
of the immense train station, I bought an interlocking three-band silver ring—a la Cartier’s dazzling standard—for
4.99 pounds ($9). I retrieved my luggage, and I went into a pub, drank a pint of Fosters, and wrote my twenty postcards. With
the purchase of the Fosters, I’d been successful in spending about forty-four of the fifty pounds that I’d brought
with me ($78).
With my postcards stamped and dropped in the ‘Royal Mail’ box, I entered into Eurostar’s international
terminal. The security guard motioned me right into the terminal, by-passing me away from the security check. Inside, I browsed
the newsstands and shops for about fifteen minutes before sitting down to wait for Nigel. In the newsstands I noticed that
there were many more French language magazines in the international terminal than the other part of Waterloo Station. Not
five minutes after I’d sat down, I saw Nigel walking towards me; such perfect timing. We boarded the sleek train and
began the three-hour ride into Paris. Champagne was served as soon as the train departed, and a lovely meal quickly followed.
I came to learn that the train only spends a little more than twenty minutes under the English Channel. It was a smooth, quick,
comfortable ride. Before disembarking the train, I picked up a copy of a London newspaper, The Daily Mail, which was
provided for the train’s passengers. On the front page was a picture of young Prince Harry on his first day at Eton,
also his big brother’s school. He’s definitely on his way to being a cutie just like Prince William. I had previously
feared that Harry would inherit his father’s visage, but seeing that photo served to assuage my fears.
We arrived in Paris at about 9 PM at the Gare du Nord, a train station in northeastern Paris. (That the normally three-hour
train ride was delayed about twenty minutes, and that Paris is one hour ahead of London, will explain how the seemingly three-hour
tour took four-and-a-half hours to complete.) The station was teeming with activity, and it was raining when we reached the
doors to the outside. I could feel the energy of Paris surging into the train station’s doors through the pouring rain.
While Nigel waited for a taxi—and please don’t let the French hear you call it a cab—to take us to our hotel,
I bought a five day-five zone Metro pass, a Paris-Visite, for 300 francs ($55). This pass would get me anywhere I needed to
go for the five days I would be in Paris.
We arrived at our hotel, which was in the southwestern part of the city, at about 10:15 PM. Le Meridien Montparnasse has
about twenty-five floors and was one of the tallest buildings around, making it a good beacon when finding our way back to
the hotel over the next few days—our very own lighthouse, if you will. It was quite a nice hotel, and I felt very fortunate,
since Nigel was on a business trip and the hotel and taxi ride were being expensed. The room was small, but well appointed.
In our bathroom I saw, for the very first time in my life, a bidet. I had heard about them before, but at first I wasn’t
sure that what I was seeing was in fact a bidet. It was directly across from the commode and looked just like the commode,
but without the seat. This ‘commode’ was equipped with a diffused moveable water faucet and a sink stopper. At
first I thought it might be a sink for me to wash my hands while I’m seated on the commode, but that theory didn’t
hold a lot of water, as it were. Upon ultimately realizing what it was, I dashed into the room and beckoned Nigel into the
bathroom. I pointed to the bidet and asked him if he knew what it was. He hadn’t seen one, so I explained to him the
conveniences of this continental luxury. Over the course of the next four days, I would come to love this fabulous European
bathroom standard.
Firmly ensconced in our room, we showered, changed, and went out to explore the streets around the hotel. We ambled out
of Le Meridien and on to Rue du Montparnasse, to chose a street to explore. We selected Rue de la Gaite, which ran along the
Cimetiere du Montparnasse. As we walked along, we noticed that the street was inundated with a wealth of sex shops. There
were at least ten within a three-block stretch of the street. Naturally, we went into several of them. They were just like
any other sex shop in the U.S. that I’ve encountered, but some of the pictures on some of the video covers shocked even
the unshockable me. The images presented of various scatological pursuits and the multiple depictions of bestiality stunned
me. There before us were covers with men and women in a variety of sex acts with a variety of animals. As the wise lady once
said to me: "Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore."
After combing the streets for about an hour and absorbing as much atmosphere as possible, we went back to the hotel to
retire for the night. Before returning to the room, we stopped for a drink in the hotel bar. There was a male piano player
and a female singer performing there. Both were quite good. Nigel ordered a Bailey’s on the rocks, and I had a vodka
and orange juice. When the waiter brought the bill, I was quite surprised to see that these two drinks had cost $22. Soon,
the check was spirited away to the land of the expense account, and a good night was had by all.
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 5TH, 1998: We awoke at about 9:30 AM to begin our first day of sightseeing. Armed with my
‘Streetwise’ map, we trekked to the nearby Metro station, the Gare Montparnasse, and used the number four line
to make our way to the Ile de la Cite. This island is one of two small islands in the Seine in the center of the city. Paris
‘began’ on this island, and some of its oldest buildings are there. Notre Dame cathedral is there. With us on
our train to Notre Dame, there were two musicians. The older one played an accordion. They played a song for the train, after
which the elder of the two walked around with his hat in his hand collecting coins from the passengers. Nigel commented that
this was truly the way contribute to the arts, and he quickly proffered some coins.
The cathedral was phenomenal, both on the outside and the inside. Naturally, it was packed with other sightseers, but this
didn’t affect the majestic, spiritual experience of the nearly one thousand-year-old building. As we were coming out
of the cathedral, we encountered numerous beggars at the doors of the church. One beggar of particular notice was missing
his left foot. As we were walking away from him, Nigel was reminded of a story told to him by his friend Teresa. Teresa, who
spends one month of every year doing volunteer work in India, had told him not to encourage the beggars. She told him that
begging can be quite a lucrative occupation for some in India and that a few families even have had a child’s appendage
amputated in order that the child may be a more commercially viable beggar. My God, begging as mutilative performance art
and a mode of employment. It’s true: you do learn something new every day. Paying no attention to Teresa’s story,
Nigel hurried back to the footless beggar and gave him some coins.
After Notre Dame, we walked across one of the many bridges spanning the Seine—the Pont d'Arcole, which connects the
island to Paris’ Right Bank. When Paris grew off of these two little islands, generally speaking, commerce and government
moved to the Right Bank, and education and its liberal-mindedness moved to the Left Bank. These two differing mentalities
have heavily influenced the psychological make-up of the respective banks today. The designers, and their posh and elegant
ateliers, are naturally situated on the Right Bank. The Hotel de Ville is just over on the Right Bank from the Ile de la Cite.
This huge and beautiful, old stone mansion is presently home to Paris’ local government and home to Paris’ mayor.
We passed the Hotel on our way to the Marais. Since we were planning on dancing that evening, we needed to know the hottest,
most happening gay club in Paris. So, we headed to the gay section of Paris, called the Marais, and it is but a short walk
from the Ile de la Cite. I knew that if the Marais were anything like San Francisco’s Castro district, there would be
club fliers galore in the gay shops on the Rue Ste. Croix de la Bretonnerie—the heart of gay Marais. As soon as we had
approached the Pont d’Arcole, Nigel spied a very large, brightly colored building several blocks over the river and
up the street. What he saw was the Georges Pompidou Centre. A mega-big, mega-center for the arts. We walked up to it and took
a look around. The Center itself is a big, uniquely designed building. There is a pool with a fountain nearby, with expressionistic,
cartoon-like sculptures that spit water into the pool and on unsuspecting passers-by. The Center has a huge white tee-pee
erected in its courtyard, and we simply HAD to walk through it.
The Rue Ste. Croix de la Bretonnerie was full of little shops that had all the club fliers we could’ve hoped for.
We quickly figured out that the club du jour for Saturday nights was called ‘Fluid’, which was held at
a bar called ‘Queen’ on the Champs Elysees. I had brought my very short, black and white plaid skirt to Paris
to wear dancing that evening, but had neglected to pack a damn g-string; the skirt was so short that wearing regular underwear
was out of the question, as was wearing no underwear. (!) So, first on my Marais agenda was to purchase a new thong; Monica
Lewinsky, eat your heart out. I found a nice black, ribbed one at a little gay-boy boutique, called Boyz’ Zone, for
225 francs ($40)—a lot of cash for such a small piece of fabric, but I had to have one.
As we walked the length of this very gay street, Nigel popped into one store after another, in search of a shirt to wear
that evening with his gray vinyl pants. I noticed that in these various shops, people were smoking inside the stores—patrons
and employees alike. I would come to discover that cigarettes were prevalent all over Paris. At one of the shops where Nigel
was browsing, he ran into a German friend of his that he had met on a previous business trip in Berlin. After recovering from
the shock of seeing someone he knew in this little shop in Paris, we chatted a bit with Nigel’s cute friend and his
friend’s cuter friend. Naturally, we all touched on the subject of what a small world it is. Between shops, we decided
to sit for coffee at a corner café’s outdoor table. As soon as we sat down, rain began to pour from the skies. People
were huddling under our awning trying to keep dry. We did some intensive people watching on this rainy French corner. I saw
several gay boys sporting shaved heads, and my shaved head felt right at home. And, continuing a sight that I saw all over
Paris for the duration of my trip, dog after dog walked by this busy intersection. People had their dogs everywhere—in
the restaurants, in the shops, and on the Metro. Doggies, doggies everywhere made me often think of my precious little daughter,
Baby Jane Russell, a boisterous Jack Russell Terrier, vacationing at her kennel with a pool, back in the States.
With our shopping done, and with our bar reconnaissance mission complete, we headed to the Metro to get to the Eiffel Tower.
I just love being on top of tall things: St. Louis’ Great Arch, San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge, New York’s
Empire State Building, Statue of Liberty, and World Trade Center. I wasn’t leaving Paris until I’d been to the
top of the Eiffel Tower. To get to the tower from the Marais, we had to switch train lines once along the way. We shifted
from the one line to the six line at the Charles DeGaulle/Etoile station. In some of Paris’ Metro stations, we would
have to walk through an underground labyrinth of trails to get from one line to the next. It was fun. After coming above ground
near the tower, I bought some postcards; twenty of the same shot, the Eiffel Tower. We made our way closer to the tower, and
it was an impressive spectacle indeed, as it has been since Paris’ 1889 World’s Fair. Of course, there was quite
a line at the ticket booth, so first we headed to les toilettes nearby, at one of the tower’s legs, its pilier.
We had to pay 2.5 francs each, about ninety cents, for the two of us, for the privilege of using the bathroom. In keeping
with European openness, there was a female employee cleaning the men’s room while we were standing at the urinals. After
our trans-gender bathroom visit, Nigel and I got in line. Then we each paid fifty-nine francs ($11) to go all the way to the
top. The first leg of our journey was an elevator, which went up one of the piliers to the first and second levels. (There
is a restaurant on the first level.) Then we switched to another elevator for the final ride to the top. It was a glass elevator,
so we got to look out as we soared to the top. The view was spectacular. The sun had just set as we approached the tower an
hour or so earlier, so there was just a whisper of light in the sky. After our fill of the increasingly darker vistas, we
waited, in the windy cold, an interminable amount of time in a winding line for the elevator ride back to terra firma.
We bounded from the tower to the Metro station and caught the six line back to the hotel. It was about 11 PM, and we were
winding our way out of the labyrinth of Gare Montparnasse’s Metro trails, when we encountered a xylophone player playing
in one of the hallways. Mimicking Nigel’s support of the arts earlier that day on the Metro, I dropped a handful of
centimes into the musician’s case. (The French franc was divided into centimes much like our dollar is divided
into cents.) Emerging above ground near the hotel, we headed off in search of a delectable Parisian dinner. We found a quaint
place called Le Bistrot de la Gaite. The food was tres magnifique. We opted for the pris fixe, which is one
fixed price for the whole meal. For a set price of 180 francs per person ($33), we had our choice of appetizer, which the
French refer to as entrée, choice of main course, called plats, and choice of dessert, which is still as sweet
in any language. (Forgivez-moi, s’il vous plait!) Included was a bottle of wine for the table; it was a Bordeaux,
I believe. The bottled water cost extra, and bottled water was the only water I ever saw served anywhere in Paris.
After our rather late dinner, which we discovered was very Parisian of us since the French do everything later in the evening,
we dashed back to the hotel, so we could shower and change for our night of dancing. Dressed and ready to go, we went down
to the lobby to meet our taxi. But, before we left the hotel, I noticed there was a performance-art attraction going on: ME!
The members of that night’s lobby-audience evidently had never seen a hairy-legged man in a very short skirt before.
Well, the legs ARE quite nice, after all. Already accustomed to small-minded Americans being shocked by my skirt, I was somewhat
taken aback by the reaction. I consoled myself with the fact that we were in a hotel and that surely these provincials were
tourists. Where was Jean Paul Gaultier when I needed him?
We escaped the glare of attention into the backseat of the taxi, and we were soon queens at Queen, at 102 Avenue de Champs
Elysees. We arrived at about 2:15 AM, and the street was bustling with people. As we made our way from the taxi to the club,
it seems I was destined to turn yet more heads that evening. This time I elicited whistles and catcalls. I seems fashion and
beauty are to be vocally appreciated all the world over; or, at least I think they were appreciative. We stepped up to the
door, were whisked right in, and paid our 100 francs ($18). This included our first drink, which would end up being our only
drink. The club was smaller than I had anticipated, but the energy level was all that I had expected. I noticed that there
was no VIP room at the club. VIP rooms must be terribly American. We obtained our cocktails, drank them swiftly, and headed
for the dance floor. The music was great. It was wordless music. After a bit, a drag queen came to the little stage adjacent
to the dance floor. Miss Flawless-Drag-Thing was American and spoke English to the crowd. After she did her little bit, three
hunky boys in teeny-weeny, square-cut swimsuits came and danced behind her. After a while, she left the stage, leaving the
boys to bump and gyrate, much to the crowd's apparent amusement. The boys, at various times, would pull down the back of their
suits and shake their delicious derrieres toward the sweaty dancing crowd. The boy in the center pulled the front of his suit
down far enough for us to see the base, and some of the shaft, of his penis. At some point during the trio’s routine,
another drag queen came to the dance floor in a strapless, one-piece swimsuit, equipped with what appeared to be a harness
used for repelling. A thick, knotted rope, which was hanging from the bar’s ceiling, was brought to this queen at Queen,
and she quickly climbed up the knots. One she was some distance from the floor, she hooked herself to some suspended straps.
While the boys continued their hot, slutty little dance number below her, Miss Acrobatic Drag began to spin and spin, around
and around, secured by her harness and straps. Her wig never moved one millimeter on her head, and every single hair remained
in place, despite her gymnastic fervor.
After dancing a while longer, all the while observing the floorshow in progress, we left the dance floor to get a drink
and to cool off in the bar’s entryway. Since we were so hot and sweaty—suede and vinyl, chic as they may be, made
dancing quite a sticky affair—we decided to cool off first and drink second. Nigel’s hands seemed to delight in
the fact that the g-string left my fuzzy butt bare under my skirt. We drew smiles and stares from the nearby club queens.
It felt like we were enacting a love scene for some fabulous French film—Trouffout maybe? Malle perhaps? I played the
Catherine Deneuve character, naturally. It was about 4:30 AM when we left the club, and it was more crowded when we left than
when we had arrived. So many dance numbers, so little time; whatever, Mary, I was exhausted.
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 6TH, 1998: At some point that morning, I was vaguely aware of Nigel getting out of bed. I
was so tired—jet lag catching up?—that I merely rolled over and continued sleeping. Once or twice after realizing
he’d left, I groggily raised my head to look at the digital clock on the television set. The time was presented in a
twenty-four hour format, and each time I looked, I was too disoriented to figure out what time it actually was—not that
I cared, since I was so enjoying my sleep. On one of these clock-encounters, I noticed that Nigel had left me a note on his
pillow, informing me that he had gone to a music museum and that he would be back later. After reading his note, I lay back
and happily returned to the charms of le Sandman.
The next thing I knew it was 5:30 PM, and Nigel had just returned from his outing to the museum, somewhere in northeastern
Paris. I showered and readied myself for an afternoon and evening in Paris. We took the six line from the nearby station to
the Tour Eiffel/Bir Hakeim station and walked the short distance to the Seine. At various points along the river, there are
walkways that follow the curve of the water. These walkways are called quais. Along the quai, we looked for a boat ride on
the river. We choose Bateaux Parisien. It was a one-hour ride from the Eiffel Tower to the Ile de la Cite, where we had previously
seen Notre Dame, then around the adjacent, smaller Ile St. Louis, and back to the tower. The ticket cost fifty francs ($9).
Before boarding the boat, we purchased sodas from a machine—I chose ‘Coca cola light’, diet Coke, for a
ten-franc coin, about $1.80. The ship we boarded was named the ‘Catherine Deneuve’—my, there’s that
name again. The boat had little handheld translator devices built into the seats that explained the various sights we saw
along the way. Between the informative little speeches, the boat would play some typical French music—like Yves Montand
and Edith Piaf. It was all very charming.
From our bateaux perch, we were provided glimpses of the virtual heart of Paris. The tour voice informed us that we would
be passing under twenty-one bridges along our river voyage. We sailed along west, past the Invalides, where Napoleon is entombed.
Just as we passed the Invalides, the sheer enormity that is the Louvre museum loomed into view. The Louvre is a former palace,
and its huge horseshoe shape is overwhelming in its size. On one hand I can envision it as enormous palace playground of time
gone by—skipping gaily to and fro’ through the many lavish hallways and receiving rooms, amidst much royal finery.
On the other hand, I can envision it as its modern day counterpart—an endless hallway and receiving room of unending
artworks. I love art in my life, but it would take at least a week of six-hour days to see everything in this monster of a
museum. Maybe on my third trip to Paris I would do the museums, but certainly not on my first visit. There is so much to see
in the streets of any big city, especially in one as old and historic as Paris, that my first visits to any city are never
consumed with waiting in lines and spending my time indoors looking at walls, regardless of what masterpieces may be hanging
on said walls.
Meanwhile, back on the quais along the Seine, and on the steps leading down to them, we saw a rich and varied slice of
Paris’ daily life. Many couples kissing and holding hands. A few individuals and couples were eating on the edge of
the quais, or under tress that dotted the way. One young lady was sitting halfway down the steps, casually filing her nails.
Tourists everywhere had their cameras in hand. As we came upon the Ile de la Cite, we saw on the island the Conciergerie,
where Marie Antoinette was imprisoned prior to her execution. Just east on the island is another view for us of grand-dame
Notre Dame. We circled the island and headed back to the Eiffel Tower. The second bridge of the three connecting Ile St. Louis
to the Right Bank is called the Pont Marie, which is called by some the most romantic bridge in Paris. The tour voice enlightened
us to the fact that legend has it that when lovers close their eyes, kiss and make a wish, while going under the bridge, their
wishes would come true.
Disembarking at our point of origin, we were, again, near the Eiffel Tower. At two bridges east of the tower is the tunnel
where Princess Diana was killed. We had just gone under the bridge twice on our riverboat cruise. The area above the tunnel,
the Place de l’Alma, has a golden metal replica of the flame of the Statue of Liberty. It was around this flame that
people had created a shrine in those days following Diana’s death. At this flame, people have left copious amounts of
flowers, photographs of Diana, letters to her, poems about her, and have filled the place with graffitied, grief-filled messages.
I don’t know if the shrine has continued from that fateful day she died, or whether it was crowded with these memorial
tokens since we were there just days after the one-year anniversary of the car wreck. After paying our respects at the now
hallowed place, we walked a bit east down the Seine, then we Metro-ed, on the number eight line, the short distance across
the river over to the Rue de Faubourg-St. Honore, on, and around which, many chi-chi ateliers are located. Coco, we’re
coming, honey!
We came above ground at the northeast corner of the Place de la Concorde. Here is where Marie Antoinette lost her head
to the bloody French Revolution in the late 1700’s—and her husband, King Louis XVI, before her, and countless
hundreds after her. As we were nearing the mothership of all Chanel boutiques, at 31 rue Cambon, we heard singing coming from
a little Catholic church on a corner. Mass was in progress, so we joined the small group of people gathered around the front
door and listened to the music for a while. By the time we got to this tony area of town, the boutiques were closed. Undeterred,
we scurried to Chanel and peered into the windows of the shop where ‘Mademoiselle’ used to hold court. Through
the closed black iron gates, I snapped a leaf off one of the two little trees on either side of the entrance to the boutique.
Then Nigel and I walked down the Rue de Faubourg-St. Honore and window-shopped.
By this point, we were both hungry, so we chose a charming little restaurant, called Le Dauphin, and we had a sumptuous
dinner at one of their outdoor tables. (The dauphin was the male heir to the French throne.) It was another pris-fixe menu,
comparable to Saturday’s dinner prices. For my ‘entrée’ I chose the escargot; I just love those things!
Toward the end of our meal, four people sat near us and had dessert. We could tell they were Americans by their Southern accents.
One of the four, a woman, got up to photograph the other three. I offered to take a picture of all four of them, and the lady
with the camera thanked me before joining her companions. Commenting on her Southern accent, I asked where she was from, and
she replied that she was from Memphis, Tennessee. I exclaimed to them that it sure was a small world, just as I had the day
prior to Nigel’s friend, since I was born in Clarksville, Tennessee, which isn’t too awfully far from Memphis.
I snapped the photograph for them, and they shortly left. After our scrumptious dinner, we strolled to the nearby Louvre.
It is a beautiful sight to walk inside its courtyard while it’s lit so beautifully at night. We walked up to I.M. Pei’s
monumentally modern glass pyramid, which is smack in the center of the Louvre’s horseshoe design, and placed our hands
against the clear, cool-to-the-touch, glass structure. Cool!
From the Louvre, we crossed the Seine over the Pont du Carrousel bridge on to Paris’ Left Bank. On the Left Bank
are the Universities—the Sorbonne, the College de France, and the Lycee Louis le Grand (with Victor Hugo, Moliere, Robespierre,
and Pomidou as graduates, and Sartre as an instructor) to name just a few of the schools and universities located in the Left
Bank. Just before going underground at the Place de St. Germaine-des-Pres Metro station, Nigel and I walked past that famed
restaurant, Les Deux Magots, which is the very heart of that Gertrude Stein-Pablo Picasso-Earnest Hemingway, turn of the century-and-beyond,
intellectual Paris. I could almost feel the ex-patriot movement in the air. I wondered where in Paris Josephine Baker and
her infamous banana skirt made their controversial debut. I could easily envision it being nearby, in the heart of this Left
Bank mentality.
From St. Germaine-des-Pres, Nigel and I Metro-ed directly back to the hotel on the number four line. Once there we headed
to the hotel’s piano bar for a drink. Not wanting to even see another eleven-dollar cocktail, I ordered a Coca cola
light to accompany Nigel’s Bailey-on-the-rocks. When the drinks and the check arrived, I couldn’t resist examining
the prices. My bottle of diet coke was $7. Vive la difference indeed! Let’s just pray that this pricey shot of
caffeine doesn’t interfere with Sleeping Beauty’s nocturnal slumber.
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 7TH, 1998 (Labor Day): We awoke early, as Nigel had the drudgeries of work to perform that
day. He had a little, light breakfast in one of the hotel’s restaurants; I had only coffee, since I was planning to
eat later in the day, along my way around the streets Paris—a creperie maybe. The coffee I was served there on the second
floor of Le Meridien was the biggest cup I’d yet been offered in France. Every other coffee I’d ordered was in
the smallest of cups. Continually, I had been left wanting more. Also, that morning at the hotel, I was offered free refills
(!) on my big cup of coffee, yet another thing I hadn’t seen anywhere around town. As per usual, I spied the bill when
it came to the table, and my coffee was $6! Again, Nigel's company came to the rescue.
With the boyfriend firmly posited in his taxi, I began my single, solitary day in Paris. First on my agenda was the Pere
Lechaise cemetery. I went underground at the good ol’ Montparnasse station and took the six line around the southeast
part of the city. I transferred at the Nation station and caught the number two northward a few stops to the cemetery. Scores
of famous and infamous people are entombed at Pere Lechaise, and I’d been wanting to visit it for a long, long time.
Cemeteries are a peaceful and reflective activity for me, regardless where I am. It was a gray-skied, rainy morning in
northeastern Paris—a perfect day for winding my way through so many beautifully wrought tombs, mausoleums, and shrines.
I had purchased a map of the cemetery at a little newsstand just outside the cemetery walls. It was somewhat difficult to
find some of the graves I wanted to see, owing to the closeness of each grave to the next, and the variety of grave shapes
and sizes, but that made the visit more interesting and allowed me to see more of the individual monuments. During my commune
with the dead this day, I saw many final resting spots: Sarah Bernhart; Oscar Wilde; Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas, buried
together; Edith Piaf; Modigliani; Moliere; Yves Montand and Simone Signoret, together; Jim Morrison; Isadora Duncan; and Abelard
and Heloise, together, whose letters to one another during the Middle Ages I had covered in a literature class the previous
summer.
Isadora Duncan, that revolutionary, tragic American dancer, was cremated, and her ashes were placed in a niche at the cemetery’s
columbarium. Isadora is on a second story, on a bottom row. I climbed the little metal steps and saw, in front of her niche,
that someone had placed a pencil sketch on a piece of white paper, approximately six-by-eight inches in size and left it as
an offering to Isadora’s memory. The drawing was of a faceless female figure, wearing a transparent, free-flowing costume,
with her arms flailing in the air--a la Isadora. At the bottom of the sketch, the author had written "Isadora, la mere de
la modern danse," the mother of modern dance. It was a very lovely tribute. So lovely in fact that I surreptitiously placed
it in my Kenneth Cole bag. My philosophy was that someone else would have eventually taken it and that no one else would’ve
appreciated it like I would. I’ve often walked passed the building in San Francisco where she was born; there is a plaque
on the building, which informed me of such. I’ve read her sad and fascinating autobiography, Isadora, and I’ve
now been to her final resting-place. And, in my opinion, no better a cemetery could have been chosen for her—or for
anyone, for that matter. Also, on my grave-robbing adventure this day, I took a rock from atop Gertrude Stein’s monument,
which someone had carefully placed there among several other stones. It is a very intriguing rock—I think it’s
a fossilized something or other. Subsequent to my weekend, I’ve been told that the Jews don’t bring flowers to
their dead, they bring rocks, which I thought was an enchanting idea.
To counter-balance my innocent and reverent grave-robbing exploits, I had been very respectful to a funeral party that
passed me in the center of the cemetery that day, as I was finding my way from Bernhart to Wilde at the beginning of my cemetery
adventure. In a grand, Southern gesture of respectful mourning, I walked over to, and stood under, a nearby tree and let the
funeral party pass. First was what I supposed to be the widow, followed by a handful of people here and there. My respects
paid, I continued my journey through the dead. Ahead, I heard a stone being moved against another stone just before I walked
upon two graveyard workers entombing a coffin. It must’ve been the dearly departed of the group I’d just seen.
I wished his spirit well and continued about my pilgrimage.
Nearing the cemetery’s main gate, just after Abelard and Heloise, I spied a cemetery toilette. Seizing the moment—I’d
been wandering the tombs for about 2.5 hours—I dashed in for an appointment with Mother Nature. In the men’s room
there were two urinals and a little room with a door. In this little room was what appeared to be a big wall-sized urinal,
with water running down its back wall. On its floor it had a rather large drain and two foot rests on either side of the drain.
I had read about ‘squats’ in one of my travel guides, and apparently a squat was exactly what I was staring at
in horror. Fortunately, I was called to do only Number One, so I was able to simply soak up this fascinating piece of local
color, without having to endure the indignity of actually having to use it.
From the cemetery, I used my tres handy Paris Visite pass to make my way to Versailles—that sumptuous former
royal palace on the southwest outskirts of Paris. From the cemetery I took the three line, which would take me to the RER
C line at the Pereire/Levallois station. (The RER lines are connected to Paris’ Metro, and they eventually go above
ground as they leave the city—the Metro for suburbanites.) After connecting with RER C at this station, I took it to
yet another station, near the Eiffel Tower, to board the final C line that would take me out to Versailles. The final leg
of this journey took about thirty minutes. This pilgrimage of mine from the cemetery to Versailles was my most involved with
the Metro system; it took two transfers.
The palace was about a ten-minute walk from the train station. Along the way, I stopped in a little shop to purchase a
map of the grounds of Versailles. My French was as limited as the little old lady shopkeeper’s English, so it was a
little slow-going getting my point across. The issue was resolved when she presented me a big booklet that was just what I
needed—it was twenty French francs ($3.50). The palace is a tremendous affair. A luxury fit for a king, which is exactly
what it was intended to be. King Louis XIV, the fabled Sun King, began creating Versailles in the 1660’s. By the time
Louis XVI and his wife, Marie Antoinette, reached the throne, the size of Versailles had grown considerably. Its scale is
quite impressive. But, since I had no interest in the palace itself, I hurriedly moved through the left-most palace gate into
the gardens behind it. I walked partially through, and away from, the expansive and lush palace gardens, which were resplendent
in numerous beautiful statues and several fountains, in addition to Versailles’ Grand Canal. Indeed it is grand too;
a mile-long, cross-shaped pool of water. And if one so desires, there are little boats in which one may navigate up and down
the canal. My interest, however, lay away from the palace and its gardens. A fifteen-minute walk from the big palace are two
smaller ones, the Grand Trianon and the Petite Trianon. The Petite Trianon is where Marie Antoinette would go when she grew
weary of court life at Versailles. It’s truly a tiny little palace. When her husband became king, he gave her the Petite
Trianon as a gift. Marie Antoinette promptly began to squander lots of French treasury money on renovating and redecorating
this little hideaway. When she became increasingly bored, she had built around the Petite Trianon a little hamlet—various
little village buildings, inhabited and worked by real peasants. The queen and her friends would stroll through this village
and amuse themselves by watching the laborers. On rare occasions, Marie Antoinette would don village attire and pretend that
she was doing some real work alongside the real workers. Delightful theatre in the raw for her, but, no doubt, real-life drudgery
for the other ‘actors’. Fifteen of the original buildings in this boutique hamlet still stand. After perusing
around the Petite Trianon, with its array of pavilions and pools, I ambled to the hamlet, le hameau de la reine. The little
buildings were rustic, charming, and folksy. Regardless of the Queen’s misguided royal intentions, this little ornamental
village must’ve been a place of solace for Her Majesty. I could only wish that these little buildings were open to the
public, so I could explore them in depth; but, alas, they were not.
After spending over two hours on the grounds of Versailles, I hurriedly walked the nearly thirty-minute walk back to the
train station. Before leaving the grounds, while walking amidst some statuary, I saw many rocks embedded in the earth. Some
of the rocks were white and appeared to be—in my vivid imagination anyway—the same type of stone as the statues
I was passing. I found an interesting looking one, freed it from the earth, and gave it to Kenneth for safekeeping. Near the
train station, I noticed what must be France’s equivalent to ‘Subway’ sandwich shops; earlier I had noticed
the store’s name somewhere in Paris. I hadn’t eaten all day long, so I went in for a tuna salad sandwich. Naturally,
being in France, the bread and cheese they used were delectable. After my snack, I caught the RER C going into Paris at about
4:30 PM.
Next, and last, on my solo Parisian adventure—for I had to meet Nigel at the hotel around 8:00 that evening—was
a new/used English language bookstore, called ‘Shakespeare and Co.’ The bookstore was on the rue de la Bucherie
just across the Seine from Notre Dame. From Versailles, I took the C directly to the St. Michel station, which was just blocks
from the bookstore. Also, I would use the same station to catch the number four back to the hotel. The bookstore was a failure.
The books were increasingly mixed with regard to category, biographies with fiction etc., and nowhere were the books arranged
alphabetically. I don’t even frequent bookstores like that in the States, so I sure wasn’t going to waste much
time in one while in Paris. Plus, their books were a bit over-priced; eight dollars seemed to be the minimum price for any
paperback that I found interesting. Also, the upstairs of the bookshop reeked terribly of cat urine.
Leaving the bookstore without a purchase in my hand and wondering why all the hoopla over this store, I stepped into the
street to wander around a bit before going to the hotel. It was a little after 6 PM, and the streets were bustling with people.
Many restaurants and vendors filled the streets in this part of town. Several of these establishments had, for lack of a better
term, ‘barkers’ at their front door, beckoning people to enter. It reminded me of the barkers I’ve seen
in New Orleans in the French Quarter. Still somewhat hungry, and lured by the smell of a Greek shop selling gyros on the street,
I purchased a falafel sandwich and ate it while strolling around the block. Coming to an intersection, which was very near
the Metro station, I paused to finish my sandwich. Across the street from where I was standing, I noticed a bookstore with
some books in English on their outdoor shelves. I finished my second meal in as many hours and crossed the street to the Gilbert
Jeune bookstore. Combing their selections in English, I saw a collection of eight short stories by Oscar Wilde. The book only
cost nine francs ($1.50), so I purchased one for me and one for Nigel. Since I had seen Oscar’s tomb earlier that day,
this was the perfect souvenir for my solo outing in Paris.
With my precious books in hand, I headed underground to take the number four back to the hotel. It was around 8:00 PM when
I reached our room, and Nigel hadn’t returned from work yet. I showered, put on my lounge duds, and reclined on the
bed for a leisurely wait. He arrived a bit after 9:00 PM, and we then set out in search of a wonderful dinner—our last
one in Paris.
After a bit of walking and people watching, we happened upon a nice little restaurant called Bouchon de la Grille. The
British waiter was very accommodating, and we had a scrumptious two-course meal with wine, plus dessert and coffee. Just like
our previous dinners in Paris this meal was pris-fixe as well. When the bill came, I divided by two and plunked down
240 francs ($44), which was the last of my French paper money. I simply had to insist that Nigel’s company not pay for
my last dinner. I had enjoyed their hospitality enough. Our journey for the perfect meal had taken us quite a way from our
hotel/beacon-in-the-night. So, gander at the locals I did. Parisians, I’d discovered, keep very late hours. And, still
we walked. Nestled back in the room, I placed my head on the soft pillow and awaited my last night of French sleep.
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 8TH, 1998: We awoke the next morning just in time for Nigel to have a quick pastry and some
cereal with coffee and orange juice. I was planning to eat something at the airport, so I just had another six-dollar cup
of coffee.
Since my plane didn’t leave until 12:55 PM, I saw Nigel safely off in his taxi to work and returned to the room to
leisurely pack my things. Well, as those things go, it took me a little longer than expected to pack, so I began to feel like
I was under the gun to get checked out of the hotel and get to the airport. As I checked just after 10:15 that morning, I
exchanged a fifty-dollar traveler’s check for 267 francs, so I could have some money for the airport.
From that oh-so-ubiquitous and handy Montparnasse Metro station, I took the number four to the Gare du Nord station, which
is where the Eurostar had brought me just a few days earlier. There, I switched trains and hopped on the RER B line, which
would take me all the way to Charles de Gaulle airport. The B train left Gare du Nord at about 11:20 AM and got me to the
airport just thirty-five minutes later, and this included a little shuttle ride from the airport’s Metro station to
the terminal I would be using. I would later learn from a lady on the flight out of Paris that she had taken an aboveground
airport shuttle van from her hotel to the airport, and that it had taken her over an hour-and-a-half. And she had paid a good
sum of money for this ‘convenience’. My fifty-four dollar, five-day/five zone Paris Visite pass had certainly
served me well on my Paris visite.
Customs and check-in again were easy for me when I left Europe, just as it had been when I entered. Being under the gun
as it were, I in fact didn’t have time to eat at the airport, or write, stamp, and mail my twenty postcards, as I had
originally planned. So, here I was at the gate, or satellite as the French call it, and I had over 250 spare francs. I went
to the only little shop in the area and tried to spend as much money as I could. I bought some Toblerone chocolate, a French
"Vogue" magazine, and a little, black plastic backpack with lots of gold lettering all over it. On the front is written ‘PARIS’
in big letters, and all over the rest of the bag in smaller letters are various section names of Paris, ‘Le Marais’,
‘Versailles’; various street names, ‘Champs Elysees’, ‘St. Germaine des Pres’; and various
structure names, ‘Notre Dame’ and ‘Tour Eiffel’. The bag was 100 francs ($18), and, since I was trying
to spend money like a drunken sailor on half-price whore night, I splurged on myself and got myself this final totally frivolous
souvenir. At a bar area in the satellite, I bought two bottled waters, and then I boarded my flight with a fifty-franc note
and some fifty-eight francs in coins. So, for my next trip over, I have about twenty dollars in francs already at my disposal.
That’s at least enough to get into ‘Queen’ on my next visit.
The flight travelling back to the States went backwards in time, as it were. I left Paris at roughly 1:00 PM their time,
and after a six-and-a-half hour flight, I arrived at Washington D.C.’s Dulles airport at only 3:15 PM their time—only
a little over two hours according to the Eastern Time Zone, but not according to the Tod Time Zone. I was tres fatigued.
At Dulles, customs was, customarily, a cinch for me. Evidently, rules dictate that incoming intercontinental passengers must
retrieve their own bag from the incoming flight’s carrousel, then put the bag on a conveyer belt, headed off to the
next flight. With my suitcase safely on its way home, I spent my hour-and-a-half layover browsing the newsstands, where I
purchased a "W" magazine; even though I wasn’t in Paris any more, I couldn’t let my fashion sense lapse. I spied
a Starbucks, where I had my first big cup of coffee in what seemed to be ages. I was feeling a little depressed about having
to leave Paris in the first place, so I needed a caffeinated pick-me-up. You see, in my very rich and extremely vivid fantasy
life, I had envisioned that I’d never leave France once there. I’d see Jean Paul Gaultier at the dance club on
Saturday night, and he’d remember how cheeky I’d been with him when we first met, late in the summer of ’91,
in Sonoma County, California. He’d absolutely fall in love with this "beautiful face that you’ve brought to Paris,"
and he’d instantly insist that I start walking his runway immediately.
Well, that’s how it was supposed happen anyway. Walking along my concourse at Dulles, I encountered one slouchy,
dumpy, middle-aged matron after the other, clad in their ubiquitous uniform: black, stretched-to-the-max leggings; some tired
little athletic shoe; and an ill-fitting pull-over sweatshirt, complete with some inane little saying on the front, like a
sporting logo for example. My perfect little Parisian fantasy was falling apart right before my very eyes. These poorly postured,
unimaginative eyesores, complete with their equally unappealing husbands and children, were like a visual, cultural slap in
the face, bringing me back to my immediate, unfortunate reality. I was back in America, land of the free, and home of the
brave. I was home all right. These people were brave and free! Brave enough to feel free enough to present such an unattractive
image to the world. Mon dieu! So, bid farewell to Europeans and their matter-of-factness, their old-world style, and
their flair while conducting their daily lives; and say "hello" to the good ol’ US of A and our uptightness, lack of
imagination, and our intense, hurried way of life.
I boarded my plane and had a quiet 3.5-hour flight back home. I arrived in Denver at about 6:30 PM. I waited a few minutes
for my suitcase at the luggage-go-round; always an unsure, frightening time for me. Bag retrieved, I then rolled myself and
my bag the distance to my car. I had just enough American cash to pay the $36 for parking. I returned to the States with $150
in travelers’ checks; I’d spent about $450 during my European vacation, $90 per day. When I got home I was exhausted
and numb from all I’d seen and done in such a short amount of time. I kept myself awake until about 11:30 PM, so I wouldn’t
wake up too early the next morning, since my body was still on Paris time. I took a melatonin and an Ambien and settled down
for a delicious, familiar sleep in my very own bed. It had been six days since I’d been in my comfy bed and been enveloped
by my voluminous down comforter and lain my head on my cradle-of-down pillow. Needless to say, I certainly miss my own bed
whenever I’m away from it.
AFTERWORD
Wednesday was spent in an ‘oh-hell-I’m-back’ haze and also spent dealing with my body’s adjustment
to the different time zone. I was increasingly growing accustomed to the fact that indeed I did leave Paris, the city of my
dreams, and come back my ‘real world’ city of Denver. Previously, I had gotten my Wednesday and Thursday shifts
covered at work because I knew it would be a period of adjustment for me. So, fortunately, I was afforded the time to acclimate
back into my old schedule. I had time to digest everything I’d absorbed in the wonderful whirlwind weekend in Europe.
All day Thursday was spent in a major funk. I had seen so much in the world that I’d never seen before, and
now I was itching to see more. What’s that old World War II song? "How Are You Gonna Keep The Boy Down on the Farm,
After He’s Seen Gay Paris?"—or something like that. Well, Paris has had this effect on people for ages, so I’m
just one of the many that are held under her spell. That song definitely hits this nail squarely on the head, since this farm
boy is definitely ‘chomping at the bit’ to plow those Parisian streets once again.
FINIS
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