Paris

Valaire 1.1 – The Ride to Paris

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“Push!” “What?” “Push!” No way, I’m thinking. This dude is gonna get my shit in his car, get me behind it to ‘push’ and leave me standing in a cloud of french smoke. I began to reconsider his pathetically bourgeois plan to ‘see America’. This’ll be cool. I can be ripped off less than, hmmm, … Read more

Valaire 1.2 – Wined and Dined

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I’d been watching the entrance past her shoulder for at least thirty minutes when I decided to see the inside. We’d been nudged and hinted toward for a while as the waiter tried to clear his tables and close his station, but the tables inside were still open and the maître d’ refused to let … Read more

Valaire 1.3 – A Brisk Walk

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At this point things were looking pretty weird. I’d decided I’d be careful around this woman. I mean, she actually wasn’t the first person to ever fricassée my fingers. Well, maybe she was, but there was something about her. I mean, she seemed harmless enough. Not really, but she seemed like she wouldn’t kill me. Well, maybe she would, but probably later, not right away, and for some reason I thought that was ok.

Valaire 1.4 – Don’t I Know You?

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Morning came late that day. I remember the maid opening my door about seven a.m.. “Qui est là, ” I asked. “Service,” she replied. I also remember flinging my shoe toward her ignorant head as it poked through the door. “Reviens après le lever du soleil, veux-tu?” I said. The door slammed and I slept … Read more

Valaire 2.1 – Let Me Zee Your Papers

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Orly is a wonderful airport. Modern and efficient, it is quite easy to reach by train. The train rides underground through central Paris but soon rises into neighborhoods which struck my american eye as clean and quaint. After a few brick- and-arch styled stations one meets a more modern apartment and warehouse district that could … Read more

Valaire 2.2 – A New Career

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A New Career

20,000 men and women everyday… B. Darhma

The sight was like something out of a cheap horror comic, but it was very, very real. Hundreds and hundreds of names scrawled on thousands of crypts. The tunnels wander endlessly beneath the streets and homes of Paris. Skulls lie about absent-mindedly, so that after a few hundred yards seeing a femur or the occasional pile of common vertebrae seems rather unremarkable. The ceiling is low so that walking crouched is often preferable to risking brushing its damp furry surface. The flickering yellow/gold light from our torches cast swirling strobing shadows on the walls and floor, and the crypts performed an eerie chaotic dance.

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Valaire 3.1 – An American Bar

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I’ve seen french restaurants from London to Los Angeles and never gave them more than a passing glance. Somehow I’d never considered the possibility of an american restaurant in Paris. There’s a small pub called La Taverne de Cluny near my hotel where a large number of anglophones seem to congregate, but it’s still a french atmosphere. This was nothing like anything remotely resembling France. This was blatant unadulterated Americana in all its greased-back, tomato-fryin’, socks-n-sandals glory.

It was a large square room with dark walls and strategically placed mirrors to mark it seem even more spacious. We passed the bar en route to the waiter’s stand. It was a ‘57 Chevy Bel-Air convertible, split down its spine and turned so there was a waitron stand between the rear bumpers. At first we passed a girl who looked something like Olivia-Newton John in a tube top and spandex pants popping the tops off of one Jolt cola after another. Nearer to us was a huge box full of the small paper pixie stix.

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