A creative travelogue I wrote and designed for our World Seen section that walks the reader through strange nuances and observations found in the streets of Paris.
travelling without arriving
“National monuments are sponsored by Kodak,” I mutter as I snap a third Eiffel shot. You hook shot your crumpled Heineken into the park’s waste basket. “They don’t got no recycling here,” I tell you, but you’re not hearing me. Your demanding bladder now blinds you from our sightseeing. Your impatience grows as I refuse to let pay-toilets tax you seeing as there’s a free McDonalds restroom located within every three blocks. The arches beckon like a triumphant lighthouse. I wait in line for you, reciting to myself “J’ai une Royale with Cheese, s’il vous plait.” (Don’t worry, I’ll get you something.)
Relieved and replenished, we navigate through a narrow labyrinth of countless weave shops on our way to the Louvre. We walk steadily with determination, only side-stepping the homeless man swimming atop the concrete sidewalk. Parallel parkers bump the sh.t out of eachother’s cars trying to squeeze into impossibly tight spaces. We watch with admiring disbelief.
Outside the Louvre scam artists try to convince us of their works’ authenticity. We hear them out, telling them “I don’t know man, I think some people around here are bootlegging prints of your originals.” We pick up some expired museum tickets and lull the attendant from inspecting them by asking for directions to the Mona Lisa just like expected tourists. We briskly walk by the centuries of masterpieces, spreading tabloid rumours about the celebrity artists. The Kodaks surrounding us blatantly ignore the no flash signs as Mona Lisa poses with her smug smile, stealing all the attention from the forsaken Rosas and Benedettos hanging beside her.
Museum exhaustion threatens. We walk aimlessly with a park in mind, hoping to score. As soon as we happen into one, our man arrives.
“Ganja?”
“Oui.”
“Coke?”
“Non.”
“National monuments are sponsored by Kodak,” I mutter as I snap a third Eiffel shot. You hook shot your crumpled Heineken into the park’s waste basket. “They don’t got no recycling here,” I tell you, but you’re not hearing me. Your demanding bladder now blinds you from our sightseeing. Your impatience grows as I refuse to let pay-toilets tax you seeing as there’s a free McDonalds restroom located within every three blocks. The arches beckon like a triumphant lighthouse. I wait in line for you, reciting to myself “J’ai une Royale with Cheese, s’il vous plait.” (Don’t worry, I’ll get you something.)
Relieved and replenished, we navigate through a narrow labyrinth of countless weave shops on our way to the Louvre. We walk steadily with determination, only side-stepping the homeless man swimming atop the concrete sidewalk. Parallel parkers bump the sh.t out of eachother’s cars trying to squeeze into impossibly tight spaces. We watch with admiring disbelief.
Outside the Louvre scam artists try to convince us of their works’ authenticity. We hear them out, telling them “I don’t know man, I think some people around here are bootlegging prints of your originals.” We pick up some expired museum tickets and lull the attendant from inspecting them by asking for directions to the Mona Lisa just like expected tourists. We briskly walk by the centuries of masterpieces, spreading tabloid rumours about the celebrity artists. The Kodaks surrounding us blatantly ignore the no flash signs as Mona Lisa poses with her smug smile, stealing all the attention from the forsaken Rosas and Benedettos hanging beside her.
Museum exhaustion threatens. We walk aimlessly with a park in mind, hoping to score. As soon as we happen into one, our man arrives.
“Ganja?”
“Oui.”
“Coke?”
“Non.”
I hesitate as I place the crumpled francs in his hand, wondering if he was expecting a tip. I pass you the dime bag to hold on to.
Wine is cheaper than water at the trendy Montmarte bar and we budget accordingly. We even get complimentary couscous and entertainment’s provided by an un-smooth player trying to pick up girls with his terrible sketchbook. Midnight approaches as we prepare to leave. The dj remains motionless, letting the Van Helden cd mix naturally through its sequenced tracks. We’re surrounded by hundreds of sex shops now. You look at the Moulin Rouge like you want to go inside, but flashing lights, pounding music and rival sex shop owners pull us from every direction, progressively offering harder bodies and wetter women.
The sun starts to rise through the haze as we walk back, bunning the native Rizzla’d cess. We’re probably lost. The groomed beauty of the park is all laid out in front of us – tranquility almost eerie to me. I either don’t believe this or I don’t deserve it. Overwhelming déjà vu rushes in, placing me in a nineteenth century painting exhibited in the Salon de Refusées. For a second I’ve got it – it all makes sense – laid out to me like a documentary revealing time and civilization, narrative by God. I can’t share this, it’s in the smell maybe – and I start to believe in reincarnation. I know I’ve been here before. Faint memories of my past Parisian life are proving this.
I look at you and wonder what’s going through your head. I ask, “How do you act in the presence of beauty?”
Wine is cheaper than water at the trendy Montmarte bar and we budget accordingly. We even get complimentary couscous and entertainment’s provided by an un-smooth player trying to pick up girls with his terrible sketchbook. Midnight approaches as we prepare to leave. The dj remains motionless, letting the Van Helden cd mix naturally through its sequenced tracks. We’re surrounded by hundreds of sex shops now. You look at the Moulin Rouge like you want to go inside, but flashing lights, pounding music and rival sex shop owners pull us from every direction, progressively offering harder bodies and wetter women.
The sun starts to rise through the haze as we walk back, bunning the native Rizzla’d cess. We’re probably lost. The groomed beauty of the park is all laid out in front of us – tranquility almost eerie to me. I either don’t believe this or I don’t deserve it. Overwhelming déjà vu rushes in, placing me in a nineteenth century painting exhibited in the Salon de Refusées. For a second I’ve got it – it all makes sense – laid out to me like a documentary revealing time and civilization, narrative by God. I can’t share this, it’s in the smell maybe – and I start to believe in reincarnation. I know I’ve been here before. Faint memories of my past Parisian life are proving this.
I look at you and wonder what’s going through your head. I ask, “How do you act in the presence of beauty?”
“Like this park you mean? We passed through here yesterday.”
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