It's Creeping Under My Skin

Paris was never wrong. It was always right.

I was almost displeased when I first arrived and it wasn't the Paris that I imagined. I waited to see everyone's face thick with lines from concentration and a cigarette balanced on one side. I waited to find the gypsy accordion players and the boys riding on scooters with roses in their mouth. No- most of that I found, just not as sappy. In fact, I am glad Paris is not a whimsical dream in reality.

I've walked through hundreds of rues already, seen many arrondissements and assimilated into the Parisian student's life. I went to the park across the Cite Universitaire and sat and watched the people, the dogs, and the sun move along until darkness arrived around 10.

Monday I walked to Shakespeare and Co. from the Notre Dame. The British boy asked me, "Are you here for the reading?" Why, of course. It was a change from all of the constant French I have been surrounded by. Two NYU professors with a strong American presence of plaid shirts read pieces of their poetry while rain tapped on the rooftop. The enthusiasts were all smashed together between books and bodies and legs.

Tuesday I sat in the Jardin du Luxembourg to read "A Moveable Feast." I didn't get far, before I turned the page an Argentinean-French boy plopped beside me and said something I had no comprehension of. We somehow managed to discuss music, history, Paris, and politics in our broken french. Julie and Justin arrived from class to accompany us in the park. There was one thing we understood: the sound of the choir singing under the windblown trees as the storm approached. What a lovely July afternoon. I am beginning to see these small details quite like nothing that can be discovered back home.

PARIS

Oh, I am here and it is lovely, tres lovely. I am staying in the southern part of Paris. Commuting by metro and RER is like breathing. To listen to Carla Bruni, walk the streets in chilly July weather and see the Seine at night- that is Paris. I must go do all of the above right now. No time for sleep. The city is calling.

Au Revoir.

Previous Travels

The slash means you are now leaving Bocholtz. I followed this road surrounded by thick fog.

First beer in Holland. Holland pride- before they lost the eurocup.

A parking lot in Amsterdam.

The Roots world music festival in Amsterdam.

Near the hostel in Berlin.

Berlin.

Berlin- Mitte, the historic district.

Prague- the city.

Little boys and girls danced to slavic music near the Prague castle.

The view from the hostel in Prague.

First Amsterdam- then Berlin- now Prague

Europe is becoming a normal habit. I no longer listen to the streets in the middle of the night and break out in excitement just from the sound of a motor scooter. I feel apart of the lifestyle.

In Amsterdam we went to a world music festival. The sunshine was perfect. We sat on the lawn grass listening to beats from Marsailles. Everyone basked in the sun and absorbed the day. We went to a small jazz club and everyone was smiling and enjoying the dark atmosphere.

Berlin is not one city. It is multiple districts within one city. We stayed in the old district- the Mitte. It took one day to orient ourselves with the underground. After a few hours of taking metros back and forth we found our way. Many of the people in the open air market could not speak English. We gestered back and forth to agree on a price. I purchased a pair of glasses with beautiful brown frames for only a euro. I eyed a pipe which was crafted of wood and the seller wanted me to smoke it right away. He ran to the back and filled up the pipe with something. I said it was not for me and started speaking in French because I feel deprived with only German around me. He just laughed. How guffy he was. The whole market stared at me.

I am now in Prague. It fees like I am inside a wonderland of icing and cake. Art Nouveau buildings are everwhere. We went to the Moucha museum and learned that he decorated the stained glass windows of the cathedral at the top of the hill. A man from South Vietnam insisted that he take a picture with us. Then he took an individual shot with Christina. Perhaps because she had long hair. Some children around 12 years old were dancing in the street. They were flicking their brown heels and spinning in circles with their military jackets and long veils of white linen. I do not feel that I can stay here forever as a resident but only as a passer by. Perhaps I will be back again. I see the green hills beyond the Charles bridge and picture a deep fog rolling in with sojourners arriving on horsback a long time ago. Now it is unbearably hot. Some man on the train from the Czech Republic with bright blue eyes asked why I was heading to Prague. Hmmm... Only because of the beautious architecture and the central Eurpean red rooftop houses and the coffee and the fact that I am in central europe, perhaps...Christina and I are planning to move the Carroll family back to Europe to rediscover their roots.

Koln

I hear church bells from across the street ringing back and forth. They chime on the hour, every hour. Each town has it's own sound and rhythm. Yesterday I was in Koln, Germany. It took an hour driving through rain to park the car and hop the train to the city. We flew past German suburbs and junkyards. Their apartments are stacked high and tight but seem less forced than Los Angeles' ever-growing high-rises. Germans are keen on flower boxes hanging out of each window.

Arriving in the town square of Koln was my first metropolitan shock. The Koln cathedral swallowed my eyes with its gothic architecture. To see photos in art history class is one thing, but to go inside and feel smaller than an insect amongst the array of tourists should be made a life requirement. Sandalwood crowded the air along with the pure light that flooded the stain glass. Everyone looked up in awe. As I toured around, a group of amatures started singing glorious hymns, which I thought came from a true church choir.

We walked about the city. There was a French group of students halfway listening to their instructor about the structural elements of the ancient buildings. They were shockingly stereotypical French. Every single one of them wore black, some with barres and cigarettes; all looked at me with deepest eyes and parched lips. I couldn't help but slap on my American grin. We stumbled past another church where bells where playing a whimsical tune that made me feel I should belong in a Swiss clock. A wedding ceremony was letting lose. The bride photographed with the groomsmen and the family talked amongst themselves while the children in ponytails and Dutch dress pranced around.

After walking through the mess of the crowd we stopped for coffee. People were screaming and groups of men were wildly dressed, some in Lederhosen with beers in each hand. It was the opening of the Euro08 football tournament. Even women were going nuts. I had to imagine the American perception if it had occurred in Fashion Island...

The German train system in Koln did not make any sense. It took us 45 minutes of waiting in line for help to then toss the idea of further waiting and grab a train on the whim. Luckily an American man studying music directed us back to our train. I didn't mind being lost.

Chapter One: The Path

It's early afternoon, probably around 1:45. I am sitting on a bench, I'm not quite sure where. I may have passed the German boarder, for they don't clearly mark it when you're this far out. There's a tree arching over head and water droplets slowly drip from it onto my neck as I look down to write. I stare straight ahead of me and I see short, lengthy crops of some sort that have a brilliant grey-blue stalk. About forty feet out all visibility is lost due to the thick fog. It looks like the sky is filled with white all around, up and down to the ground. I don't know what time it is; I don't wear a watch. I have no one to talk to, no cell phone, no people. Only passerby's who say "hoy." I've walked a good distance now. I was told the road I was on would lead me from Bocholtz to a small town on the German boarder. There isn't a sole in sight besides the second car that's passed by in thrity minutes. There is a gravel road which I followed and the occasional lone bench on the side near the threeway split in the path. It's funny, as I walk further down the road I can estimate when a bench is near for they are all beneath trees of some sort. Encountering the first bench felt like reaching a landmark. The cross of Jesus was posted up against that tree.

I feel like Dorothy on this road. It's misting now. Perhaps I'll head back the way I came.

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