Egg cream waterfalls finally fueled the creation of this effing post from France. Oui, I told everyone and their grandma how I’d be blogging about all my adventures. Oui, I’ve been in Europe for 57 days and nights without a blog in sight. Oui, but none of that matters. Here it is, right here, right now. BAM!
Let’s dive right in then, shall we? Thus far I have spent every weekend in Paris, save for once on the coast of Basse-Normandie. I like to begin the weekends with a pint of Guinness at Coq & Bulldog Pub in the 9e. It’s just a stone’s throw from Saint Lazare, the train station to which I arrive in Paris from Rouen. The pub was unusually busy this Friday night due to a spirited combination of Rugby World Cup* and a going-away bash for one of the regulars. I chatted with Sacha for a bit before going outside to compliment Iky on his rude boy letterman jacket. Sacha is the owner of the bar; super nice guy from Manchester, England. Iky is a very tall Frenchman with deep roots in Paris. He plays organ for a French ska band called 8º6 Crew. A couple weekends back Iky had mentioned the band, right after I’d requested some ska tunes in the pub. This weekend he asked if I had looked them up, to which I confessed that I’d forgotten the band’s name. He immediately went to his car and grabbed me three black and white band stickers so I’d have a harder time forgetting to look them up. It worked too; I youtube’d 8º6 Crew later that night, eating salami before falling asleep at my flat.
I had a Pimm’s cup after the Guinness, but I might as well have been drinking an intergalactic mixture from Mars. Everyone inquired about it and wanted a taste. I probably had two sips in the end. Similarly to everywhere else, Pimm’s is largely unheard-of and I don’t understand why; it is superb! A guy from Holland asked if it had alcohol in it. Fatou, my friend from Paris via Senegal, thought it was lemonade. Since everyone drank my Pimm’s, the Dutchman bought me another Guinness. I went outside and sat with a couple from central England. We discussed the U.K., Voltaire, visas, mercury poisoning, felted beaver hats, Pastis, and art in Paris. We decided to meet up the next evening for La Blanche Nuit, an annual event where Paris stays awake all night and hosts public art exhibitions.
On Saturday, I bummed around some cafes and wrote in my notebook. At L’Eclair I watched a hobo braid his dog’s dreadlocks as I tried not to barf into my coffee. Ate what I eat every day, sometimes thrice a day– bread, butter, and cheese. Found a thrift store where they weigh your shopping bag and charge by the kilo. It was a gold mine! Fur coats, peacoats, raincoats, Chuck Taylor’s in every color/size, plaid on plaid on plaid, felt hats, French P.E. uniforms, denim-anything your heart wants, plus denim-everything your heart doesn’t want such as denim cowboy hats, acid-washed denim blouses, and cow print denim pants. The music was impressive as well, a smooth blend of Brazilian samba and twangy Dolly Parton-style 70’s jams. I wanted everything, even the cow print denim, but I was only midday exploration decided to forgo acquiring luggage. I tipped my invisible denim cowboy hat to the doorman (who was wearing an eggplant purple velvet pantsuit) and pressed on to the next joint.
It was only about a ten minute walk to L’Attirail Cafe. When Owen and Gareth visited Paris last spring, I asked O-money to leave something around Paris for me to find. Reportedly it was left at L’Attirail. When I went, it was quite busy in the front, and occupied but less crowded in the back. I grabbed a table and started scanning the walls. Every wall was covered with passport photos, mugshots, polaroids, id cards and random pieces of shit. Really ’twas awkward to scan the walls so closely, because there were people sitting at tables between me and every wall. There I was, just hanging about by myself, eatin’ a plate of toll-free fried potatoes and sippin’ on a cuba libre, invading the space of French socializers. People were put off by it, judging from the evil stares I got. How dare them! French people are seasoned space invaders. Why should they care if my legs accidentally graze their elbows as I search the walls. I’m not judging them while they sit there sipping fun-size pints of Kronenbourg. I’m just minding my own beeswax, perusing the crap on the walls for a treasure. How rude! Anyway, I decided to call off the search once the French frowns sucked the fun out of my scavenger hunt. I never found whatever I was looking for. I wouldn’t be surprised if there wasn’t even anything left there for me to find. Seems like a joke I would fall into. Anyway, I’ll probably go back since they give away free potatoes.
After L’Attirail I walked around more. And more. And more. I had an hour to kill before meeting up with this dude I met the weekend prior at 96 Cafe in the 5e. We chatted about TED talks, and musical theatre, how much he loved Mamma Mia and La Cage aux Folles. To be completely honest, I thought he was gay and therefore completely uninterested in me romantically. So I suggested we go check out some jazz together one night, and that night ended up being Saturday. We were meeting up around Rue des Lombards. Since I had an hour, I got myself a nutella banane crepe to fill the hole in my heart as I watched England drop out of the London World Cup. I guess I follow rugby since moving to France. How did this happen???
So I met up with this dude and after about ten minutes we realized our expectations didn’t jive. He told me how disappointed he was, which made me want to crawl inside a warm tortilla and eat myself for dinner. I felt really bad. But seriously… the guy was 43. When he asked my age and I told him 24, his response was “wow, that old huh? I guessed you were about 18.” Suddenly I could taste the crepe. Brainstorming how I could get out of this “date” vibe but still finish my drink, I offered to be his wingman and he accepted. All was fine. The next day, I walked maybe 10km back and forth around Paris. From my flat in the 7th arrondissement over to Saint-Germain, across la Seine to la Bastille, all the way to Père-Lachaise, the largest cemetery in Paris, where hella cool peeps** are buried. It was closed, so I went to the jardin next door, sat under some trees, whipped out my notebook, and wrote about being mad that the cemetery was closed.
Then I walked to Le Comptoir Général. It was there that I found an old lady dripping in faux jewels and selling weird stuff like costume jewelry, smelly old tobacco tins, melted chocolates, suspenders, petrol posters, and little bags of… well I don’t really know what the bags were full of… But I wanted one. It seemed like some voodoo shit, resin lumps, dead lady bugs, colored fleks, and dried up herbs. I couldn’t ask her what type of herbs because my French is absolute shit. I asked her how much for the littlest bag and all I got back was a shrug. She emerged from a little pink chair that had a permanent imprint of her body in the cushion, grabbed the shelf of mysterieux sacs and poked around for some price tags. She shrugged again, stuffed the bag into my hand and winked at me. The lady kind of looked like a shriveled up Liza Minelli but with translucent orange hair and melting blue eyeliner. I winked back at her. Just kidding, but that would have been cool. I thanked her and curtsied. Kidding again, I only thanked her. But I am gonna bring the courtsy back.
Then I caught the 21h20 train back to Normadie sweet Normandie and called it a weekend. I love Paris! Ooooh shit, I forgot to write about La Blanche Nuit…… Goddammit. Oh well, who cares. Here are some links if you’re HUNGRY FOR MORE:
*Side note: The Friday night game was New Zealand vs. Georgia and in case you weren’t already aware, NZ owned. Mad love to my kiwis!
**I’m hurrying through this post now because I have to catch the bus to campus. Google the cemetery to see which hella cool peeps be dead there.
Double Agent Archives 
What an incredible adventure. So many people to meet, so many things to see- and you’re the best person to appreciate it all to the fullest. Also, that second hand shop sounds like HEAVEN- cow print pants and all. Thanks for the update 🙂
Thank you Edith Beavers VonTezultug. I carry you in my heart always, especially on hard days. Today for example, I accidentally took my boss’ car keys with me to school, so she missed half a day of work. I felt like crying, but instead I thought of a a certain little someone with a rabbi haircut, doing taekwondo to tune of “The Devil Went Down to Georgia”. Memories of you are my xanax. Miss ya!
Fabulous tour, chloe! Take me on more and more! Love your style, girl!
Merci beaucoup, and merci for bothering me about getting a start.