Chapter 7

Ah, the blank page. I know you so well my old friend and nemesis, and yetI know the only way to deal with you is to greet you andbegin the conversation.

How to possibly catch up on the last few days since we left Pavel and the south of France? There was Avignon and my birthday, two nights in Paris, and afew nights in Amsterdam - one which included driving home onthe back of a bike at sunrise. So much to tell, so many words to describe it,and as always so little time. This much I can tell you; for the children’s sake, I will not be able to divulge all the details because the content involves heavy sexual and drug content that is only suitable for a mature audience, and in no way do I want to influence a minor or suggest in anyway that what I do should be mimicked. I am after all an uncleto some very impressionable minors. Plus I must leave some air of mystery.

I guess I will just choose tofast forward to our main night in Paris when we met ‘Guy’. I won’t reveal his real name because I am pretty sure Interpol, the KGB, the FBI, and the Canadian Royal MountedPolice are looking for him, but if ever there was a character to meet in Paris it wasGuy. The day before we received an email that said, ‘Are you interested in treats? I am going to see the Wolf tonight,’ so this piqued out interest as to who this international man of mystery was.

Guy is a friend of the great ‘drinking man’s poet’ who I mentioned earlier in this story and in no way, shape, or form am I talented enough as a writer to pin him down in words. He is a true character, the kind you not only want to run into in Paris, but write an entire novel about.

We were supposed to meet Guy at the Bottleshop Barnear the Bastille on the Rue Trousseau, across the street from the Auberge International des Juenes at about 6:00pm.When we arrived, Up, Bustle & Out was playing, a Spanish band reminiscent of Morecheebameeting Theivery Corporation and I thought, this bar has a good, familiarvibe to it. Not long after our first or second beer, the bartender changed the music to Ray LaMontaigne’s Barfly which has consistently been playing on my iPod throughout the trip and has servedas a part of the soundtrack.If you know the song, it was the perfect scene and the one I had somehow imagined ever since I first heard the song. Here we were after traveling for the last two plus weeksonour second and last day in Paris, at the tail-end of amad, mad trip,about to meet acharacter straightout of a Hunter S. Thompson novel.It was one of the first pauses in a go-go-go two weeks where we could actually sit backandenjoy ourGrolsch beers.

The Bretster and I sat in an open window facing the street, looking over the drinking patrons on the sidewalk as we watched the garbage truck go back and forth and back and forth, and we wondered how much garbage could really be on this street. Behind the bar, a sexy siren from Fairfield, Connecticut, was serving drinks. She had the type of beauty and bone structure that made you wonder if atone point she haddone some international modeling,and yet she had these far awayeyes, as Mick Jagger called them.They were eyes that looked off to a distant place, a placethat existed somewhere between the past and the future but in no way was a part of the present. Only a few hours earlier I said to Bret, `Paris would be the perfect place to go if youhad to or wanted todisappear for a while.´ Beneath the archways,below the history, and in between the narrow winding streetsandmedieval buildings that stretch off into the distance,it is a place to very easily lose yourself and your trail.

It was one of those nights for me where I was somewhat amped with energy and I wasready to tackle any challenge. Bret and I have traded off these nights throughout the trip where one person’s energy carries the other to a new level. Perhaps it was due to the fact that Guy was my friend’s friend so I had to carry the conversation and interaction throughout the evening until we reached that jumping off point where it didn’t matter any longer.

As it turned out, even though this bartender was gorgeous and probably out of my league at any given bar in the states, I was determined to get her story. When she played Barfly I saw my window open. She was immediately impressed by my musical knowledge and said she had only come across a few people in Paris who knew of himand very quickly, even though the bar stools around her were filled with expats drooling over her, Igained some credibility and attention. As it turned out, I was right; Paris is a great place to hide out and there was something behind her far away eyes. Just a few months prior, while she was studying in Paris,her best friend died so she quit school andbegan bartending.

It is at this jumping off point, asI said earlier, that I am going to have to refrainfrom some of the adult details. You will have to read about them in the book so I will fast forward through them, letting your imagination wander. What I can tell you is that Guy did in factsee the Wolf the night before, but what the Wolf gave him burned a hole in his pocket that night so he had to do most of it - in fact he did enough of everything the night before to wipe out on his bike on his way home. But being the professional he is, he had a potpourriof things and from theBottleshop Bar we found ourselves walking the streets of Paris.

The Bastille is a very busy areaand on this night it was no exception. Compound that with the fact that there was a pretty significant building fire on the corner of the Bastille with probably 10-15 fire trucks with their ladders moving up towards the people hanging out of their windows as thedark smoke billowed over the building. It is horriblethat we took the opportunity to videotape and talk to a few cute girls from Houston, but after all, we are men. In my defense, no humans were hurt and every one was evacuated from the building safely.

We took this opportunity to realize that probably the Police were somewhat distracted and figured down by the water and canal it was fine to go have a cup of some of the Dutch coffee we brought down. The three of us sat there brewing a cup and told Guy the whole Jack Will Travel story. He was loving it andhad a shit-eating grin on his face like Ralphy from A Christmas Story when he finally got his Red Rider BBgun.

When the cup of coffeewasbrewed, the Bretster was ready and had that look andenergy about him soI grabbed the video camera, plugged in the microphone, handed it to him, and threwthe cameraon the uni-pod, which generally makes us look like we have some credibility (we were also supposed to have earphones to add to the prop-factor but they were just too much to carry at this stage).

Bret jumped into the walkwayand began throwing the microphone in people’s faces (can you say ugly American?), but in actuality, at this point in the night, people were receiving it somewhat warmly and with intrigue. I’m pretty sure everyone in the area was smoking hash and drinking anyway.Guy, inthe simplicity of his brilliance suggested the question, `We are in one of the fashion capitals of the world. What doyou think the color for next year will be?’ One of the passerbys told us but I can´t reveal it at thismoment as I want to be at the forefront of fashion this fall.

When the tomfoolery was over down by the canal, we walked aroundthe area for quite a while, occasionally stopping to interview people. I peaked myhead in one bar with the microphone in hand and the camera behind me and theymore or less slammed thedoor in my face. This does not, however, deter an American with a buzz and a microphone in hand.With the gentle coercion of Bret and Guy behind me, I stormed my way into the bar andbeganquestioning thesmall circle, asking such questions as,´Whydo French people hateAmericansbesides when theyask questions such as this and put a microphone in their face?´ It´s not quite as obnoxious as it sounds, or maybe they wereacting similar to the passive-aggressive Seattle-ites I’vecome to knowand love. Maybe they were just entertaining us, despite their loathing.From there we searched fora place that suited our mood and agreed that the only place possible would be the Bottleshop Bar, where the evening began.

Since Guy was the newest member of the ‘I have a girlfriend club,’ it gave him the authority tobe pushy about hitting on the single women. It was the old ‘If I was single and I was you,’ routine which if at this point as the single guy, if I had a dollar for every time I heard that one I would be retired. The Bretster and I have had some fun on this trip when the time was right, butthat hasn’t necessarily been a focus of the trip. But as I was stepping up to the bar to order some beers, Guy said, ‘Hey Tim, wouldn’t it be nice if you ordered some drinks for theseladies?’ I took a moment to think about it and thought, why yes - it is a lovely moment to do that.

I took the opportunity to buy a round of drinks, which turned intomany rounds,for the five very cuteFrench girls that weresitting next tous. We knew they looked young but later found out they ranged from 20-22. Age is so hard to distinguish these days. On the approach, I felt like I was storming Normandy Beach butwithout casualties. The only thing we were risking werebruisedegos.In only a matter of minutes we had punched through their front line, secured the area,and showed these prettygirls that we were not just simple American G.I. automans, buthuman beings beneath all the guise.

At this point, I think Ineed to take a pause to say that throughout thetrip, we have barely gotten a second glace from the French woman. They are tough nuts to crack. Here and there we have had minor victories but we had yet to win a battle. I don’t know if we are not good looking enough for them or ifwe don’t smell sweet enough, or if it is thefact that we look like German backpackers with our gear. At one point I told someone that the French had been great to us and they said that they are probably gauging that with how recently they had a run in with a German person. And yet again, theGermans we have met haveconsistently beendelightful, warm people. Oh well - to hell with stereotypes anyway. But the French women - this is no joke my friends.

After we punched through the front lines, we used the opportunity to ask them again why the French don’t like Americans butas it turns out, they love Americans, atleast this small group. From that point on, they were puddy in our hands and the girls took turns moving around the table and sitting next to us. I felt like a soldier who had just liberatedParis.Asluck would have it of course, every girl sitting at this table had a boyfriend, but itdid not stop them from exchanging information with us. Had we had one more night in Paris I think one or two of themmight have forgotten about their boyfriends but hell - that is a dangerousgame. Been there, done that, don’t need to do it again. Again, the index cards proved to be invaluable entertainment. I hope this secret doesn’t get out too far because it is money when it comes to meeting women outside of international waters. The victory was in fact, if they did not like Americans before, they like at least two of them.

We left them that evening(after Guy spilled an entire pint in my lap - luckily I had my shorts in my backpack)giving the typical two or three kisses goodbye and as is also typical, I went for five or six. Hey- I was a philosophy major and numbers have never suited me. We walked a good 45 minutes through Paris and I had to go on the blind, drunkenfaith that Bret knew where he was going. Of course, as the good navigator he is, he foundour way home. I hit the pillow hardand awoke what seemed like seconds later with him pounding on thedoor saying, ‘Timbo, what are you doing? We have to check out in ten minutes.’

Chapter 8