Paris
In return for our help getting her hot-water heater installed, Peggy took us to dinner at the Hotel Bristol, where I learned about foams. According to her, it’s the new trend. Stocks are reduced to a potent broth and then whipped up to resemble scum. I had a foie gras soup that looked as if it had been pissed on. Hugh had sea urchins, the shells emptied out and filled with what looked to be dirty bubble bath. The problem with foam, aside from its general ugliness, is its texture. Unlike, say, a mousse, it doesn’t really take to the mouth. The flavor was there, but I missed the heft of a heavy fork. I missed chewing. Also I realized that, should the trend continue, you’d never again be able to tell if the waiter had spit in your food. At the Café Marly, some things are foamed and others are not. Hugh ordered the pig head and received a perfectly recognizable nose and ear surrounded by vegetables.
March 5, 2002
Paris
I went to see The Honey Pot, a 1967 movie starring Rex Harrison and a very young Maggie Smith. Even in her twenties, her face unlined, she had the eyes of a man. They’re heavily lashed but somehow seem to contain masculine information. Maggie Smith’s eyes know about shaving.
March 9, 2002
La Bagotière
Little, Brown forwarded an envelope of mail, and I realized after reading it over that every single letter wanted something from me. The senders included:
a college student writing an article on magazine readership. “I’m on a deadline so email me as soon as you get this!”
a Cleveland man who’s written a gay travel guide and wants my help finding an agent.
an Indianapolis human rights group wanting me to attend their rally. “Your agent says you haven’t got the time, but I suspect you do.”
a Seattle drama group asking for an essay on how theater has changed my life.
three Nashville High School students assigned to read a bestseller and write the author with questions such as “Have you written any other books? Where do you get your ideas?”
a German woman writing her PhD on the role of the diary in contemporary American fiction. She too is on a deadline and asks that I call her Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday, trying several times per night until I reach her.
a gay choral group asking for mementos they might auction off at their upcoming fund-raiser, Life Is a Cabaret.
March 13, 2002
Paris
Hugh and Manuela are wood-graining the study of a well-known actor. Yesterday they asked him what color carpet he’d chosen, and he answered, “Tête-de-nègre.” This translates to “nigger’s head,” and he repeated it several times. There was a black man installing baseboards in the next room, and when Hugh suggested he maybe keep it down, the actor said, “It’s not racist—it’s a color. Ask anyone.”
March 21, 2002
Paris
Again I reported to the polyarthritis center in the 19th. I’d signed up for volunteer work, hoping it might improve my French, but yesterday afternoon I said nothing more complicated than hello and good-bye. The promised new shelves still hadn’t arrived. Papers couldn’t be sorted, so instead of filing, I cleaned and carried out trash. I mopped the floor and washed the windows and after a while I started feeling like a foreign maid, the type people smile at as they say, “Let me just get out of your way.” I didn’t necessarily mind. It just wasn’t what I’d expected.
March 30, 2002
New York
On Wednesday, Milton Berle, Billy Wilder, and Dudley Moore died. The papers have been running nice, long obituaries, the fondest for Billy Wilder. I read his notice in yesterday’s Times while on the way to Amy’s. I read Milton Berle’s in the Tribune while waiting in the Delta checkin line. On yesterday’s flight, I was surprised by the number of families flying first class, parents with children. The couple in front of me had two adolescents who complained about the wait. “This is like the line for coach or something,” the girl said. “Just like in Barcelona.”
April 6, 2002
Raleigh
At the Austin airport, the magazines Swank, Busty, Stud, Playboy, and High Society are grouped under the heading “Sophisticates.” The New Yorker, on the other hand, is placed under “General Interest.” A few hours later, at the Dallas airport, I saw a sign reading PATRIOTIC T-SHIRTS 50% OFF. That pretty much represents the national mood. Tax time is here and people are realizing that pride costs money.
I was on the second leg of my trip to Raleigh, standing in the bathroom, when I noticed how old I looked. The lights were fairly harsh, and I studied myself as I simultaneously peed all over the floor. It looked to be a good sixteen ounces, and when the plane pitched, a small lake flowed toward the door. It was panic time, and after trying to mop it up with toilet tissue, I switched to paper towels. They couldn’t be flushed, so I had to throw them in the trash bin, which was already full. So there I was, a pee-soaked paper towel in each hand, looking really, really old.
April 18, 2002
Houston, Texas
The Lancaster is described as an “older, luxury hotel located in the heart of the thriving theater district.” I arrived yesterday afternoon and was greeted by a bellman, who reached for my suitcase. “Oh, I’ve got it,” I said. “Really, it’s no problem at all.”
He was a black man in his sixties with gray hair and a bushy beard. “Are you sure?” he asked. “There’s no obligation.”
At the desk I checked in. The manager and concierge introduced themselves, then handed the key to the bellman, who said he needed to take me to the room. “I have to show you a few things,” he said, “otherwise you might not be able to figure them out.” He pointed out the first-floor restaurant, which was marked by a large sign reading RESTAURANT. “There’s the restaurant,” he said, “and one flight up we’ve got what we call the mezzanine.” By this time he’d wrangled away my suitcase, which he rolled into the elevator. “You’re on nine,” he said. “So we’ll just push this button right here.”
I imagined that my room was protected by some incredibly technical security system, but it was just the standard lock and key. The bellman opened the door and pointed to the armoire. “Now that’s your TV, in there,” he said, “and it operates by remote. You’ve got an alarm clock, a fax machine, and a bathroom.” Had I lived my entire life in a dark forest, his little speech might have been helpful. “My bathroom? For me? To use? What’s a TV?”
As it was, his little tour amounted to a shakedown. You can’t not tip a bellman, so I gave him $5, feeling all the while that I’d been taken advantage of.
April 19, 2002