Dispatch from the European Front Vol. 8

[Efrim]

,ÄúLust,Äôs Passions will be served; it demands; it militates; it tyrannizes,Äù
-Maquis de Sade

Miss Rutledge: Listen, listen to them. Men like to yell, don,Äôt they? They imagine they are millionaires already.
Col. Cobb: More than that. They,Äôve all left lives behind them they didn,Äôt like. They all dream of being reborn in the new land.
Miss Rutledge: Do they? Or do they dream of gold?
Col. Cobb: No, no, Miss Rutledge. Behind that fog, lies not only sand filled with gold, but a new empire for men of vision.
Miss Rutledge: Men of vision. Oh, I love the fine names men give each other to hide their greed and lust for adventure.
-Ben Hecht
   
(Note: Volume 7 introduces this volume)

The French are renowned for their patience when it comes to dining and other such leisure activities but after perhaps five hours with nothing on our tab but one round of cappuccino even that  legendary culinary patience was wearing razor thin. Eventually our waiter offered to comp our tab if we would simply leave the caf?©. Clearly, he was on to our game and realized he had better things coming to him than four teenage hooligans and whatever pocket-change tip they might muster. As I sincerely doubt any of us had money (at least not for spending on cappuccino, anyways) this was probably the best outcome for all parties involved.

Indeed, nothing could be finer to our trans-Atlantic consortium of teenage dirt bags than a free round, but that did little to stop us from raising a nasty little scene. Pierre started railing about the inherit rights of customers to enjoy their drinks and told the man that he stood in opposition to the fundamental values of France while I started quoting some of the most vulgar Bukowski I could remember and genuinely scaring anyone in the establishment who spoke even a little English. Meanwhile, Jacqueline and Julien were making out (mainly to create another scene...I think...) And Colette was going around to the other tables and asking them what their favorite sexual positions were. Cecile just looked embarrassed by all of us and Luc looked at her with a great deal of amusement shortly before leaning over to the table next to him and snatching a glass of wine from them. Our fun was cut short by the mention of police, so we all took off. After about two blocks I realized that Luc still had the glass of wine in his hand. I asked him about it and he said that the wine was ,Äúshame wine,Äù and that it was especially shameful considering it was served in Paris. He took a few more sips of it and then casually threw it in a trash bin. To this day, I use the term ,Äúshame wine,Äù as it so amused me at that time.

It was an odd occurrence, but as it happened I was the one who figured out what to do that evening. I remembered that a side project of one of my favorite bands, A Silver Mount Zion, was playing in Paris that night. I knew the show would be cheap too as the members of that band liked to price tickets around 5 or 10 dollars (the outright refusal of a band to be famous or make money holds great advantages for fans).  Jacqueline and Julien decided it was time for them to venture into more romantic options and Cecile said she was heading out to some dance club and tried in vain to get someone to go along with her for 20 minutes before finally taking off.

Colette, Pierre, Luc and I stopped at an internet caf?© to get some info and then headed off to the tiny venue the band was playing at. It was far from the heart of the city and we had to take a lengthy metro ride to get out there. As we stood outside of that place I felt like I had found the House of the Rising Sun from that old song. A place that was certainly the ruin of many a good man. It was an old, dilapidated building that might have been a small factory at one time or another. The inside only served to reinforce my opinion. The place looked like a shitty loft outfitted in the most bleak colors imaginable. The long bar that ran against the back wall of the rectangle shaped building looked horribly out of place and was made of fairly nice looking wood that was obviously newer than anything else in the establishment. The floor was concrete painted over in grey and the ceiling rose high above us into an unappealing metal top containing several large windows.

The place was big though, and there was a lot of empty space, an empty space that was present through the entire night. From what I could gather from Pierre, I think the place was some sort of illegal rave venue that occasionally threw legitimate operations like this to make itself less of a target for local law enforcement. I have no idea if that was truth, but it was curious that such a large place was used for a band like A Silver Mt. Zion, whose audience could be considered tiny and elitist at best. I suppose the heavily self-medicated would be less likely to notice the inherent bleakness of the place, so it would make sense if it was used for such purposes.  

We had arrived a bit early and there was no opening act, so my companions stood idly in runway perfect poses while they smoked self-rolled cigarettes. I,Äôm not nearly this splendid in my posture. I,Äôm often gangly and awkward and I don,Äôt have the faintest idea about how to express a deep sense of self-assured cool though kinesthetics. It,Äôs an ability that dancers and the French posses, apparently.  As a Swed who did not receive the trademark blonde hair and chiseled body, all my genetics have granted me is a predilection for meatballs and a protestant upbringing. Curses.

Colette and I talked a bit as the band made the final preparations for their performance. Her English was fairly good, but she would occasionally lapse into French. I somehow got the feeling that this was simply to confound me. I don,Äôt remember much of what we talked about, I know she talked about art and that I talked a bit about literature but it really didn,Äôt matter, nothing about anything we said was memorable. All I remember was her face. She had a thin face with high cheek bones. Her red hair flowed down her neck and almost touched her shoulders looking as beautiful and sinuous as ivy drawn by the hand of a master impressionist. She took long drags on her thin cigarette and her dark brown eyes cut like tiny knives whenever she moved her head. She had an alluring but vicious laughter. The type of sound that you want to control, but know will probably be in your ears at your lowest and most broken moment.

A Silver Mt. Zion put on an excellent show. Their music was majestic and huge despite only three members being present. The orchestral sound of it was powerfully emotional and evocative despite the complete lack of lyrics.

By the time the show got out we were all more than a little drunk and most eager to return to the dorms. It had begun to rain outside and we huddled under the awning as we talked. Pierre complimented me on my music selection. Luc scolded the rest of the group for being what he called ,Äúcomplete amateurs,Äù and stumbled off towards a bar across the street. Reports the next day indicated that he spent the night on a park bench; Luc had no comment on the subject.

After this, Colette, Pierre and I headed off for the metro. They streets were lovely in a desolate way that evening. Quiet and untouched simplicity with the aesthetic glow of central Paris barely visible in the distance.

As Pierre headed down the stairs to the metro, Colette stopped him and started talking to him. Pierre seemed confused and then exasperated by what she was saying. Eventually, he threw up his arms and said goodnight to me. This worried me a bit.

Colette grabbed my arm and said ,ÄúOk, you,Äôre with me now. We,Äôre going to the next metro. Hurry before it closes,Äù

With that, we were off and running. Since I was drunk, I staggered with nearly every step and struggled to maintain myself. I was in no condition to run. Hell, I was in no condition to walk, but this mad girl had left me no choice.

The rain drizzled down onto my face and made my vision even worse. Colette was a hazy and insubstantial blur that was moving farther and farther away from me. Suddenly, I was all by myself. Colette had disappeared from my view and she had left me standing on some god-forsaken corner in the outskirts of Paris. It occurred to me at this point that I may have gotten myself into something I couldn,Äôt handle.

I felt a tug on my arm and I noticed my feet were rapidly moving down a staircase. We were at the Metro. I was out of breath by this point, and I was barely aware of Colette,Äôs presence. I was soon very aware of her however, when she pulled me against her and kissed me.

,ÄúCome on, I don,Äôt have any money. We still need to run,Äù she said. It occurred to me at this point that I had definitely gotten myself into something I couldn,Äôt handle.

,ÄúThere will be a guard now, don,Äôt stop running, hit him,Äù

Assaulting a security guard to save a metro fare might seem like a misguided idea, but I was in no mood for critical thinking. It was all a blur or motion as I turned the corner at top speed at threw my shoulder into a man in a blue uniform. He fell to the ground with a groan and I stepped on his hand as I ran past him and jumped the turnstile.

Luckily, there was a carriage headed in our direction with its doors open and we hopped on it. As the doors closed I heard some very loud yelling from the direction we had came. We sat down and Colette kissed me again.

,ÄúSilly boy, you,Äôre in trouble now,Äù she said. I just glared at her. She laughed and told me that we,Äôd have to transfer at the next stop in case they made a radio call. At the next stop, we crowed in with some other people and quickly made our way downstairs to another line. As we left the carriage I noticed a gang of four guards get on the carriage next to the one we had been in.

We made our way back to the hospital on a very roundabout course that night and I won,Äôt say what happened from that point, but I can say we had a good time. I realized that night that everything about my trip was based on lust. Iggy Pop once wrote a song called ,ÄúLust for Life,Äù that was really about a heroin addict; there was no doubt that I was a junkie now too. I had a lust for every thrill and adventure that came my way. I was no more noble than any creature, and no fine name could hide that.

IN OUR NEXT INSTALLMENT: Efrim heads to London and things go horribly, horribly wrong.

[Z³]

I visited paris once, and I got the distinct impression that the locals do a lot of running from the police.

Perhaps this explains Parkour, as well.

Anyway, this was worth delaying my valuable sleep.

[Cain]

I remember a fun week in which the Paris metro feautured highly.  And yes, alot of the locals spend time on the run, espescially those of an Algerian and Moroccan descent selling items of dubious origin.

[East Coast Hustle]

Parkour is probably the coolest thing ever.

good story, Ef...keep 'em coming.

[Irreverend Hugh, KSC]

Heh. You can't learn about Paris unless you spend time running from the law. It's sort of a local tradition. By all gods, I don't think I ever heard of anyone paying a metro fare. It was all running fast and switching cars at the next station.

[Efrim]

Heh. You can't learn about Paris unless you spend time running from the law. It's sort of a local tradition. By all gods, I don't think I ever heard of anyone paying a metro fare. It was all running fast and switching cars at the next station.

To pay a metro fare would be a greater shame than indulging in poor quality wine.

[Irreverend Hugh, KSC]

Heh. You can't learn about Paris unless you spend time running from the law. It's sort of a local tradition. By all gods, I don't think I ever heard of anyone paying a metro fare. It was all running fast and switching cars at the next station.

To pay a metro fare would be a greater shame than indulging in poor quality wine.

Exactly. And the French know absolutely nothing about wine. I don't think it is safe to call that swill they drink wine at all.

[Efrim]

Heh. You can't learn about Paris unless you spend time running from the law. It's sort of a local tradition. By all gods, I don't think I ever heard of anyone paying a metro fare. It was all running fast and switching cars at the next station.

To pay a metro fare would be a greater shame than indulging in poor quality wine.

Exactly. And the French know absolutely nothing about wine. I don't think it is safe to call that swill they drink wine at all.

It's just as well. I doubt any quality of wine would have really satisfied Luc.

[Irreverend Hugh, KSC]

Heh. You can't learn about Paris unless you spend time running from the law. It's sort of a local tradition. By all gods, I don't think I ever heard of anyone paying a metro fare. It was all running fast and switching cars at the next station.

To pay a metro fare would be a greater shame than indulging in poor quality wine.

Exactly. And the French know absolutely nothing about wine. I don't think it is safe to call that swill they drink wine at all.

It's just as well. I doubt any quality of wine would have really satisfied Luc.

I dunno. I think that if the French are gonna be that way about that swill then they should just say "fuck it" and drink dark schlitz.