La Bagotière
In search of a bicycle, Hugh and I went to Super Sport in Flers. The store is situated in an ugly industrial park on the outskirts of town. The lighting was harsh and fell on rack after rack of cheap sweatshirts and ugly nylon tracksuits. They didn’t have much in the way of bikes and had I been more patient we would have left and visited one of the shops in town. It was Monday, though, and everything else was closed. I wanted something right away, so after trying out a Raleigh five-speed (merchandise is not allowed to leave the store, so I was reduced to tooling up and down the aisles like a bear in the circus), I settled on a Gitane seven-speed with normal handlebars. It wasn’t expensive, $300, but leaving the store I felt I’d betrayed the bike I already own. If I’d gotten new tires and brake pads for it, I would have been fine. What are called modernizations on the more recent models seem nothing more than an attempt by the manufacturers to save money. The current fenders and foot pedals are made out of plastic, as are the gear wheels and air pumps. In a fire my new bike would melt into a puddle. It came with a front and rear light, but I don’t imagine they’ll last long. The seats and handlebars are so easily adjustable that they loosen at the slightest provocation, and I worry I’ll have to carry a tool set at all times. The chain came off before I left Flers, and I think it’s going to take me a while to master the gears. I don’t mean to sound so down on it. I guess I just feel guilty.
The lines at Super Sport were long and slow. Families were buying back-to-school clothes and every few minutes the cashier had to leave her post and answer the ringing telephone behind another register. I had to go to the bathroom, so while Hugh headed home in the car, I rode to a McDonald’s located at the far end of the industrial park. I’d occasionally eat at one in Paris, but the second time I was laughed at by the counter help, I stopped going. I guess I’d been saying something wrong, but to my mind, Big Mac is an American term and should be pronounced as such. At the Flers McDonald’s, I ordered a filter coffee, which is hard to find in France. It was five o’clock, the place was practically empty, and the girl behind the counter was exceedingly pleasant. They were offering the McDonald’s Maxi Best Special: a Royal Cheese, large fries, and the soda of your choice for 37 francs—a little over $5—which would be expensive for the States. Inside the Flers McDonald’s, there were local newspapers mounted on bamboo canes.
There were display cases offering a clear view of the latest toys, but there were no ashtrays. In order to smoke, one had to step out onto the playground. A family sat on the far end of the slide, both the parents and the teenagers puffing away. I’d been there for a few minutes when the counter girl ran out with their orders. In America you’d have to stand by the register and wait, but I guess in Flers they’re willing to come to you. The family received their Maxi Best Specials and regarded them while they finished their cigarettes. The industrial park emptied and, beyond the fence, cars passed on the way home from work.
This being France, I know I’m supposed to sit in cafés with thimble-size cups of espresso. I’m supposed to return day after day until the owner finally consents to shake my hand and ask how it’s going. But I couldn’t have been happier than I was at my ugly little McDonald’s. It was the coffee I wanted, with no fear that the waiter would ignore me. I paid immediately and didn’t have to beg for my check. Plus I got to watch a toddler whiz down a slide onto a carpet of cigarette butts. I’m thinking that I might make that McDonald’s my place.
October 8, 2000
Paris
Steven Barclay told me that the building our new apartment is in was the original site of Sylvia Beach’s Shakespeare and Company bookstore. Hugh looked it up on his computer and found pictures of her and various literary celebrities standing before what is now the ground-floor hair salon. I’ve never been terribly interested in that crowd, but still it’s impressive that James Joyce stood drunk and probably peed in our stairway. Hugh is thinking we can exploit our location and make money renting out our apartment under the name Finnegans Sleep.
October 12, 2000
New York
The general agreement is that I’ve lost too much weight. For me, the process has been gradual, but for those I haven’t seen in a while, the change is drastic. People who hadn’t been told about my diet probably imagine that I have either AIDS or cancer—which is a pretty good definition of bad weight loss. Andy couldn’t bring himself to look me in the eye. It’s as if I’ve had a disfiguring accident and everyone’s trying to pretend they don’t notice it. It’s not the reaction I’d expected at all.
I went to Little, Brown and talked to H., who filled me in on the new Kevyn Aucoin book. The other night, just before his appearance at Barnes and Noble, he called saying he’d need a bodyguard. He’s not snippy but says these things in all sincerity. He needed the bodyguard in case the NRA decided to retaliate for a remark he’d made in a Time Out interview. To him it made perfect sense that the National Rifle Association might send a hit man to kill Cher’s makeup artist; his political views are too extreme and sooner or later the Republicans will have to silence him. H. denied the request for a bodyguard, so Kevyn hired his own. He’s going next week to his hometown in Louisiana and called to demand that Little, Brown arrange to award him the keys to the city. The keys to the city don’t really count if you have to ask for them yourself, but H. went ahead and wrote to the mayor. Last night Kevyn was supposed to be at Bendel’s from five to nine and decided to show up at around eight. I love hearing about this guy.
October 16, 2000
Philadelphia
There’s a scale in the hotel bathroom and I found out that I weigh 131 pounds. The last time I weighed in, I was 157, but that was before moving to France; 131 is too low. It’s a weakling’s weight. I’d like to get up to 140 but still have a flat stomach and a thirty-inch waist. Is that possible?
October 20, 2000
Springfield, Missouri