2
Exhausted 2 Write Newsletter Archive
"This writing business. Pencils and whatnot. Overrated, if you
ask me."
Eeyore from " ? "
October 14 -17, 1999
Thursday, October 14, 1999 [5:30 p.m. home-time; 6:30 p.m. New York-time]
This is Winnie the Pooh's birthday and I am on a mission for Nikki: This morning she sat sideways on the toilet and told me I needed to buy her a necklace... "A dark purple necklace as purple as Eeyore's thistles."
It is sunset in New York, New York. Today, for the first time, I saw the World Trade Center, Lady Liberty, and Central Park. The thought strikes me that I'm within a 50-mile radius of Star Jones, Regis Philbin, and Charlie Gibson.
Thoughts strike me now that the drugs have worn off. I'm easily
overstressed at travel times. I have to pack early and relax. Four-year-old
twins challenging each and every aspect of their universe -- in stereo --
is not the way to relax and not worry about things that could go wrong on
the road or in the air. Ergo, breakfast did not stay with me. Bring on the
drugs. Funny...anxiety about what might go wrong slayed me. When the van actually
broke down at the gas station on the way to D/FW, I wasn't worried. I slept
from the Burleson Love's gas station until our TWA terminal; I slept through
the flight; I slept through the landing, stay and takeoff at St. Louis; slept
through most of Alan's conversation with Alaska Mike all the way to Cleveland.
I wish I had slept through the flight to JFK International...the dude behind
us was so foul-mouthed that at the end of the flight when his seat mate commented
on his bad language, even though the plane was still taxiing, I unbuckled
myself, climbed over my seat and shook the seat mate's hand. At the gate,
Mr. Foulmouth bid his seat mate goodbye and said he'd keep the advice in mind.
Whereupon another victim asked him not to return until he took the advice.
She asked him how many languages he spoke.
"Two," he replied.
To which I piped "Yeah! English and sewage."
To which many others cheered "Ha ha ha! Yeah!"
New York's lights were on by the time we took off. Slept a little before and after Franco Zeffirelli's "Tea with Mussolini."
Friday, October 15, 1999
Odd clouds and jet trails lit pink by sunrise made the sky look like a modern art canvas when we landed in Paris.
Getting from Charles de Gaulle Aéroport to the St-Denis Formule 1 took three confused hours. [Three hours of train calculating, luggage hauling up and down stairs, and then enjoying the occasional saxophone player on the RER train. We hauled one wheelie suitcase and "backpack"each, a kilometer or so from the métro to the motel. Upon arrival the Formule 1 hostess would not confirm our reservations or give us a room until they were finished cleaning.] While waiting for the cleaning crew to finish, it appeared to us that we had no reservations after all. [even though Véronique had phoned for us twice. She had made reservations using my credit card for the 15th through the 1st, but in person they said no one was allowed to reserve more than three nights in a row] We must have had the reservations though, because my name appeared on the computer receipt even though we used Alan's card to pay. [Also because for the rest of the stay when Alan would renew for another three days, the head guy would insist the theretofore non-existent reservations stated we had ordered breakfast. Alors! I heard Véronique tell them "Non" to petit dejeuner at my request!]
With all that stress and the fact my body knew it was 2 a.m.
I had another "episode." Not that we didn't need to spend the next five to
six hours in bed anyway – I just didn't need to do it trying not to urp. [Supposedly
they finally let us have our room after making us wait for 45 minutes because
they were finished cleaning. But the maid kept knocking on the door! She'd
knock, not wait for an answer, and open the door! Half awake, I'd slur "Non.
Dormez. Dormez." Sleep-addled, and French-challenged, I had/have no idea
what I was saying. All I know is "Are you sleeping, are you sleeping, Brother
John, Brother John?" is "Frère Jacques, frère Jacques, dormez vous? dormez
vous?" en français. You know...dorms are for sleeping? (Somebody should
tell that to students!) Alan spent his non-dormez time watching "Melrose Place"
dubbed en français and a dubbed two-year-old American soap or two.]
My "episode" passed , we dressed and métroed our way to the Greek Quarter.
[You have heard of the Latin Quarter so named because of the concentration of students studying -- in Latin – in that canton. Now the students are there only to party hearty, and the neighborhood is Greek, Greek, Greek and abounding with gyros, gyros, gyros. For future reference, please note that I never refer to the area containing the Place St-Michel, Église St-Séverin, Église St-Julien-le-Pauvre, Shakespeare & Co., La Sorbonne, Église St-Etienne-du-Mont, and the Panthéon as the Latin Quarter – it's Greek to me.]
We bought a gyro stuffed with frites and ate it sitting on a bench in front of St-Julien-le-Pauvre's garden across the Seine from Notre-Dame de Paris. What a terrible view by which to eat dinner! The Notre Dame alight in the night. Later, along Rue de la Huchette Alan was fascinated by a street performer playing Kilory's statue game: he was painted verdigris green, dressed like Lady Liberty – torch and all – and blinked only upon donations.
Saturday, October 16, 1999, 5 p.m.
I write this sitting in front of La Madeleine. A wedding is about to commence complete with paparazzi, police, and crowds.
Earlier we were caught up in a Communist
parade which shut down the bus system we were trying to use. ["These people
haven't studied Macro-Economics": Alan's comment to me as the "The People"
marched by with signs, banners, and slogans denouncing "The Man" and the corporate
world.
Alors!
My comment was along the lines of "I've never seen so many
Finkelsteins in one place at once."
For the Dharma-&-Greg-challenged: Larry and Abby Finkelstein are Dharma's
tie-dyed, love-beaded parents, who fight to save The People from The Man by
growing their own organic vegetables (and hemp), making their own clothes,
and keeping their personal chakras in harmony with the universe. Brain-fried
Larry dresses like a teenage-hippie stuck in the 60s and wears what little
is left of his hair in a long ponytail. In the last "Dharma
& Greg" episode I saw pre-Paris, Dharma holds up an ice cube: "Look, Greg,
your mother's heart." "Dharma, melt it – look! – your father's brain!"
Like I said, "I've never seen so many Finkelsteins in one place at once."
There were a lot of melting ice cubes marching down Boulevard Haussman that
day.] 
I digress...
Having gone to bed last night in the 10 p.m. hour we thought surely we'd wake
up long before the maids arrived. Wrong! The maid woke us at 11 a.m. She'd
knock and I'd mumble "Dormez...dormez."
No. We weren't tired! Not at all! I still felt weak and shaky, but fresh baguette,
milk and chocolate took care of that. Chocolate takes care of anything.
L'Opéra de
Paris Garnier is getting a complete facial. [Poo! As Bemelmans' Madeline
would say. No breathtaking views of its exterior this time. Ah well, must
return in May 2001. 
In front of the Opéra were two quite savvy street performers, Nuno & Rea, playing white statues – white 1700s clothing, white wigs, painted white skin, white bubble bottles and a hidden boom box playing jazzy music. Upon a donation the man and woman would dance slow and jazzy, never moving their feet, and blow bubbles, then return to a dignified monumental pose. It really caught your attention climbing the stairs from the Opéra métro stop seeing bubble clouds floating across the Place de l'Opéra! It was cool!]
I need to go back to Marks & Spencer across from Au Printemps and Galeries Lafayette. For Halloween they have a white chocolate skeleton puzzle called Mr. Bonesapart that I must get for Helen. [Get it? Bones-apart? Bonaparte? Get it? I didn't get it. I mean I didn't get back there to purchase it. Helen got Saff-cat cat art for her guardianship of Bill and Chester.]
It's 5:30 p.m. now. Although many have asked me who is getting married, I haven't a clue. Alan doesn't have a clue either, but he's taping it all. I had a ball taking photos of one of the flower girls. [Darling, darling. Grey silk dress fit for a Braiser-Lynn wedding...Mom wore a grey bridesmaids dress for the Donna Braiser-Duane Lynn wedding, and Suzy Lynn toyed with idea of grey for her bridesmaids, too, of which I was one.
Either this man had no time for such as me, or he was the
stupidest paparazzist ever...I asked a professional photographer whom the
bride was (whom he was obviously waiting to photograph). He said he didn't
know. The cameramen were obviously expecting the bride to get out on a particular
side of the car, because they were all waiting for her there. Contented to
stay were he was, Alan was as surprised as the chagrined paparazzi when she
got out on Alan's side. 
She paused to adjust her veil long enough to make Alan giddy with the premium
footage he was getting of this unknown celebrity, but not long enough for
the paparazzi to hotfoot it back to where they'd abandoned Alan earlier. I
took a side view photo of her ascending
La Madeleine's steps, her train and veil flowing behind her, not just
because it was quite a sight, but because I knew Nikki and Kilory would be
thrilled as usual to see photos of a "wedding girl" -- that's Twinese for
"bride."
Afterward, there was a fan showing another his scrapbook of photos. I asked
him to write in my notebook the name of the bride or her mother. He wrote
"Michel Sxaxnxbxexn xixsx xtxhxex Fxrxexnxcxhx xsxixnxgxexrx." In other
words, I couldn't decipher anything but Michel. It turns out he wrote "Michel
Sardou the French singer." Michel
Sardou has his own website en français,
and was married to Anne-Marie Périer, Directrice de la Rédaction of "Elle"
magazine, on October 11. Her brother Jean-Marie Périer is a celebrity photographer.
Her step-son, Romain Sardou, married Francesca Gobbi that day. If not Michel
Sardou, I believe the biggest paparazzi draw was an honored guest – "bad boy
Johnny Hallyday the undisputed
king" of French first generation baby-boomer rock-n-roll whose marinated face
appeared in every métro press kiosk. Or it could have been tennis star Cédric
Pioline, or film star Mireille
Darc.
Down the street toward Maxim's and the Place de la Concorde there was a charming courtyard with gorgeous boutiques and an exhibition of Franco Adami sculpture.]
May I never forget the memory of the guy whistling "Tequila" as he crossed the street in the middle of Paris, France. [Is there no escape? I'm in Paris, France for goodness sake, and what do I have in my mind's eye? Monet? Daumier? David? Chardin? Van Gogh? Non! I'm seeing Dr. Bob Mendenhall dressed like The Fonz, dancing to "Tequila." I'm seeing Dr. Andrew Woolley, dressed like Dr. Andrew Woolley, doing The Big Shoe Dance – on top of his desk – whistling "Tequila." You can run, but you can't hide.]
We ate Poulet a L'Estragon at Jardin Notre-Dame, with a gorgeous view of Notre-Dame de Paris in the twilight out the window. This was where we discovered my $500 Medi-jector was gone. It could've been lifted at the Communist rally, or the wedding, or by the cheat at the Concorde métro who smashed me into the turnstile trying (we thought) to get through on my ticket.
I don't know if he stole my Medi-jector.
I know,
We bought insulin needles at a Greek Quarter pharmacy (ye olde green flashing cross!) then headed home. The St-Denis [sawduNEE] Basilique was lit up with blue lights. It was beautiful.
Sunday, October 17, 1999
Getting to sleep at 12:15 a.m., we slept until 9:30 a.m. when
the maids woke us up. Breakfast of milk, cheese, and smuggled Great Value
muffin bar before diving into the St-Denis street market.
[Big Guy isn't pleased with the tasteful, small (read "lightweight") backpack
Suzy and I chose for him.] Alan bought himself a Large Bag that screams "Touriste!
Touriste with camera equipment!" but one which makes him happy.
Saw lots of fish, pig, octopi, duck, rabbit, chicken and beef. The latter was the only one not shown in its entirety and in its original format. Fortunately only the ducks and chickens sported live counterparts...Freds, Freds everywhere! [Inside joke for fans of the 1998 "Madeline" movie. It was more than enough to encourage "vegetabletarianism."]
Bought 10 purple Dutch iris from a flower vendor at said
St-Denis market.
The Marché aux Fleurs near the Sainte Chapelle is a bird market on Sunday. Also present were prairie dogs, a squirrel, and a skunk. Bought wren housepockets for Mom and myself, and a pot of Herbes de Provence. Then off to the Sainte Chapelle where we very easily again found the gargoyle who looks like he's gotta pee BAD.
Outside
the Palais of Justice toward the Tour St-Jacques we were surrounded and
overwhelmed by hundreds (thousands, Alan says) of roller bladers who had
overtaken the streets. It was a stampede!
We walked with the rollers to the place du Châtelet, took photos of the lions-and-wreath-bearing-angel fountain and then realized the Café Sarah Bernhardt was right across the street.
It took a little longer to realize Théâtre Sarah Bernhardt
(Théâtre de la Ville) was next door.
We took a sidewalk table where I enjoyed French Onion soup and Alan consumed vegetable soup. We sat watching the world go by, including a lagging roller blader who couldn't stay on his rollers even when clinging to a street light.
We walked along the seine down to Notre-Dame de Paris intending to go home via our street (Rue de la Huchette) in the Greek Quarter. I suggested the next street over where the bells of Église St-Séverin were tolling.
On Rue St-Séverin, while I was scouting photo angles for the Le Tango du Chat sign, Alan discovered a Chinese/Vietnamese prix fixe menu of 35F. We enjoyed noodle soup/Chinese salad, chicken and mushroom/beef curry, nougat with sesame/almond cake while listening to St-Séverin's bells and looking at its windows. I'm not sure if the restaurant still hadn't taken down its 1998 Christmas decorations, already had its 1999 Christmas decorations in place, or thought the gold and red bells and ribbons went well with the Chinese wallpaper.
The Greek Quarter walk from Église St-Séverin to the métro home was chilly so Alan indulged us in some hot frites.
On
our way home for an early night (Ha!) we found a discarded Nescafe Chainsaw
Teddy Bear billboard paper. We decided to give it to Dad and tell him the
French Teddy Bear Mafia wants Humphrey
to back off!
The St-Denis Carrefour supermarket is closed on Sundays so we stopped at our Rue Strasbourg candy store to buy milk. Then to Formule 1 chambre 131 keyless entry ID #317372. Didn't head for the showers until 10 and didn't have lights out until 10:44. Early night. Ha!
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