On the train to Florent’s, a man entered the subway car and said he was unemployed and needed money. He was tall and out of shape, with greasy hair cut like Sir Lancelot’s. On the train back, a different man, slighter and more desperate, crawled down the aisle on his hands and knees, stopping every few feet to hold up his hands in prayer, saying, “Please? Oh, please won’t you help me?”
It’s pretty rare for French Métro beggars to single you out personally. Generally they enter the train, make a speech, and then move through the car with their hands held out. The crawling man pleaded with a woman and when she turned away, he popped out the upper plate of his dentures, proving that he was even more pathetic than he looked. He crawled over to me and when I gave him 10 francs, he asked if he could also have my pen. It’s the small aluminum Muji ballpoint I keep inside my police notebook. He said he needed it in order to write a letter to his wife, and when I said no, he gave me a hateful look.
August 9, 2001
Paris
The other night I went to the Action écoles to see Stardust Memories. It was raining and just as I stepped beneath the narrow awning, an attractive young woman asked if she could use my umbrella. She said she needed to get something from her car and that she’d be right back. It seemed ungentlemanly to say no, so I handed it over, figuring I’d never see it again. The line was short and after buying my ticket, I waited out front. People walked up and down the street and I realized I’d completely forgotten what this young woman looked like. I could pass her tomorrow and never know that this was the person who’d stolen my $70 umbrella.
I waited for five minutes and was just about to give up when she ran into the theater with a bag in her hand, saying, “Thank you so much,” and “You were so nice.” In the theater I took a seat against the wall. There were people in the middle of the aisle, three Americans who did nothing as I tried to pass. I mean, they didn’t even pull in their legs. It was like I was invisible. I always stand when someone passes and naturally expect others to do the same. Just before the movie started, a tall guy took a seat in front of me. I had to lean to the left in order to see the screen and during the two hours, I seem to have pulled a muscle in my back. It feels like I’ve been shot and the exit wound is right below my left shoulder blade. I’m blaming the three Americans who refused to stand as I took my seat. Had they been more cooperative, I would have moved and spared myself this pain. I mean, it really hurts.
August 12, 2001
Edinburgh, Scotland
The RER crawled to de Gaulle and stopped for twenty minutes at Aerogare 1, so we missed our afternoon flight to Edinburgh. I don’t remember the last time I missed a plane, and it took me a while to get beyond the shock of it. For the rest of the afternoon I thought, If only we’d left sooner. If only we’d hailed a cab. It always helps that Hugh takes these things a lot harder than I do. He decided that fine, he’d just stay home, and it took a while for me to change his mind. There was another flight at nine and the woman at the desk gave me the last ticket.
Hugh was put on standby and promised that if he made it on board, he’d never complain again. Those were his words: never again. I drew up a little contract and he signed it. I now have it in writing. “If I, Hugh Hamrick, get a seat on tonight’s flight I will never complain again.” He got his seat, and every five minutes I pulled out the contract and gloated.
It was a small plane. Our flight attendant was named Daisy and she served us a frozen dinner featuring a slab of meat and some sort of jelled-rice concoction. When I say frozen, I don’t mean “thawed” or “reheated,” I mean frozen. Hugh’s rice concoction was impenetrable and my meat was trimmed in ice. I was free to complain all I wanted, but, having signed the contract, he could do nothing but smile and chip away at his rock-hard brownie.
August 13, 2001
Perth, Scotland
On the BBC’s recommendation we visited a coastal town called North Berwick. It was a small place with a wide beach offering a view of several craggy islands set a half mile out to sea. I call it the sea, but according to Hugh it was actually the Firth of Forth, a cove. North Berwick was noted in our guidebook for its handsome public toilets, which were decorated with flowers and little signs asking you to keep the place clean. Lunch was taken at the Butter Cup Café.
At the table next to ours sat two white-haired women, one of whom was blind and carried a folding cane. The blind woman talked a lot, and as she spoke, her bored friend looked out onto the street, saying they’d better get going before the rain started. “Oh, I’m used to the rain,” the blind woman said. “If I let the weather stop me, I’d never get anywhere.” She buttoned her coat and then settled back in her seat to finish her tea.
Our meals arrived and just as we started eating, the blind woman decided it was time to go. She rose from her chair, collected her purse, and farted in Hugh’s face. It was a small trumpeting sound that was talked about for the rest of the day.
August 17, 2001
Paris
Yesterday outside the movie theater I saw a Japanese albino. He was a young man in his late twenties with hair and skin the color of cotton balls. Maybe it was due to his pale skin, but his teeth looked really yellow. They were crooked, too, and crammed into his mouth. He had a rash covering his jaw and a half dozen tattooed stars burned into his arm. The poor guy was just a mess. It was four thirty in the afternoon and I was at the Saint-Germain-des-Prés to see Love Streams, which was playing as part of their Essential Cassavetes series.
His movies are often too long and sometimes dull. When Gena Rowlands is on-screen I’m in heaven, and when she goes away I sit in the dark and think about other things—the Japanese albino, for instance.
I’ve been here for three years but still won’t stop a stranger to ask for a match. People ask me all the time, but I just can’t seem to do it myself. Neither can I walk into Fnac and ask where I might find a certain CD. Instead, I just roam around, not even knowing which genre it’s under. In French record stores, the CDs are grouped under strange headings, many of which include the word black. I believe they have a section called Black Rage. After looking at Fnac I walked to Montparnasse to catch the 96 bus. I could have just as easily walked home, but I thought it might be fun to visit the train station with no luggage.
August 18, 2001
Paris
I walked into the kitchen this morning to find a pigeon sitting on top of the cabinet above the sink. There are always dozens of them roosting on the ledges of the surrounding buildings, and I was surprised one hadn’t come in sooner. I don’t know how long the pigeon had been here or what she’d done with her time alone. I spilled some couscous on the counter last night and found it was still there, so I’m guessing she didn’t have the opportunity to eat. I’m no expert, but it seems that pigeons would like couscous.