Paris, France: Part 1

Hello.

Hello.

Hellooooooh!

Oh hello there friend. Let us begin the story in Paris, France. I had arrived from Belgium around 10 pm, the others were waiting at Hotel Eiffel Tower. It was dark outside and I had never been to Paris. I was not afraid.

Do you remember Brussels, and the man who smiled?

Do you believe in angels? Maybe not with wings and halos, cherubs with pink cheeks and little harps. But the angels that are good and kind and huggable. Who have headwraps and thick Nigerian accents, or thin eyes with dark black make-up and LV bags on their wrists, or maybe faded blue jeans and graphic t-shirts that begged the question, "and which state are you from?" Angels are everywhere.

His name was Stewart, or at least the Dutch version of it. I looked in my laptop bag which had my purse, and it was deep below all the things I had stuffed inside from my travels. I looked around and after accessing the situation, I realized I only had heavy Danish coins with circles punched in the center. My debit card had broken and my Spanish phone, well, it didn't work in France. The angels were everywhere and so was God.

Stewart asked if everything was ok. I didn't know this man. That morning I prayed to God. Stewart said, come on, I'll explain the metro system. We walked over to the map and he called his girlfriend who explained how to arrive nearby the Tower. And then, he put in his card and gave me a ticket. I thought in my head, I love you Jesus.

We talked until he changed trains. He asked for a paper and pen, then wrote down the list of trains I should take. Then before he left, I reached in my bag and pulled out a handful of Danish coins. I asked him to take them, which after insisting, he smiled and said, "this is great, I've never seen a coin from Denmark!" He smiled like he had in Brussels, waved politely, and said goodbye. It was about 11 or 11.30. I rode the trains and walked through the access and exit gates.

There was a man working at the information desk. When I opened my mouth I could only manage, "Comment?" while pointing to the address, he explained, and then in English, said: Welcome to Paris. He was glad to have helped. As the slope increased, the stairs wound around a bit until I arrived at another gate and then the outside.

I looked around and then in my red book at the address and started to walk down the street, which was well lit by the restaurants. I walked and walked until I arrived at the hotel. The concierge instructed me to the room. I rang and Ana opened the door, surprised I had decided to come alone rather than call the hotel. I'm not sure if she believes. And oneday, I hope she will ask me why I do. I'll tell her these stories while I silently wish well to all those who have loved me along the way. Tito was there and we poured champagne. He opened the blinds and the stars were dimmed from the glow of the Eiffel Tower.

Redon, France

The van house had made its way from Paris to Redon in a few hours. We stopped on the way and ate at a park. Please follow this stereotype because it is a good and wholesome one: the Spanish always set their tables with knives and spoons on proper sides of the plate, their food is never cold, and the wine glasses sit there just next the water. It was, as it is every meal, a stereotypical Spanish lunch. I poured a glass of water and relaxed. That moment of pouring water was by far the greastest and simplest moment for literary expansion, but now, I digress.

People had always said the French are a peculiar people. In whatever way that statement has been implied I found myself loving the culture, cuisine, and people. France was alright with me. We finished lunch, washed the dishes and resumed the journey, arriving to Redon, later that night.

The next morning I woke up before everyone else and decided to walk. I walked up a steep hill, pretending it was San Franciso. I turned right and circled a cathedral, looked it up and down, and then headed right again. I walked down the hill to Le Poste and mailed post cards, I walked some more, and then, I walked some more. Walking through the cobblestone and narrow street, row houses, old ones, with flower beds on every flat, flowers growing where weeds should be and the river running, cutting it all perfectly in half, I pitied the others. I kept walking and seeing and walking some more. Walking had made me resolute, the act itself, that when I arrive to the States, I will come to my solitary walk as the homesick go home. And when I walk, I will dispose the superfluous and see things as they are, grand and beautiful. I met Thoreau and shook his words, right there and just then.

In the hollow of town behind the grocery hidden on the opposite of a stone wall, I came upon a market and meeting place. Fishes with eyes and open mouths, meat still wet, exposed and unwrapped - the littles bunnies red from no fur, fruits of 7 types of red, 7 types of purple, green, orange, yellow, so fresh the leaflets had not died, vegetables, and dried fruit, bottomless terra cotta pots of licorise and jellybeans, smarties and bowls of olives. I looked from place to place avoiding the meat and chicken and let the memory set in. I walked until I came to the river with house boats parked on the banks. The Norweigen flag was flying from the highest point of the biggest boat.

By the banks of the river there was a rainbow colored kiosk. Children were standing in a file peaking over the shoulders of the one in front and fanning out like a peacok feathers. They waited patiently until a smiling man with a butcher knife raised it to his face and let it drop quickly and sharply. The children flenched and giggled, then ran off with long strands of taffy swinging from their hands and mouths.

The others would soon be ready to go and board the boat for a week or so. I turned around and began to walk back, through the fattening and delicious smell of fresh bread, looking at my shoes touch the smooth stones, I wondered how many miles this was from Sandy Creek - where I had swam and laughed as a child.

Carrer Trenta-u Desembre, Spain

My thoughts come in amazing phrases, in eyes closed portraits and paintings of the surreal, in swiss moutains cutting deep down into the rocky earth and high into its ceiling, they come and go with hive fives and thumbs up, laughing at one another, smirking and grinning, they are amazing little things, that make sense of a seneseless world, within never ending sentences, tossing little birdies up to pleonasms as they slowly eclipse the sun.

The tree outside my window is wearing its winter leaves, faded left-overs from summer. It waits for spring to be greeen again, because here, the leaves never fall and flowers don't die.

Rome, Italy

Now, before me I stare at the task of picking myself up and making the things I say, the sketch at hand, a masterpeice as profound as the decrepit and eroded columns at the foot of Rome. When I looked out past the hustlers, the street painters, the ladies with long flowery skirts and yellowish green parakeets, there were the great remains, the imperical residue and stamps of S.P.Q.R.

With yet stronger reason I beg to think that oneday the little coin I tossed into Trevi Fountain would serve as a dire calling to the center. That it would hold an awesome magnetism that would cause in me, an undeniable and fierce need to come back. The name itself was four letters of implications, four letters that conjured the ancient cosmopolitans and before their time, conquerers of the free and unfree worlds. And four letters from the google search, "most amazing places in Europe" Rome. Roma Termini Station, I had arrived.

Brussels, Belgium

Some people say the grass is much greener on the otherside. I felt like the lyrics of the song were naturally appropriate when I thought in my head that, "from where I'm standing, my grass is just fine." I crossed into the Belgium border and quickly made my way to Brussels. It was like an introduction to France and a waned departure from Scandanavia. I was starving.

When I walked from the station and saw a massive clock warning me that I could only spare 1 hour, I quickly scaned the street to see what options were available. I saw the image of a lion, an image from a crest or coat of arms that had the likenss of the Food Lion icon. In fact, perhaps it was the same. The store was less than 100 meters and I walked there.

Inside the radio was playing. A French commentator was saying something about Kanye West. I waited, waited, waited for it and then the commentator began to laugh and I wondered what thing Kanye had done, if it was a completely different conversation, or if the laugh that I had anticipated was just random. It really didnt matter, my eyes so were big and taken aback by the sight of fresh fruit juices and baguettes, that I wanted to buy more than I could carry in my arms.

When I approached the counter a Middle Eastern man asked me if that would be all: a yogurt, a jambon et formage baguette, a pastry, a bottle of water, and a fruit juice. I grabbed a KinderBueno from the the register and and said "yes." This man, who had orginally greeted me in Dutch, proceeded to have a conversation in English. His English was brillant. As if he had lived in Britain for a number of years. I bagged my groceries and he began speaking with the person behind me, in German.

By this time, there was a torrential downpour outside and the 100 meters seemed like an endless highway. I looked back, looked in front, and looked in the bag. I opened the door and before I made the first step out into the rain, the man called out for my attention. I turned around and he stood behind the cash register motioning for me to come back.

I turned around and walked over to see what he could possibly want. He looked at me, handed me a spoon, and then he smiled.

I walked out in the rain and into the station. There was a homeless man talking to himself by the entrance. Inside a group of Ethiopians, as beautiful as they always seem to be, and a petite Ghanian lady.

I took a bite of sandwich and checked the departure board. A man carrying a single bag and a bound notebook looked over at me. He smiled and I said, "hello."

Lake Como, Italy

When I have headaches I begin to shed useless baggge. Trash or unnecessary receipts from my purse, kilos from my carry on, or, thoughts I no longer need to hold on to. When I arrived in Como from Milan, which was about an hours ride, I was met with more people and excitement than I expected. One might call it commotion. The sun was shining intensely.

Walking from the station I saw life as it is known in Milan, in Bari, in Palermo. There was a Carrefour sign, caffe bars and gelato shops in patterns along the cobblestone street and in front of it a all, a narrow and bottomless lake.

The Europeans did not have a lake culture like in America. And, when I mentioned Como, one Spanish lady had asked, ¨whats it mean the phrase, going to the lake.¨ That was trying to sum up the act of being native. What does it mean. It is like attempting to explain an apostrophe, within its function in the English language. When I looked out over the lake, it proved itself impressive. The Alps over Sweden or the ones cutting the watery abyss were awesome.

I stepped into the boat, so beaten badly by the waves that sloshes of water gushed from the thin escape slips on deck. The crew greeted, ¨Ciao¨ and walked to the mast to spin around and steal a double panaramic view. The Alps seemed like a tree clad and barren wonder. The tops, like an old man of better days remained rocky and bald, as beautiful, nonetheless as the villa etched cliffs steeped with evergreens. The trees ended just where the water began. The mountains were tall enough so that when I stretched my neck to scale the height, I felt the ends of my curls on my back and came back a bit dizzy and disoriented. The boat was loud and the lake was tormented, waves like a little freshwater ocean.

The heat from the sun was grasping away moments and filling the tiny voids with annoyance. When the glisten had become a full and proper sweat, I looked up once more at the mountain and once more I felt my curls.

I planed to return to Piacenza for the night before my flight out of Milan the next day. I had arranged a ride from the train station to my flat at 10 pm. My watch had broken back in May in Mallorca but I figured the time was around ten past six. The church bells rang not so long ago. The boat ride had been lovely, but the image of Sweden was floating in my head and, I refused to compare. Though, I did. The water was tempting me to jump and take a swim. To feel waves on my scalp and emerge without the subtlety of salt. I wanted badly to just dive in, with my clothes, and shoes and everything. But the waves were too fierce and the water had a silent stench that didnt come with the sea. I waited for island, and pitied Como for this reason, it hadnt the splendor of Sodermalm nor the flawlessness of the sea. But it did have this, a undeniable attraction, and, it had the Alps.

I had exactly one hour before the train would leave to go to Piacenza via Milan. I looked at the mountain once more. When I arrived to the top it felt like an invisivble vice was slowly pressing against my temples, evenly on each side. I massaged my face and set down my purse on the bench next to me. I closed my eyes and waited for my body to adjust, or, for the pressure to subside. I sat that way for 5 or 6 minutes not bothered by anyone watching. When I opened my eyes I looked out on a cloud that had since turned purple. The sun was beautiful and the shadows cast down by strained yellow rays had redeemed the sun from its unbearable heat just twenty mintues ago. The sunset was full remuneration.

If ever I had imagined Como as the place it was it would have robbed the moment. Como was more the the duly noted Italian lake culture but a place for safaris. Safaris high in the mountains or through the thickness of evergreens or up the narrow village streets with white and yellow and sandy coloured mansion rows. Safaris with closed eyes and vivid celestial paintbrushes. That was Como for me.

Piacenza, Italy

I overheard someone say, "I would like to be a novelist, but as a career goes, I haven't an idea." This is the kind of writer, the kind of person, I would never hope to be. I am a writer, within every trickle of blood that could spill out of any vein of my body, I live, breathe, and exist. Perhaps I could vaguely understand what she intended to say but what I heard was something like this, "I haven't got the confidence to tell a story," or perhaps, " I haven't got an interesting story to tell," or even yet, "never would my imagery sustain life." And that is when she should have backed out of the game, slowly and fiercely. She should have withdrawn.
I sat at my desk beating the hexagonal end of a pencil onto its green surface. I stared at the computer with the weight of so many thoughts pressing me further into the seat. It felt like I was being drug below the tile floor into the ground, pushed in like a little seed by the shoulders. There was music in the background coming from one of the rooms and people speaking loudly in Italian. I, but, why I do not know, read a post saying, "Baby, [something more which isn't important] on the wall of someone I once and do care about.
I felt like vomitting, like crying, and at the same time, I felt nothing at all. Much like sitting there thinking about nothing, below the surface of the floor under the pressure of an empty mind.
Basta. I walked downstairs for a staff meeting. The clock was 5 minutes slow. If the people looked at your highschool letter Varsity jacket, the one you still wear in your twenties and they say it is obnoxious and stupid, you would take it off. No, you would leave it on to piss them off? I see, this is the problem, either way, now, the jacket isn't a fond memory of highschool or a token of time passed, in fact it is no longer yours. Whatever you do, the jacket is for them, and it would be hard to get it back. My dilemma.
The meeting hadn't started on time, which, was like most things in Italy. Looking at the girl who had made the comment, I couldn't much be bothered by her and when she spoke the same sentiment came up even if it was a comment as bland as, "pass the butter." Being good is getting past the reasons I could not be her friend, like saying, "the irony of this sitution is only that your lifelessness makes one, and yet, you would never get it enough to write it down." That is like the sound of a plastic forks straching across styrofoam or gritting teeth. I could not hear myself think. The melody of my thoughts was superimposed by annoyance. That would not be being good and so I tried not the listen to her when she spoke about simple things or in simple ways, when she belittled her craft, or found new reasons to downplay the luxury of a well written sentence. But, I would listen to hear the thing she actually wanted to say, because that is right and that is good. The guitar that seemed to always linger during break, lingered. As pretentious as it would sound, I relaxed and enjoyed the thought of America.

I wished I had time to drive up to the moutains to look out. I went to Mussolini's dam the other day. Why would Mussolini need a dam? From the middle and highest point I could look over to another mountain and see the river running through the two. Sometimes I did'nt want to buy souvenirs. Well, of course I did because the keychains and the t-shirts all had memories and stories and pieces of the world transitioned for someone else. But, when looking out at a place that my friends had no reason to invest a life savings to see, that my parents would never select over Rome or Venice nor should they, and while my husband remained alone in the world, I simply wished every blink of my eyes was a snapping shutter that would capture the beauty justly and clearly. And, the more I saw, the better I had become at remembering. Then the beauty would come in the test, reguritating and transferring every rolling hill, every green, and blue, and translucent sea, every breathtakingly indescribable moment, into words.

Today was a good day. I leave Piacenza on Saturday. And of all that happened I will remember this was the place of no regrets. Where I decided to depart on my on accord. Where I realized I wouldn't come back the the States aniticipating exact outcomes and appreciative of everything that may be.
I have become fully and wholly me.



Vincente.