Merci Vicodin. You made the flight far more tolerable.
I arrived in Paris early in the morning, none the worse for wear after the insanity that was my last night in San Francisco, and the mad dash to the airport as a result of the aforementioned insanity. As the plane bounced around on turbulent winds I gazed out the little window at France, heart pounding out of my chest. As soon as I managed my way through customs and baggage claim I burst out the door of the airport, and leaning against my massive pink suitcase, took a deep breath of the damp, smoky, Parisian air.
Home.
It was drizzling lightly but I was not bothered by the rain. It felt like I was arriving to a clean slate. The world, in that little moment, was my oyster, or rather mon huître. I came back down from that moment then and fiendishly smoked a cigarette. Fourteen hours smoke-free was brutal on a body.
For the trip I had rented an apartment in the “gay Marais,” similar to SF’s Castro district. Not exactly lez territory, but friendly stomping ground nonetheless. I braved the expensive French cab (metro was SO not happening with my luggage situation) and arrived at the quaint building after curving down many cobblestone, entirely un-drivable streets, which the driver took great joy in cussing about.
From there, the check-in and elevator ride were shockingly seamless. It was like being in an alternate universe where things were suddenly going my way. The apartment itself was cozy and delightful; a stylish little art deco loft, with a view of the cafés below, as well as The Wolf, a bar for bears* who enjoy leather. I would not be bored at this spot.
I arrived in Paris early in the morning, none the worse for wear after the insanity that was my last night in San Francisco, and the mad dash to the airport as a result of the aforementioned insanity. As the plane bounced around on turbulent winds I gazed out the little window at France, heart pounding out of my chest. As soon as I managed my way through customs and baggage claim I burst out the door of the airport, and leaning against my massive pink suitcase, took a deep breath of the damp, smoky, Parisian air.
Home.
It was drizzling lightly but I was not bothered by the rain. It felt like I was arriving to a clean slate. The world, in that little moment, was my oyster, or rather mon huître. I came back down from that moment then and fiendishly smoked a cigarette. Fourteen hours smoke-free was brutal on a body.
For the trip I had rented an apartment in the “gay Marais,” similar to SF’s Castro district. Not exactly lez territory, but friendly stomping ground nonetheless. I braved the expensive French cab (metro was SO not happening with my luggage situation) and arrived at the quaint building after curving down many cobblestone, entirely un-drivable streets, which the driver took great joy in cussing about.
From there, the check-in and elevator ride were shockingly seamless. It was like being in an alternate universe where things were suddenly going my way. The apartment itself was cozy and delightful; a stylish little art deco loft, with a view of the cafés below, as well as The Wolf, a bar for bears* who enjoy leather. I would not be bored at this spot.
Knowing that succumbing to the mind-numbing exhaustion would only mean doomed sleep patterns for the rest of my stay, I forced myself into the shower, into a posh get-up, and into a café, where I felt free to suck down my café au lait, smoke like a chimney, and glare at completely un-offending strangers, sans apologies. I was getting into Paris mode. Pen to paper, I stayed in my seat for hours, as I eventually began to feel human again.
That is when it occurred to me: this trip should not just be a self-indulgent, vainglorious, hedonistic vacation. I mean it should to a certain extent...but it should be something more too; more than mindless boozing and screwing, which I would then normally label as artistic and tortured. No. This trip had to be something more. Something deeper. I needed to do something I have been afraid to do for a long time. Two things lesbians love most in the world, and I had attempted to steer clear of: soul searching and processing.
Ugh. Two words I vowed never to let grace these pages. But there you have it. I was on a personal journey, and this was not a one way trip. I was thousands of miles from San Francisco and the d word (starts with a d, ends with a rama), with no phone, internet, friends, or lovers. It was time to take advice that even La Lohan could give (gasp!): it was time to focus on myself.
Jet lag does crazy things to the soul.
And so, high on caffeine, psychology, and life in general, I made my way to one of the lesbian bars I had discovered in some trusty guide book: l'Unity Bar. I was going to talk to fabulous French women! I was going to find my creativity, my depth, myself!
Oof. I sauntered into the bar, trying to maintain an air of casual confidence, despite the fact that when I opened the door and put one Fendi peep toe bootie** inside I swore I heard a ripping record followed by crickets. I looked around surreptitiously at the blank faces framed by buzz cuts. It was a sea of Adidas track pants paired with flannel. L'horreur. Now don't get your boxers in a bunch mes butchies. I have always loved, admired and respected you. However, this was just...shocking. I don't think I have even seen track pants in the White Horse in Oakland. Needless to say, this is not what I expected to find in a Parisian lesbian bar. I as operating under a far different notion. But c'est la vie. I was not to be deterred.
I ordered a Stella, pasted on my best apathetic face, and let out a massive sigh.
This was going to be harder than originally planned...
Always,
Louise
*just in case-- bear: A term used by gay men to describe a husky, large man with a lot of body hair. http://www.urbandictionary.com/
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1 comments:
Great story, I can't wait to read the rest. Her apartment sounds like my dream home. :]
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