I Am Benjamin Franklin

Really, it’s true what they (the well-traveled cosmopolitan intelligentsia into which I have only recently gained entrance) say, Paris is magnificent. London is big, without a doubt, but whereas everything revolves outward from Central London (home to Westminster Abbey, the houses of Parliament, droves of camera wielding tourists, etc.) forming different boroughs in a grid like manner, similar to New York, Paris is different. Most every intersection in the city is the intersection of five, six, or seven roads, all with different names on either side of the center. The subway map resembles one of those multi-coloured wire & wooden sliding ball apparatuses found in doctor’s office waiting rooms, and enjoyed by so many children. Their play, however, is usually less concerned with travel productivity and line transfers than with simply occupying the time that they might usually devote to other activities: eating, spitting up, crying, and other more general forms of annoyance to their parents; I’m trying to find a particular café! Another thing that makes Paris so confusing, yet also adds significantly to its charm, is that all or much of the architecture is in a similar style. After making three transfers between wet spaghetti noodle lines and spending nearly half an hour on crowded trains, I arrived, climbed the stairs and could have sworn I was in the same place I started: A statue of De Gaul, three or so corner cafes, and you guess it, a Starbucks. But, fortunately for my dumb-faced non French speaking ass, it was not, and out of the crowd of scarved, hatted, and pea-coated Parisians came a shout of my name en Anglais.

After a lunch and espresso at a cozy corner café, I and my old friend/impromptu tour guide Claire made our way through the tourist sites of central Paris. Pictures were taken, and will be displayed soon, when I have time, and access to a MacDonalds (free wifi). But truly, I am unconcerned with relating the specifics of my sightseeing, as you can surely receive a better education on the subject via a postcard collection and a medium sized figurine of the Eiffel Tower. A more important endeavor, as far as my concern, is to gain a better understanding of the French people by means other than their architecture or gift shops. (To whichever of you might have secretly wished for such a souvenir, I offer my deepest regret. Not that I will have disappointed you, but that I have a comrade with such poor taste) .

My night on the town in Paris was from a dream. As I walked home around 430 this morning I was caught talking aloud to myself by numerous passers-by. Imagine a dirty drunk foreigner walking the streets of your capital city, smiling ear to ear, laughing, discussing his evening with himself, generally raving. I had the good fortune of visiting Paris on a night when a band including members Claire’s high school posse, some good friends she had not seen in years, had a gig at a good club. The music --traditional French meets bouncing reggae meets country—was, for sincere lack of poetic voice-- awesome. Jubilant, smiling and boundlessly attentive twenty-somethings packed La Scene (no, it’s not pronounced how you think) wall to wall dancing and clapping to the beat, even singing along (the headlining band playing after my new friends’ is evidently quite well known in Paris). After the show (which, while probably not on par for a masochistic self-and-everyone-else-hating Athens hipster indie townie crowd, was nevertheless incredible) the band took their winds and strings to the center of the dance floor for an encore acoustic session, with all the patrons allowing for a circle and sitting cross legged on the floor. It was intimate, and immeasurably enjoyable to all.

Afterwards, as the American/guy with the beautiful French girl on his arm, I found myself backstage for free beer, treats, and at times painstaking conversation. All the French speak English, some better than others, but with at least three in the room, sense can usually be triangulated. Thus began our night traveling from bar to bar, buying beers out of shops when inbetween clubs, generally the agents of good-natured mischief until near five this morning. The friends I have made through Claire I am sure to contact in the future, one I mght even meet next week in Madrid. But now I leave Paris reluctantly, and enchante!

Now, as I write I am on a train through France to the South. My next goal is Pamplona, home of my friend Katherine. I am lucky to have two friends to guide me, and beautiful women at that! To leave a bit of suspense…a cliffhanger as they say…..the train I’m on is not the one I intended to take at all. At Claire’s advice I changed my course and am now fairly unaware of exactly where I’m going, because as we have discussed, my French is far below snuff. To be sure, the scenery is beautiful, and though I slept a mere 3 hours before leaving Paris, I am reluctant to go to sleep, which is exactly what I am going to do right now. More blog when my delirium subsides.