So apparently even if you work in an Irish Pub, (yeah, I go to Marseille and find an Irish pub, back off) it's not cool to speak English with the American Girl.
The bartender at the _____ in the Old Port wouldn't give me the time of day. No one really wants to give me the time of day except the Old Guys. Goddamn. Some things never change. Never. But that's ok because I realize that I do love an Irish Pub. And Irishmen. Although, I've never been to a pub alone, or, Ireland at all, I feel strangely comfortable. Why am I going to Florence tomorrow? Right. Art.
So, let's go backwards. My day is ending with some cold Cotes du Rhones - which is weird and yet...still drinking it - in the train station waiting to return to Avignon. In above named Irish Pub, a handsome native was staring at me as I drank my bourbon and beer, and I think he wanted to talk, so as I leave I flatly say "Bon Soir, Parlez Vous Anglais? No? Ok, thought so. No par pas Francais." Chuckle and start to leave. He asks a question, now my experience in NY has led me to the conclusion that the first question in a conversation is always where are you from, going, etc...so I answer, "New York" He smiles broadly. Good answer. Well done Thigpen. But then he says something else. "Pardon? Que? Wha? Pardon…ehhh Bon Soir" I leave. 3 blocks down the street he is next to me, trying to talk. Persistent fella, aren't you. We exchange a couple of things. (ok, not a couple, just that I'm here on vacation in France) and then he asks me something...I think, do you want to have a drink...I can't, I'm on my way back to Avignon. Then we play a little charade which I interpret to be, "Are you sleeping in Avignon?" "Oui! Oui!" Then something else. Wait. Pardon. I don't understand. Again, his hands in prayer with head rested on them. Oui, I'm sleeping in Avignon? He shakes his head....gesture me, gesture you?..OH? Where are YOU sleeping? (What a bizarre conversation, I think.) I'm sorry, I don't understand. Bon Soir. I leave. He keeps following me...at a distance. Until I get on the metro.
Only when I'm out of the metro and back in the train station do I realize he was asking me to sleep with him. However, now, it's too late to be self-righteous, but it now adds to the argument that very dark, serious gentleman are also interested (as he was the 3rd dark and serious gentleman who tried to talk to me today), the beloved older guys, and now the additional category of those who think I'm an American Whore. Is it because I'm alone, in a bar, crying, drinking bourbon and shamelessly looking for someone to connect with? Nah. Can't be. I'm keeping to myself. I don't think I look trashy. I don't understand.
And so begins the 4th Cry of the day. 2 in churches. 1 in train station. 1 in LaMairie - an exposition of amateur, learning, studying, community artists. I wanted to see some art and I saw a sign that said galerie in the midst of my wrong turns, so I stepped in. There were 2 sweet little old vibrant ladies who were so happy to see me. A class was going on in the back and I viewed artwork on these paneled walls as familiar as that I'd seen in the halls of my high school. One lady approached me with tea and cookies, and I tried to pay or make a donation to the school, but she would have none of it. I have to admit that this detour happened at the most opportune time. Tears of joy. It was the turning point of the day and tipped the scales to make the day trips success.
See, I had been lost 3 times at this point. I started my day in the city taking the walking tour backwards, which is why I never encountered any other groups along my route, and the sites were only spectacular when I turned around to glance at where I had been. The first realization of this found me on a wooded path where I was being followed, then abruptly cut off, by an older dark and serious gentleman who had seen me taking pictures and who turned out to be harmless, but still, kept looking over his should as he was talking to me. The men speak and stand so close with such a piercing intensity and purpose that they make my father seem down right frivolous. The second losing streak came along a cobblestone street where went into the 1st church of the day. I've never been very religious, but when you find yourself on the verge, if there is a cool, quiet church nearby, go in. I sat, tried to figure out what I was doing here, didn't get an answer and decided that I had to keep going.
Third time was a detour to a little square. Oh look! It's like a farmer's market. That's familiar. I walked along and looked at the fruits and vegetables and other things I couldn't easily identify. Got my fill, turned around, and only then realized that we weren't in NY anymore. There is not the happy little grid system to rely on. It's more like a star system. There is an open square, which is not a square at all but more of a circle, and all the streets fan out, at least a dozen, from said circle to points unkown. I had no idea which was the correct street, and as we've already determined, Sara's inner compass is sorta broken. So I follow my instincts, turn around and walk farther away from the main street. I walk, make a right. Walk, make a right. Why did I wear my skirt today? Why did I think Marseille would be a pretty little water town like, oh, I don't know…Hilton Head? Cause, it's not. If you've never been, trust me, it's not. Now I'm walking down narrower, darker streets, with many shops and men leering in the doorways and laughing and saying something and I keep pretending that I know exactly what I'm doing and the words "and she was never heard from again" briefly pop into my head, and just as soon as I say, "what have I done?", that last right turn, puts me immediately back to into the main thoroghfare. Huh. Maybe the compass isn't broken after all…maybe my travels are exactly like everything else, I'll get where I'm going eventually, but first, let's see what's over here that can frustrate/frighten/fuck me up. No. That's not the answer. You just have to learn to pay better attention. Stop drifting. Stop being led by shimmery shapes, pretty voices and bright colors. Focus. Have a care, Thigpen.
So with my newfound focus, and inspired by the exotic foods I saw in the market I went in search of something delicious to eat. After 1 1/2 hours of searching and stopping in the second church to collect myself, I composed this letter.
Dear Lonely Planet,
Please make visits to the places you write about in the "off" season and explain to the poor Americains which places serve lunch and which serve dinner and which close when it is not the high season. This girl has only found consistency in your reporting of the places that serve alcohol...and about that sirs, you are spot on, however, woman cannot live on drink alone. Or can she…
Good question considering that I'm now trying to convince myself that a full day of sightseeing can be easily sustained by 1 cappucino, 1 croissant, 1 tea, 1 cookie, 1 Maker's Mark, 1 1/2 pints Kronenburg, and now, 1 cold (still weird) bottle of Cotes du Rhones which I'm currently consuming in the train station. Needless to say, I am rocked.
Thanks Lonely Planet!
Between bouts of getting lost, I did see many beautiful sights. My first view of the Mediterranean from the Palais du Pharo, St. Victor Abbey, the busy street of La Canebier – even more beautiful at night -with the bookstore and the chocolate shop, and the lovely, quiet district of Longchamp Palace with gorgeous, if not ornate, architecture and fountains, treelined residences and small theaters, parks and cafes. However, as it was a day trip, I couldn't linger in any of these beautiful locations, which brings me back to the TGV staion on my way back to Avignon.
So, yes, at the end of the day, I'm a little drunk. Not the cool drunk of Kerouac (though, maybe that wasn't so cool either, but I do think it's a little dirty like Bukowski, not that I think I'm any Faye Dunaway...yet.) but I finished my wine and have an entire train car to myself at the moment. I'm in 1st class, mind you, which might make me dance in the aisles to Son of A Son of a Sailor. I pushed the fool button...my night went haywire... I now have Madelines from the vending machine and chocolate from the cute store next to the Pub. And how bout this kids! I'm on the train alone. NO ONE in the car with me to Avignon, so I decide to dance around, sing out Louise and eat all 6 Madelines...I'll save the chocolate for later.
Take that Irish. I don't need you to talk to me! Cue the Tom Petty!
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
When I left...
the coast of Marseilles
I hadn't done what I'd come to do
Spent all the money I'd saved
Still did not get over you
No I still did not get over you
I hadn't done what I'd come to do
Spent all the money I'd saved
Still did not get over you
No I still did not get over you
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Merci
Anna Sofia let me borrow a pen...
What a roller coaster ride today has been. Sleeping in because I was afraid to get up. Finally up because they came to clean the room at 11:30. Not out until 1pm. Wasted the morning. Then to wander and see the Palais - that is why you're here, oui? Oui. Walk into the gift shop - which is of course the end of the tour - quell the urge to go to the boutillerie (wine bar - i learned the essentials kids) because I've already missed too much. Make my way around to the front of the Palais and stumble upon the garden which are breathtaking...with views that are breathtaking! the Rhone - the countryside - the rooftops - the trees - the land - the Alps in the distance...I think they're the Alps. I wish Kate was here. She would know.
The Palais seems like too much and Kate loved the bridge so I keep moving and finally walk to Port Avignon and buy a ticket before I can think too much about being alone. They ask where I'm from. I panic - I imagine they are going to point and laugh when they here me speak - then gather my senses and deduce they are keeping tabs on visitors for marketing purposes so I proudly (read: shyly and quietly) say America so that she can check the little box - but non - she gives me a free audio guide. Free, people, FREE. That shit costs you in America and I rarely have the money for admission, much less the guided tour, but this was the jackpot! I learned all about that damn bridge - St. Benedictine - how he was crazy and "touched" by God. Lifting the rock when the King laughed and challenged him to lay the first stone. Onlookers said, "Angels bathed the stone in a golden heavenly light." that allowed him to lift the rock and therefore he was sent by God and the bridge was built - it all happened because it was all a sign from God. Then learned how it was later attacked, reassembled, rededicated, crumbling and finally restored, but never resucitated - it stands, half of what it was and if I had any talent for sketching I would have filled the pages of my notebook pages with drawings of the sun burning a hole in the clouds streaming light on the Rhone and blinding me in its reflection - a sign from God, surely.
Newly invigorated I ran to the Palais de Papes - confidently I went in and said Bon Jour! to the front desk clerk who responded with many words I did not even vaguely recognize - but all the while pointing into the next room which allowed me to smile brightly and respond, "Ah! Merci!" Then in the room where I am obviously given the audio guide, I step to the woman behind the desk and say, bon jour...ah...A-mer-i-kan? We both have a long good laugh (hers is a little more extended than mine) She says, "Only English, OK. Merci." Merci. Halfway through the tour I get lost and confused along with this lovely pair of older French couples. In an effort to put me back in the right direction, they try to speak to me which causes my face to squinch and beg - Non...par...pas..Francais? Francois? "Ah..." they reply with only a slight tsk tsk and a head shake. We follow one another till the end with lots of smiles, pointing, shrugging and finally a valiant "Au voir!"
Totally empowered at this point. Armed with my newfound culture, I visit a nearby boulangerie. Bravely order pain au chocolat. Move on and find an internet cafe that is world's cheaper than the 1 portal in the hostel. Stay for 2 hours corresponding, bragging to everyone how wonderful it is, blogging of my newly found magnificence and cracking only when I begin to write to Matthew. My confidant. I tell him the truth - that all I have had today is that pain au chocolat and a bottle of water from the vending machine because I hate doing things I'm not good at immediately and speaking French and looking like a fool falls into that category. That I would gladly have eaten entire meals from the vending machines, but I didn't have correct change and getting that would require some interaction. I sulk a little, sink a little, then suck it up, and go out to find a place to eat...
hmmm...too empty...too clubby...too stuffy...too specialzed...where am I? Is this safe? This isn't even on the map...is that the city wall? Have I been walking the wrong way all this time? Turn around. Yes you just saw me...yes I just passed you a moment ago...Quaint and cute in the light of day turns dark and claustrophobic at night for this Ameri-kan - ok, enough exploring on my own, now to consult the Lonely Planet. Maison Nani - which I saw last night, but was closed and Tapalocas which is considered "Cheap but fun." I turn a corner out of sheer luck and stumble upon Tapalocas. People are everywhere, pouring out of the place. I panic like I'm suddenly on a bad NYblock, keep my head down and keep walking. Someone yells something out to me and I don't respond in true NY fashion. Continue in search of super cute and quieter Maison Nani. Still closed. Damn. Muster up my courage and go back to Tapalocas. Walk in. Look around. Effectively engage no one. Finally shout, Bon Soir! to a waiter and point to the upstairs where I could have a bird's eye view of the bustling bar from a safe distance. "No - it's full, do you want to eat?" Disappointed and relieved that I don't have to speak French, he directs me to the one small table in the back. All others are family sized. With head down I order "House Red" and turn to look at the menu written on a chalk/sandwich board...strangely enough, it's all in French...fuck...why didn't I learn French?...with several days between Ori's lesson at the market and this menu, I'm completely stumped..."uh...I don't knoooow yet." He leaves, I feverishly try to decipher the words and by the time I recognize Moules (mussels! I know how to read mussels in French!) on the large board he has returned. So I pick that and foie? (Oh, good, yes, like foie gras) Brochettes of foie and...coeur? which milliseconds later I realize are cubes of liver and heart - not the succulent duck (canard) that i was anticipating...no problem. I'm Southern. I've tried it all. But I should have a green thing...artchaut...that's artichokes!! Yes! Bring me artichokes. Perfect. A feast.
Heart. Not like I remember, but, of course, it was fried the last time I had it...and probably chicken and I don't know what kind of...moving on...I eat it...the thinner pieces are more palatable. The liver. Woof. Can't eat liver fried, baked, roasted, grilled, none of it...too mushy. Raw? Perfect. Who woulda thunk it? I finish eating. I'm not sated. So then out of nowhere, the fear creeps in...and the shame. Oh the shame. Be bold! Ask this! Question that! Order something else! So I do. When the server returns I meekly point to my wine glass. But later I decide I want a dessert, so I order Fraiselle a miel. Ok, something with honey. Excellent! I begin our exchange:
Fra-sel?
The white cheese?
With honey?
Yes
Fra-sel, is that how you say it?
The white cheese?
FRA-SEL, is that how you say it?!?!
...Fri-sel
THANK YOU
Then the tears come.
He brings the dessert. Then notices the tears. Then turns away. I eat. Get tissues because, as I search for my pen I realize that I've lost the damn thing in the internet cafe. Dammit. That would help with the crying. For some reason, it helps stop the crying. I'll ask for a pen. But he doesn't have one in his apron. Try to hide. No luck. He keeps his back to me. Then finally approaches as I've finished the the cheese...
is that ricotta? almonds and honey. It was delicious
Really you like that?
Yeah, I mean, yes, I mean it was...a little weird, but delicious. Seriously, thank you...That's all.
You don't want anything else to eat?
No, thank you.
Would you like a cafe?
Oh yes, Please! (by all means lets prolong this agony)
He returns, asks me to smile and says the cafe is a gift. Naturally, more crying as he walks away. I finish. He does not return for an extended period of time and keep in mind, this is a lively bar. I decide I am the only person on this lonely planet who would go to the most populated place in an entire town and sit in the corner and cry. Meet no one. AND I can even hear people speaking English in the bar....King's English to be precise...cute rugby players, but I sit and sniffle and wait to ask for my check. Finally he returns and I say "la decision" - a phrase from me which is once again met with "the bill?" (even coupled with the universal symbol for check my statements just get strange looks) Then he asks when I'm leaving Avignon. I let him know that I will be out of his way soon enough and onto Marseille to bother them with my ignorance. After another eternity he returns with "the bill", says something I don't understand and leaves. I turn the bill over and find a note:
Too bad you have to go to Marseille and don't stay a while here.
It would have been a pleasure taking a drink with you.
Nikolas
Uncontrollable crying now. There is no golden light and I can't lift that rock.
Just get it together and pay the bill, Thigpen.
He comes over and asks why I keep crying and I tell him I'm so (sniffle) ashamed (huff) I don't know the language...and I don't know (sob) anyone and I don't know what I'm doing...He shakes his head and says, Just try.
I return to Le Cid. Site of "All You Want is to Free Your Mind" Order a double bourbon. Notice the Gay Friendly flag proudly displayed and the furry white and pink balls hanging from the ceiling and for the first time today, I am comforted. Recognize the bartender from last night, give a wave, and that comforts me. Wonder if I'm really gay and if that's why I'm comfortable then realize, it's more likely that I'm simply the reincarnation of Tennessee Williams and that's why this place feels familiar. Then snap out of it and realize...it feels familiar because it is. Have some bourbon. Feel bold. Ask for a pen. Meet Anna Sophia. She gives me a pen. She asks if I'm a writer. I tell her I try. She gets excited when I tell her that I am from NY. She plans to go there in April. Avignon is so boring. She has been to San Fran because "I am gay and so, that is for me...my kind of place, no? But I worry, how is NY, do you think that is for me? Do you think it will be ok?"
Oui.
Give it a try.
What a roller coaster ride today has been. Sleeping in because I was afraid to get up. Finally up because they came to clean the room at 11:30. Not out until 1pm. Wasted the morning. Then to wander and see the Palais - that is why you're here, oui? Oui. Walk into the gift shop - which is of course the end of the tour - quell the urge to go to the boutillerie (wine bar - i learned the essentials kids) because I've already missed too much. Make my way around to the front of the Palais and stumble upon the garden which are breathtaking...with views that are breathtaking! the Rhone - the countryside - the rooftops - the trees - the land - the Alps in the distance...I think they're the Alps. I wish Kate was here. She would know.
The Palais seems like too much and Kate loved the bridge so I keep moving and finally walk to Port Avignon and buy a ticket before I can think too much about being alone. They ask where I'm from. I panic - I imagine they are going to point and laugh when they here me speak - then gather my senses and deduce they are keeping tabs on visitors for marketing purposes so I proudly (read: shyly and quietly) say America so that she can check the little box - but non - she gives me a free audio guide. Free, people, FREE. That shit costs you in America and I rarely have the money for admission, much less the guided tour, but this was the jackpot! I learned all about that damn bridge - St. Benedictine - how he was crazy and "touched" by God. Lifting the rock when the King laughed and challenged him to lay the first stone. Onlookers said, "Angels bathed the stone in a golden heavenly light." that allowed him to lift the rock and therefore he was sent by God and the bridge was built - it all happened because it was all a sign from God. Then learned how it was later attacked, reassembled, rededicated, crumbling and finally restored, but never resucitated - it stands, half of what it was and if I had any talent for sketching I would have filled the pages of my notebook pages with drawings of the sun burning a hole in the clouds streaming light on the Rhone and blinding me in its reflection - a sign from God, surely.
Newly invigorated I ran to the Palais de Papes - confidently I went in and said Bon Jour! to the front desk clerk who responded with many words I did not even vaguely recognize - but all the while pointing into the next room which allowed me to smile brightly and respond, "Ah! Merci!" Then in the room where I am obviously given the audio guide, I step to the woman behind the desk and say, bon jour...ah...A-mer-i-kan? We both have a long good laugh (hers is a little more extended than mine) She says, "Only English, OK. Merci." Merci. Halfway through the tour I get lost and confused along with this lovely pair of older French couples. In an effort to put me back in the right direction, they try to speak to me which causes my face to squinch and beg - Non...par...pas..Francais? Francois? "Ah..." they reply with only a slight tsk tsk and a head shake. We follow one another till the end with lots of smiles, pointing, shrugging and finally a valiant "Au voir!"
Totally empowered at this point. Armed with my newfound culture, I visit a nearby boulangerie. Bravely order pain au chocolat. Move on and find an internet cafe that is world's cheaper than the 1 portal in the hostel. Stay for 2 hours corresponding, bragging to everyone how wonderful it is, blogging of my newly found magnificence and cracking only when I begin to write to Matthew. My confidant. I tell him the truth - that all I have had today is that pain au chocolat and a bottle of water from the vending machine because I hate doing things I'm not good at immediately and speaking French and looking like a fool falls into that category. That I would gladly have eaten entire meals from the vending machines, but I didn't have correct change and getting that would require some interaction. I sulk a little, sink a little, then suck it up, and go out to find a place to eat...
hmmm...too empty...too clubby...too stuffy...too specialzed...where am I? Is this safe? This isn't even on the map...is that the city wall? Have I been walking the wrong way all this time? Turn around. Yes you just saw me...yes I just passed you a moment ago...Quaint and cute in the light of day turns dark and claustrophobic at night for this Ameri-kan - ok, enough exploring on my own, now to consult the Lonely Planet. Maison Nani - which I saw last night, but was closed and Tapalocas which is considered "Cheap but fun." I turn a corner out of sheer luck and stumble upon Tapalocas. People are everywhere, pouring out of the place. I panic like I'm suddenly on a bad NYblock, keep my head down and keep walking. Someone yells something out to me and I don't respond in true NY fashion. Continue in search of super cute and quieter Maison Nani. Still closed. Damn. Muster up my courage and go back to Tapalocas. Walk in. Look around. Effectively engage no one. Finally shout, Bon Soir! to a waiter and point to the upstairs where I could have a bird's eye view of the bustling bar from a safe distance. "No - it's full, do you want to eat?" Disappointed and relieved that I don't have to speak French, he directs me to the one small table in the back. All others are family sized. With head down I order "House Red" and turn to look at the menu written on a chalk/sandwich board...strangely enough, it's all in French...fuck...why didn't I learn French?...with several days between Ori's lesson at the market and this menu, I'm completely stumped..."uh...I don't knoooow yet." He leaves, I feverishly try to decipher the words and by the time I recognize Moules (mussels! I know how to read mussels in French!) on the large board he has returned. So I pick that and foie? (Oh, good, yes, like foie gras) Brochettes of foie and...coeur? which milliseconds later I realize are cubes of liver and heart - not the succulent duck (canard) that i was anticipating...no problem. I'm Southern. I've tried it all. But I should have a green thing...artchaut...that's artichokes!! Yes! Bring me artichokes. Perfect. A feast.
Heart. Not like I remember, but, of course, it was fried the last time I had it...and probably chicken and I don't know what kind of...moving on...I eat it...the thinner pieces are more palatable. The liver. Woof. Can't eat liver fried, baked, roasted, grilled, none of it...too mushy. Raw? Perfect. Who woulda thunk it? I finish eating. I'm not sated. So then out of nowhere, the fear creeps in...and the shame. Oh the shame. Be bold! Ask this! Question that! Order something else! So I do. When the server returns I meekly point to my wine glass. But later I decide I want a dessert, so I order Fraiselle a miel. Ok, something with honey. Excellent! I begin our exchange:
Fra-sel?
The white cheese?
With honey?
Yes
Fra-sel, is that how you say it?
The white cheese?
FRA-SEL, is that how you say it?!?!
...Fri-sel
THANK YOU
Then the tears come.
He brings the dessert. Then notices the tears. Then turns away. I eat. Get tissues because, as I search for my pen I realize that I've lost the damn thing in the internet cafe. Dammit. That would help with the crying. For some reason, it helps stop the crying. I'll ask for a pen. But he doesn't have one in his apron. Try to hide. No luck. He keeps his back to me. Then finally approaches as I've finished the the cheese...
is that ricotta? almonds and honey. It was delicious
Really you like that?
Yeah, I mean, yes, I mean it was...a little weird, but delicious. Seriously, thank you...That's all.
You don't want anything else to eat?
No, thank you.
Would you like a cafe?
Oh yes, Please! (by all means lets prolong this agony)
He returns, asks me to smile and says the cafe is a gift. Naturally, more crying as he walks away. I finish. He does not return for an extended period of time and keep in mind, this is a lively bar. I decide I am the only person on this lonely planet who would go to the most populated place in an entire town and sit in the corner and cry. Meet no one. AND I can even hear people speaking English in the bar....King's English to be precise...cute rugby players, but I sit and sniffle and wait to ask for my check. Finally he returns and I say "la decision" - a phrase from me which is once again met with "the bill?" (even coupled with the universal symbol for check my statements just get strange looks) Then he asks when I'm leaving Avignon. I let him know that I will be out of his way soon enough and onto Marseille to bother them with my ignorance. After another eternity he returns with "the bill", says something I don't understand and leaves. I turn the bill over and find a note:
Too bad you have to go to Marseille and don't stay a while here.
It would have been a pleasure taking a drink with you.
Nikolas
Uncontrollable crying now. There is no golden light and I can't lift that rock.
Just get it together and pay the bill, Thigpen.
He comes over and asks why I keep crying and I tell him I'm so (sniffle) ashamed (huff) I don't know the language...and I don't know (sob) anyone and I don't know what I'm doing...He shakes his head and says, Just try.
I return to Le Cid. Site of "All You Want is to Free Your Mind" Order a double bourbon. Notice the Gay Friendly flag proudly displayed and the furry white and pink balls hanging from the ceiling and for the first time today, I am comforted. Recognize the bartender from last night, give a wave, and that comforts me. Wonder if I'm really gay and if that's why I'm comfortable then realize, it's more likely that I'm simply the reincarnation of Tennessee Williams and that's why this place feels familiar. Then snap out of it and realize...it feels familiar because it is. Have some bourbon. Feel bold. Ask for a pen. Meet Anna Sophia. She gives me a pen. She asks if I'm a writer. I tell her I try. She gets excited when I tell her that I am from NY. She plans to go there in April. Avignon is so boring. She has been to San Fran because "I am gay and so, that is for me...my kind of place, no? But I worry, how is NY, do you think that is for me? Do you think it will be ok?"
Oui.
Give it a try.
The only thing missing in Europe
..is y'all and Bourbon...they got something called Four Roses, which does the trick and tastes like home, but seriously, they should consider expanding their options.
Otherwise, this "France" is unbelievable, have you heard of it...it's really popular. People actually live here. And they don't care that you speak their language really poorly, I mean, REALLY poorly. I can't believe it's been so well hidden for so long. Seriously, we should all just move here, cause they got lots of shit figured out...Public transportation, done. Healthcare, done. The whole marriage of modern and historical, DONE. It rained the first 4 days of the trip and I didn't even care! Wine and cheese and chocolate every day...things my doctor forbid me to eat because of the havoc it wreaks on my nervous system...not one headache...NOT ONE!!! Cause they don't put all that crap in it here like they do in the states...15 types of cheese to be exact and 10 different wines from 7 different regions...all delicious...all affordable...no wonder they don't wanna fight here...I don't wanna fight here, I just wanna drink and eat and look at art and laugh at the kids in the park and not one mime! Not one!
Everyone get your asses on a plane and meet me next week.
Otherwise, this "France" is unbelievable, have you heard of it...it's really popular. People actually live here. And they don't care that you speak their language really poorly, I mean, REALLY poorly. I can't believe it's been so well hidden for so long. Seriously, we should all just move here, cause they got lots of shit figured out...Public transportation, done. Healthcare, done. The whole marriage of modern and historical, DONE. It rained the first 4 days of the trip and I didn't even care! Wine and cheese and chocolate every day...things my doctor forbid me to eat because of the havoc it wreaks on my nervous system...not one headache...NOT ONE!!! Cause they don't put all that crap in it here like they do in the states...15 types of cheese to be exact and 10 different wines from 7 different regions...all delicious...all affordable...no wonder they don't wanna fight here...I don't wanna fight here, I just wanna drink and eat and look at art and laugh at the kids in the park and not one mime! Not one!
Everyone get your asses on a plane and meet me next week.
Monday, November 27, 2006
All you want is to free your mind...
...is playing in the bar on my first night alone...I dont' know if that is the name of the song, but they keep saying it over and over again as if that is my secret (or not so secret) mission.
I think I'll get there..I think I'll get there..in my time...
Too frozen to stop the waiter, Nicolas. Afraid that if I order the charcuterie, he'll laugh at me...I say a prayer that at the end of 9 days this won't happen anymore.
Bon Courage - speak loudly and poorly. Be fearless.
Maybe later...note to self, learn how to ask "are you still serving food?" in French.
Come on Sara, (I do mention my own name to myself, quite embarrassing) you talked to Sam Shepard for Chrissakes! Why are you worried aobut these people you will never see again. You can't really care. Not really. You just think you care. You're supposed to care. Who decided that? Who made that decision for you?!
Fine. I didn't want your stupid charcuterie plate anyway...so why are there menus on the table if you don't serve food at night...and don't laugh, I can tell you were originally from Indiana...
I'm doing it all wrong. I hate doing it all wrong. Why am I here? Why don't I leave? Because there is no alcohol in my room...Drinking alone. Is it healthier to drink alone in a group or alone in a hotel room? I don't want to be afraid anymore. I want to let whatever happen, happen. There will be mistakes. There will always be mistakes. Never doubt it. Ever. That's all that's certain.
How old are you, woman? Too young to be this bent out of shape about it...but that's ok because I know one thing I can do, like my friend Christine says "that's the thing about you southerners...you can drink" I always thought I was sophisticated...Maybe I'm not even classy...(Hey Nicolas, wanna give me another bourbon and NOT be stingy this time?)...maybe I'm all pretense. I love the fucked up nature of Tennessee Williams...seeing it on the page makes me feel less crazy. I get it. I understand it. We try to be fragile, (I also speak of myself in plural) we want to be lovely, but deep down, I am a broad, a big brassy broad, just like Kevin said...one who likes red wine and...oh, good idea, "uh Pardon, Nicolas...uh vign rouge...si vous plait...yes...Yes! Red Wine...No, the caraf. Caraf. The jug!?" Christ...and bourbon and the Blues. YEAH. the blues. Annie Lennox and Sade...that's right, Sade, I'll admit it and not only that, I like Jazz...well, some of it. Not the real serious hard core, we got shit to prove jazz. Laid back. Easy. Ici. Drippy. Like the weeping willow over the Seine...hey buddy, don't look at me, my lights off, my body language is closed...that way I don't disappoint or mislead...I know it's not cool to sit in a party atmostphere and be the crazy woman writing in the corner, but what choice do I have...nobody does indulgence better than me...stop looking at me! I'm not going to look at you, I'm from NY, I know the deal, if I make contact then you will try to talk to me...i don't want to be interrupted. I have not been waiting for you/wondering where you were all night...
why didn't I go to the house party with Ori last night? why isn't any of this working out the way i want it to? where the hell is that wine?
I guess I'm not the freewheeling Sara Thigpen after all.
I think I'll get there..I think I'll get there..in my time...
Too frozen to stop the waiter, Nicolas. Afraid that if I order the charcuterie, he'll laugh at me...I say a prayer that at the end of 9 days this won't happen anymore.
Bon Courage - speak loudly and poorly. Be fearless.
Maybe later...note to self, learn how to ask "are you still serving food?" in French.
Come on Sara, (I do mention my own name to myself, quite embarrassing) you talked to Sam Shepard for Chrissakes! Why are you worried aobut these people you will never see again. You can't really care. Not really. You just think you care. You're supposed to care. Who decided that? Who made that decision for you?!
Fine. I didn't want your stupid charcuterie plate anyway...so why are there menus on the table if you don't serve food at night...and don't laugh, I can tell you were originally from Indiana...
I'm doing it all wrong. I hate doing it all wrong. Why am I here? Why don't I leave? Because there is no alcohol in my room...Drinking alone. Is it healthier to drink alone in a group or alone in a hotel room? I don't want to be afraid anymore. I want to let whatever happen, happen. There will be mistakes. There will always be mistakes. Never doubt it. Ever. That's all that's certain.
How old are you, woman? Too young to be this bent out of shape about it...but that's ok because I know one thing I can do, like my friend Christine says "that's the thing about you southerners...you can drink" I always thought I was sophisticated...Maybe I'm not even classy...(Hey Nicolas, wanna give me another bourbon and NOT be stingy this time?)...maybe I'm all pretense. I love the fucked up nature of Tennessee Williams...seeing it on the page makes me feel less crazy. I get it. I understand it. We try to be fragile, (I also speak of myself in plural) we want to be lovely, but deep down, I am a broad, a big brassy broad, just like Kevin said...one who likes red wine and...oh, good idea, "uh Pardon, Nicolas...uh vign rouge...si vous plait...yes...Yes! Red Wine...No, the caraf. Caraf. The jug!?" Christ...and bourbon and the Blues. YEAH. the blues. Annie Lennox and Sade...that's right, Sade, I'll admit it and not only that, I like Jazz...well, some of it. Not the real serious hard core, we got shit to prove jazz. Laid back. Easy. Ici. Drippy. Like the weeping willow over the Seine...hey buddy, don't look at me, my lights off, my body language is closed...that way I don't disappoint or mislead...I know it's not cool to sit in a party atmostphere and be the crazy woman writing in the corner, but what choice do I have...nobody does indulgence better than me...stop looking at me! I'm not going to look at you, I'm from NY, I know the deal, if I make contact then you will try to talk to me...i don't want to be interrupted. I have not been waiting for you/wondering where you were all night...
why didn't I go to the house party with Ori last night? why isn't any of this working out the way i want it to? where the hell is that wine?
I guess I'm not the freewheeling Sara Thigpen after all.
Travel to Avignon
Slip into train station. No line. Pass validated. Travel begins.
Well, first call Mama, let her know you're fine. She's not certain it's you until she hears you laugh. Your train and track come up on the screen. OK Mama, gotta go. Walk to train, ticket in hand. Watch people insert ticket into sleek little machine...ok, do the same...now to find spot. Voitre 2. Is that class? Train cars have a large 1 and 2 on them. Must be 2, finally get to a car with ginormous 2 on it, look in entry 11-56 this way, I'm 45. Perfect. By the window, great! I can put my stuff here...I think. Is that a luggage rack? A handicapped spot? Am I in someone's way? Pack up loathed sweatshirt in now bursting backpack. And finally, settled. Ahhhh....huh. That's funny. Classe 2. Why does that sign say Classe 2? Is this second classe? Wait. Ticket says 1st Class, Voitre 2. What the f*** is Voitre 2? (Why the f*** didn't I learn French?) Maerd.
Pack up purse, sling backpack over shoulder and wend through narrow aisles. Pardon. Pardon. On platform again. Mmmm...they don't work here, they don't work here, you don't work here, but aha! you looked, too late sir, you are the lucky winner of help the silly American. "Uhhh...Pardon...ou est ? (point to ticket). Ici? (Point to new train car with big fat 1 on it)." Elegant silver haired fox smiles at silly American with the terrible French accent and says "Voitre"( Pointing to ticket) "Ici" Pointing to smart digital readout next to big fat 1. OHHHH! Merci! Merci! complete with faux bowing motion because that will make him understand I'm grateful...what a nerd.
So, I'm in 1st class...which makes my backpack seem waaay out of place, but I don't care. Ok I do, but I'm working on not caring. The suits all find me harmless enough, and I don't have to worry about them stealing the hideous sweatshirt or sharing the 2 apples and 3 stinky cheeses I brought with me...now if only I had a drink...
Well, first call Mama, let her know you're fine. She's not certain it's you until she hears you laugh. Your train and track come up on the screen. OK Mama, gotta go. Walk to train, ticket in hand. Watch people insert ticket into sleek little machine...ok, do the same...now to find spot. Voitre 2. Is that class? Train cars have a large 1 and 2 on them. Must be 2, finally get to a car with ginormous 2 on it, look in entry 11-56 this way, I'm 45. Perfect. By the window, great! I can put my stuff here...I think. Is that a luggage rack? A handicapped spot? Am I in someone's way? Pack up loathed sweatshirt in now bursting backpack. And finally, settled. Ahhhh....huh. That's funny. Classe 2. Why does that sign say Classe 2? Is this second classe? Wait. Ticket says 1st Class, Voitre 2. What the f*** is Voitre 2? (Why the f*** didn't I learn French?) Maerd.
Pack up purse, sling backpack over shoulder and wend through narrow aisles. Pardon. Pardon. On platform again. Mmmm...they don't work here, they don't work here, you don't work here, but aha! you looked, too late sir, you are the lucky winner of help the silly American. "Uhhh...Pardon...ou est ? (point to ticket). Ici? (Point to new train car with big fat 1 on it)." Elegant silver haired fox smiles at silly American with the terrible French accent and says "Voitre"( Pointing to ticket) "Ici" Pointing to smart digital readout next to big fat 1. OHHHH! Merci! Merci! complete with faux bowing motion because that will make him understand I'm grateful...what a nerd.
So, I'm in 1st class...which makes my backpack seem waaay out of place, but I don't care. Ok I do, but I'm working on not caring. The suits all find me harmless enough, and I don't have to worry about them stealing the hideous sweatshirt or sharing the 2 apples and 3 stinky cheeses I brought with me...now if only I had a drink...
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Best Thanksgiving Ever
Hello darlings -
How was your Thanksgiving? I hope it was lovely...mine certainly was...Ori and I started our day with Madelines and tea, then onto the Champs Elysees, the Eiffel Tower, la Seine and the Musee d'Orsay, the finest African hot chocolate (ever) and then to market to buy our feast, foie gras with grapes and cherries, grilled scallops and a melange of wild mushrooms and chopped cauliflower and for dessert - cheese (an entire world of cheese) -
I may never leave...
Last night was the circus, Notre Dame and Marais - and all I could think about was Tennessee Williams and New Orleans - and today, the Picasso Museum and more wine...
Love to you all,
sara
How was your Thanksgiving? I hope it was lovely...mine certainly was...Ori and I started our day with Madelines and tea, then onto the Champs Elysees, the Eiffel Tower, la Seine and the Musee d'Orsay, the finest African hot chocolate (ever) and then to market to buy our feast, foie gras with grapes and cherries, grilled scallops and a melange of wild mushrooms and chopped cauliflower and for dessert - cheese (an entire world of cheese) -
I may never leave...
Last night was the circus, Notre Dame and Marais - and all I could think about was Tennessee Williams and New Orleans - and today, the Picasso Museum and more wine...
Love to you all,
sara
Friday, November 10, 2006
Cell phone
Hey y'all,
I lost my cell phone...it couldn't have been taken, you've seen it, the thing is ancient - I remember how you pointed and laughed when you saw it...anyway I have a brand-spankin-new phone and the only thing missing now is your information...please send your numbers...I promise to call you...someday...
kisses
sara
11/10/2006
I lost my cell phone...it couldn't have been taken, you've seen it, the thing is ancient - I remember how you pointed and laughed when you saw it...anyway I have a brand-spankin-new phone and the only thing missing now is your information...please send your numbers...I promise to call you...someday...
kisses
sara
11/10/2006
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