Travel: France : Paris

Bonjour McCountry! Live from Gay Paree! (This entry is costing me a bottle of Bordeaux.) 7/9/04 05:40 pm 2004

The streets of Belleville were lined with food markets and outdoor fruit and fish hawkers. And while it is true that an Arabic man yelled at me for taking a picture of his curly cucumber (yes, he was selling vegetables) without realizing that I was appreciating the Thuluth calligraphy qualities of his legumes, another Arabic man in Marais sold me mutton pitas and falafels, punctuating each sentence with "darling."

Now let me make this clear. No man has ever called me darlin before. No man has ever called me "princess" either. Well, if I have to get filled with chick peas to hear favorite terms of endearment, I say, why. not.?

The streets of Chateau Rouge were lined with Algerians and butcher shops selling macabre scalped hoods of cows on shelves while people queue out the door. The police were randomly stopping people on the streets asking for identity cards and passports while onlookers hope for a failure-to-produce and the subsequent spectacle of watching someone get hauled off to the paddy wagon. A taxi crashed into a turning motorcycle rider and a loud argument ensues. People now gather around this brand new spectacle hoping for a free show. I look at the delicious anticipation on their faces, the same faces that will be pouring tears and crying on the 6pm news if an angry motorist should pull out a gun and accidentally send one of their children to the morgue.

The Chinatown on the left bank was infinitely moe lively than the one at Metiers. On the eve of Bastille Day, they lazily set off firecrackes that sounded louder than anyone else's around town. Back at the Marais, kids are running between cars stuck in traffic, laughing and shouting in the electricity of a day off for Independence. I checked into the Banana Bar, which turned out to be a gay joint for the straight girl. Boyfriends stand by as if their gals were shopping for dresses, but in this case, it is hot muscular go-go boys dancing on bartops. As they gawk and nod unlistened, the men in their lives try to keep and open mind and make passing comments that show how it is ok for a straight man to admie another man.

We all want to repeat heroic romantic lines about loving something enough to set it free. But love is like a kite line. It may look like a calm day. But we often underestimate the winds up there, and the line snaps the moment it gets caught in the gusts. The happy ending to the story was that they he eventually got her back. Okay okay, so she still turned an looked at the guys abs when her bf was patting his pockets for the keys. Who knows?...maybe he was just pretending to be her boyfriend so the gay club would allow him to enter.

Many dance clubs in Paris won't allow in men who are alone. But underneath that notice, it says, "Ladies get in free." Makes me feel really loved.

I was scrambling around all day yesterday trying to make it to The Marais on time. My French is nonexistent horrible....meaning it is better than my Portuguese. Happily, beer is 12% alcohol. (Frank, Boobsie, are you paying attention?) So I just blurt it out, dotted with copious servings of Pardon, and sil vous plaits.

The proprietor of the place I am staying at almost knocked me out cold with the amount of cologne he was wearing. I guess it is true what they say about countries being good at creating things they lack. Wines took the place of undrinkable water, perfume took the place of baths. Having gone through times of famine, the Chinese can make even a table taste like chicken, as another example. I guess that's why the Americans are so good at making very very -ahem...big things.

I saw a girl who looked like a flash young Kyoko Fukada climbing all over a very dorky plain white male this morning below Les Halles. Now I know I talk about inner beauty and what's inside that counts. But really, I'm sorry, this was even too much for me. I almost feel that by association, I am dragged into having such unbelievably low standards. It was embarrassing. How do you say "Girlfriend, have some respect for yourself. You can do way way better than this" in French?

Notre Dame is huge. I feel bad for the people who go there to get peace. It's a thousand tourists' flashbulbs going off per second. Did anyone ever tell them that it's not possible to capture the detail of stain glass with a pocket camera flash from...oh 800 FEET AWAY!!!?

Ironically the most peaceful place in Notre Dame is outside the church.

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Getting Worked at a Club 7/10/04 05:54 pm 2004

I walked along the Concorde in the sunny summer drizzle yesteray afternoon. Then I watched the students come out at the Louvre before heading for the Champs Elysses. The Marais is full of gay men sitting in front of café sipping coffee or wine. I am not one to drink in bars alone, as I am always on the move. The Eiffel tozer looked gorgeous in the evening dusk. At eleven, we were all treated to a blinking light show that sparkled the entire tower. I was riding high on a bottle of good Bourdeaux and a few slices of Edam cheese. A French girl was wistfully watching the display and I asked her to snap my pic as I jumped up and clicked my sneaker heels. She laughed and now I was on my way to the Rex club for techno night, Automatik.

A man struck up a conversation with me outside on line and he started bemoaning how one has to try his best to strike up conversations with girls on the queue so they could "appear" to be together, and the bouncers would let them in. It seems this sexual discrimination is rampant in the straight clubbing scene. He is extremely bitter. Gee, how could such a system foster bitter men you ask? I have no clue.

Inside, he was throwing quotations of August Strindberg at me. He is a stage actor. He has been unsuccessful with women. He says he's angry. Then he turned around and got close and he said, "with your glasses, shirt, and wool cap, do you know you look like a serial killer?"

Then to that, he added, "Sometimes, I'm thinking maybe I should turn gay."

I told him that he should not turn gay because of bitterness, frustration and anger. The gay world doesn't need another bitter gay man. Turn gay because of happiness, joyfulness, and love. We could use a few more of those.

Anyway I told him he's a good looking guy and he's still young. "Don't sweat it." I shrugged. Then I got up, sashay my serial-killing butt over to a half dozen fantastic looking girls and boogeyed down. The most attractive-looking one kept on getting closer and stealing glances from under her perfect hair which swept pass over her eyes. I enjoyed dancing together, but I'm afraid that was all I could offer her. I was so happy, I considered turning straight.

It was dawn when I decided I had enough of the Electro they were spinning. Outside on Blvd Poissoiére, there was a dress reheasal procession of literally 1000 fully attired soldiers in fantastically turned out thoroughbreds clopping dozn the Boulevard in formation. Horsey people would get a heart attack at the fabby horsies. So I sat on an electrical box and watch them go by.

Today, I dragged my carcass over to the Picasso Museum, and wowed at the Edouard Boubat photos at the Museum of European Photographie.

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Dinner Along The Seine 7/15/04 11:52 am

I had a quiet, wonderful dinner outdoors, along the banks of the Seine at a French restaurant serving Bouef Bouurignon, and a carafe of Cote du Home. The affair started with a traditional glass of kir, but I forego the oft rich dessert. True, I wanted to try the Cuisses de Grenuilles, but everywhere I asked for leads, the locals just laugh, embarassed, and profess ignorance. I thought I should try it prepared the correct way, because it MUST be really good, otherwise, how could one explain it?

I went to the fashion museum, and that fortified my knowledge of dress preservation and storage. I reclined on a garden seat on Jardin Tuilleries to laze the afternoon away. Montparnasse is a perfect place for window shopping and their lingerie boutiques is fine and understated. Montmartre is the life size actuation of New Orleans, with it's grand cemetery of dead white poets and dead white rock stars. I bypass wasting my time with that. After all, if one wanted to pay respects to the memory of a late artist, it is in his or her works that we should revel, not their compost.

The new edition of the Arc de Triomphe is the La Defense Arch. It is down at the other end of the Champs d'Elysses. It is gigantic, cubicle, and leaves a great open space. I think it attmpts to capture the granduer of the architecture of the golden days, primarily, the notion of occupying large spaces, but utilizing very little of it. Of course, that can't be said of King Louis and the roccoco age, but those guys were creeps anyway.

Pigalle proved to be sleazy and the Moulin Rouge is all lights, bells, and whistles, but I suspect inside, its just another tourist trap for unsuspecting Nicole Kidman fans. Busses line Boulevard de Clichy while tourist funnel in and out, hoping to see something that shall never live up to what lies in their imagination. I slum around looking for transvestite hookers and red light transactions, found none, and walked home and three in the morning.

This morning, after a hot shower, I climbed in my most horrible of clothes, with the possibility of sleeping in the streets of London tonight. Of course, as the last hole in the belt was buckled, I realized I still haven't popped in on the boys at the George V triangle, where all the haute couture boutiques line the streets.

I just want to make a correction. In my other entry, I said Parisians were looking at the Africans in the subway with a look of horror, which I caught in the reflection of the window. This was a parallax error, and I have discovered that that look of horror was actually in MY direction.

Epic staring contests can begin as far as three blocks away. On the George V triangle, this was certainly no exception. In front of the house of Givenchy, a well dressed man walk straight towards me, staring, and finally, we were face to face. Both refusing to budge, at a standstill. With an aplomb that Hubbie would appreciate, I begged his pardon while looking forward, and he moved out of the way. The rest of the folks, well, it's that sheer look of horror. As they get closer, they refuse to look away. So I continue training our eyes on each other. We approach and the distance closes. Their stars get increasingly horrific, and horrified. Mine increases accordingly in severity and intensity. And at last we are within spitting distance and the danger is clear and confirmed: THIS HOLE IN MY PANTS WAS THAT ACTUAL DEATH WISH GHETTO GANG THAT BROKE INTO YOUR HOME AND DID UNSPEAKABLE ACTS TO YOUR FAMILY WHILE YOU WERE AT WORK.

Yeah. That look.

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Chesspieces 7/12/04 10:51 pm

I hopped from my bedroom to Le Cox to Open Cafe and then Le Feeling, searching for mystical red biere (it turned out to be grenadine and strawberry schnapps and soda). I asked the bartender about Le Station, which used to be L'Arena. He made such a horrible face that I immediately marked it down on my to-do calender.

He gave me the thumbs up on Le Queen, which was where I was headed anyway. Home of the Disco Inferno, this spot did not disappoint. As I was shaking small booty, the crowd grew steadily and ominously. From the corner of my eye, I noticed a gorgeous femme boy who made no attempt to pass, but had long hair, lipstick, tight clothing, and a flat chest.

In a period of two hours, we moved like chess pieces closer and closer to each other. It was quite magical, now that I think about it: One person in between us sees a friend and runs off, shifting us one feet closer to each other. In the end, we were both standing side-by-side, getting down to the beat while half a thousand boys shook and rubbed before us below. I thought about how fantastically romantic it would have been to join hands finally and dance side-by-side. We kept on looking over at each other, smiling sultrily at each other. Finally, I reached over and in his ear, "You're sweet pretty."

Check-mate.

He had the upper hand now.

Suddenly he did everything to pal around, hug, chat, grind against, dance around with, accept drinks and distribute to everyone but me.

I shrugged. Well, there was a superb fabulous moment we had together for a second; and now, like everything else in life, it gets tucked away in the sands of time. I know when I am being pawned. I dance solo for the rest of the night, our ships had passes and now the search lights are off. Despite the fact that my moves continue to be erotic and sexually suggestive, my door had already been quietly closed. He tried to regain the dance of attention we were performing, but the chemistry had evaporated. The moment I go open up again; he'll go off.

Yeah. That game.

I just happen to think there's something vulgar and unrefined about a person (me) having to grovel for another one's attention. Attraction should be mutual. Anyone can chose to withdraw from gameplay.

My mood was effectively terminated when I went to the men's room and found myself in the middle of a lover's quarrel with a man beating up his boyfriend with punches to the eye socket. We all tried to find a way to stop him, but he was three times bigger in every direction. He stopped at the turnstile eventually. Back out on the floor, a woman was crying, pointing accusatorily at a man while bouncers tried to intervene. I coasted till dawn, then I hopped on the metro alongside yawning workers on the way off to starting their day. Nobody seemed to mind that my privates were about to bounce out of my soaked lowrider jeans. I closed my eyes, but when I unexpectedly flashed them open, I caught a trainful of Parisians glaring slack-jawed at me.

on to Paris Part II Museums

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