Man-Size (man_size) wrote,
Man-Size
man_size

Le Petite Paris – Part Four: Montmartre & Pigalle

Woke up to some good morning lovin’ with SBX and rubbed the sand from my eyes. Took a bath in a tub that I could lay down in while listening to the new BUSTA RHYMES album on my portable CD player. I sketched the backyard view [‘Allee de Pines’] while SBX got ready and we walked into town for a late breakfast where we met Jefferson, a snappy and semi-bitter 52-year old lawyer who wore jodhpurs and riding boots, and looked exactly like a gay Mel Brooks. He was sitting solo with his golden Labrador, finishing breakfast after a morning of riding his horses. He courted SBX and asked if she were American. She stated her royal lineage and pointed out the American in me. Hey, I only see America when I watch COPS or when the President delivers his State of the Union address. Otherwise, I’m strictly New York, kid! Jefferson got friendly quick. Turns out he made his Parisian exodus over 25-years ago and set up a clientele base for his practice. He spoke bitterly about France claimed its origins for Socialism. He felt stuck, caught in the crossroads, and couldn’t find his way back into the USA. Jefferson made a lot of poor excuses for why he couldn’t return to his roots and waxed Parisian philosophic, ultimately denouncing the culture. We discussed the French fashions and facade true Parisians employ and how precious space was; not a commodity to be bartered. How they bump into each other and smoke in people’s crowns with no regard or respect for their brother man. And, how important it was to look great, perhaps sexy, yet smell bad due to the perpetual rank of cigarette and espresso breath, and the lack of daily bathing. SBX noted that it was the French who invented perfume. Jefferson spoke of how snobbish and rude the French often were and how they don’t embrace other cultures, especially Americans. How they keep it close to the vest like a clan. At that point, Jefferson accidentally knocked over an empty wine glass to the floor and it smashed into a hundred pieces. The dog got scared and he mollycoddled his best friend. I got and paid the bill and we prepared to leave. I suggested Jefferson warn the waiter of the shattered glass and he said, “What do I care? This is not my home.” SBX noticed that his fly was open and, after some hesitation and a prod from me, kindly pointed at his zipper. Jefferson mistook the gesture for his jacket and zipped it up, walking away with his angry pud dangling for all of Paris to mock. A chuckled sigh of relief and we were on the metro to Montmartre.

SBX declined to take in a sex show or a cabaret at the Moulin Rouge in ye olde Red Light District of Pigalle, so we walked up many flights of exterior stairs to the top of Montmartre, taking in the rainy landscapes and sights. We stopped at the Place du Tertre where street artists of varying talents sketched quick caricatures and portraits of tourists for money. Even in the rain, they paved way for trade. We came upon Sacre-Coeur at the top of Montmartre and the clouds were torn wide open by a determined sun wanting to set sans storm. SBX and I admired the Eiffel Tower in the orange glow from afar and I so desperately wanted to kiss her. She was worried about getting sick and not being able to work and take care of her kids when she returned back to the USA, and it began to annoy me, this overtly cautious caveat, this lack of romantic impulse. We were in Paris and I wanted to kiss. No dice. SBX stood her ground. This stance would color the entire trip and frustrate me ~ to no end.

We walked back down the stairs and went shopping. I bought SBX a hot pink t-shirt with two fuzzy bunny rabbits snuggling for her to wear on New Year’s Eve in NYC. We found a place to rest our rears and drank café au lait and masticated awful, tourist quality, crepes. We wrote in our journals and watched the locals stumble by. We purposely went off trail and walked through a genuine neighborhood sans trendy hot spots, where cheese and chocolate shoppes were aplenty. SBX was sparkling in glee, basking in her two favorite delights. Vegetable stands featured cinemascope colored fruits, and the streets were so narrow, you had to march single file. We dipped into a bookstore where bandes-dessines [graphic novels] sections are popular among the French. SBX scored French fables and children’s books for her girls and bought me Anna Sommers’ BAIS DES BOIS collection. I got the splendid, mostly mute, oversized black & white comic, SIX CENT SOIXANTE SEIZE APPARITIONS de Killofer, for 25-Euros. We continued to stroll down the streets as stores began to close. I noticed another bookstore called ALBUM, and wondered what they might sell. SBX pointed towards the window display and discovered that it was filled to the gills with bandes-dessines. I was delighted to find ANOTHER comix shoppe filled with many great French comix, including translated editions of Marvel’s classic superhero icons.

We took the RER back to Maisons Lefitte where I finally got to meet Caroline, SBX’s old school chum, whose home we were crashing. Caroline hails from Wales and is 5-months pregnant with her second baby. She is married to a cuddly German named Torston, and they have a baby named Max. They met working in oil trade and now Caroline stays at home working full-time as house-wife/mother. SBX was semi-jealous of Caroline’s lifestyle, so I had to remind her how stir crazy SBX would get if she just puttered about the house all day every day, feeding and cleaning. SBX is an intellectual who needs a constant challenge beyond the domestic scope. We ate a tuna casserole with capers [not my cuppa] and played a great game of Scattagories. We had good fun and drank lots of wine from their wine cellar, easing our husks into the end of another night in Paris.
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