Saturday, September 29, 2012

Man Learns to Fly


Planning. Packing. Re-packing. Making lists. Trying on clothing, refolding my underwear,  solving minor technical problems, checking the euro vs. dollar, hoping for the best, considering what will happen if they…if…if…,which is a total and complete waste of time and increases the possibility that fantasy will overtake the reality of my life for the 15 hours that I spend in the air between Albuquerque and Paris.
Goddamn airline has already “notified” me of a schedule change on the flight back. In December. Three months away. They are preparing me for trouble in the future.
Early this morning there was an email waiting in my inbox from American Airlines indicating that, on my return trip, on December 31, 2012, instead of having three well-planned and restful hours in Dallas I’ll be spending four hours between flights. Not bad. Not devastating. Four hours. That’s do-able, but I’m already imagining the wait. Four seems a lot longer than three after flying internationally, uncomfortable in crummy seats, considering the real possibility that I could die in a flaming planecrash at any moment, smelling the other passengers, eating bowel-clogging food with plastic utensils, watching family-friendly movies that horrify and disgust me, trying not to breath in the global germs that are circulating through the ineffective ventilation system. Four hours is an eternity of fatigue, unreadable books, rundown batteries, tepid water, noisy children, bad lighting and dirty restrooms.
In the real world of air travel, a four hour layover is nothing. Actually, I’ve had it pretty easy. Luggage has only been lost once and that was on a return trip from Detroit to San Francisco, so, no problem; I wasn’t alone in a foreign country without clothes or toiletries. I was stuck in a plane for a couple of hours in Washington, D.C., but we eventually took off and made it to Milan. Eventually, with no help, answers or amenities from the flight crew.
Busted with a knife on the way to Paris a few years back. Fined $250 and threatened with imprisonment. No big.
Canceled flight at O’Hare. And another in Houston. One more in Phoenix. Rome, too. Denver. Probably a few I’ve forgotten.
Turbulence, panic disorders, seat-kicking kids, nasty, burned-out flight attendants but, so far, no sewage spills, botulism, near misses or snakes on the plane.
Once, in Puerto Rico, while waiting for a badly delayed flight to Virgin Gorda, I argued with a bonehead security agent about his work ethic. That almost got nasty. All of the agents were gathered together, ignoring the long lines of travelers, drinking sodas and loudly yukking it up in that uncomfortable, guilty way government workers have when they know they are goofing off but aren’t about to weaken and actually work. I was waiting for someone to come and clear me through the gate. Eventually, a sweaty, mean-looking little prick sauntered over and barked, “Empty your pockets, take off your belt and shoes.”
My response?
“What the fuck are you jagoffs doing? Bunch of lazy bullshitters is what you are. I hope you don’t get paid for this?”
Nice, huh? It had been a long day.
The clown snapped to attention, said, “Hey, you can’t talk to me like that,” and reached for me, shouting to his fat, do-nothing buddy to come over and help.
At that moment the pilot of our tiny, substitute plane slipped between us, took my bag and waved me through. I didn’t hesitate, just followed him, climbed aboard and while we were banking after taking off I saw the dimwit on the ground, hands on hips, glaring upwards at our aircraft. We were probably too high for him to see me flip him off.
I’ve been lucky and travel, for me, has been manageable. I think I’ve dealt with the inevitable difficulties fairly well.
I expect to fly from Albuquerque at noon on Sunday, through Dallas, and land at Charles De Gaulle airport sometime around 9:30 a.m. next morning, Monday, October 1. That’s the agreement, subject to change, thus far, with American Airlines. It’s all I can expect, and I may be overreaching. They, the airline, are completely in charge. They can change times, gates, flights, aircraft. They can ignore me, insult me, accuse me, arrest me. There are no guarantees. I’ve got my travel clothes picked out. These are the same clothes that I’d wear if I were going to prison for a long time. Loose fitting, older, disposable, no belt, slip-on shoes. There are plenty of things that can happen that are out of my control. All I have to do is show up two hours ahead of takeoff, weaponless, with my passport in hand.
I’ve figured out that when traveling internationally, in our current overweening, jittery, paranoid environment, attitude is very important.
My wife, SG, approaches the ticket counter, addresses the staff in a friendly manner, asks for nothing, and gets upgraded to Business Class.
I draw near the desk and the ticket agents take a step back, sniff my luggage, and have trouble finding my reservation.
I repeat to myself, “Keep quiet, keep quiet, keep quiet, shut up, shut up.”
Patience. Deep breathing. Evolve for Christsake.
Sunday is departure. December’s return is a long way off, schedules change, flights are cancelled, weather happens and angry security agents are waiting.
I know it was immature and useless but it felt really good to give the airborne finger to that perspiring, corrupt, officious dimbulb in Puerto Rico.

Thursday, September 20, 2012

Fine Wines


I’m preparing for another long stay in Paris, September through December. I have managed to spend an extended time in France every year or two. I rent the same apartment in the Marais district, go to the same cafes, use the same ATM, buy my bread at the same patisserie, step over the same bums on rue Saint-Antoine, shop at the same bookstores and grocery stores, and totally enjoy the coffee, the food, the art, the culture, the history and architecture.

“And the wine. Right?”

“No, I don’t drink.”

“How can you go to Paris and not drink wine?”

I was asked that question the other day. By a baboon. Who is also a lawyer and knows that I don’t drink.
It’s no big secret that, in the past, I’ve had some difficulty managing my intoxicants. I’ve used a broad spectrum of inebriates, narcotics, hallucinogenics and “performance enhancing” substances. I’ve also engaged in behaviors that could be termed risky and borderline. My friend A., who is about to receive a Doctorate in Behavioral Sciences, noted that I have a tendency towards “novelty-seeking behavior”. That sounded sort of middle class and weak and minimizing for some of the stuff I’ve done, but she’s a professional. It was a clinical observation and I don’t think it was meant as an insult.
Alcohol never did much good for me. Or anyone around me. My actions were selfish, stupid and dangerous. I was a limbic system with legs, a pleasure-seeking missile, decadent, a hedonist and a philanderer. I’m fortunate that I’m not spending my golden years in a Turkish prison or a long-term medical facility.
 I’ve crafted a method of travel that fits my interests, my budget, health and social requirements. Some snarky know-it-all usually has a competitive opinion or criticism about my choices and my system for living abroad. I’ve learned to expect it.

“You have to go to the top of Notre Dame. It’s worth the wait.”

“Don’t bother with the Louvre, it’s too crowded.”

“Why learn French? They all speak English.”

“Parisians hate Americans. Why go where you aren’t wanted?”

“It’s very expensive but the Frogs Legs are to die for.”

Please. No. Stop. Leave me alone. I don’t want to pay eight euro to climb the towers of Notre Dame. Am I a hunchback? The Louvre, jammed with people from all over the world, is always an amazing experience. I like speaking a little French, it helps considerably. I eat at inexpensive restaurants and get terrific meals. I don’t want Frogs Legs. Nothing is to die for. The Parisians have always treated me well. I like them a lot.
Years ago, the first time S. and I went to Paris for a long stay, I was telling some people about a good airfare deal I found, in economy class, and a man I know, and used to like, leaned across the table and said with a nasty smirk, “I always fly first class.” I almost smacked him.
Since then he’s had a heart attack, been investigated by the IRS, watched his business crumble and has moved into a much smaller house in a midrange neighborhood. I’m slightly sorry about his troubles, but when I think about that shitty “first class” crack, I’m glad that I have the restraint not to call him up in the middle of the night and ask how many free cocktails he downed on his most recent first class trip and then laugh insanely and hang up. I don’t drink and that also keeps me from making phone threats.
I try not to consume or acquire. Or drink. I save enough money to travel by living prudently and controlling myself. When I drank I didn’t travel. That is the simple aphorism that currently informs my life.
And we keep returning to Paris. I’m kind of surprised about how comfortable I am there. I’ve been to other places, beautiful places, but the first time I set foot in Paris I felt myself shift into a brand new sensory space. I was immediately comfortable. I spent six weeks alone the city in 2010 before S. joined me. I don’t speak very good French, I didn’t know anyone, and I felt isolated. Each day, after drinking lots of coffee and walking around the city, watching the river, checking out museums, I ended the day solo, solitary, by myself. I knew that if I died in my apartment, four floors up a narrow stairway in a 16th century building, I wouldn’t be found for weeks, if at all, and I’d be pretty repulsive. I worried about death and even considered drinking a little wine, a glass or two, to relax, to quiet the nattering voice of doom. I was tempted, but I know for sure that alcohol, for me, has never worked the way it’s supposed to.
There is more art, literature, politics, philosophy, architecture, music, food and history crammed into Paris than in any other place on earth. I was never, not for five minutes, bored. In 2010, after the first week and a few anxious nights of browsing wine lists, taking my pulse and looking up emergency numbers for English-speaking doctors and dentists, I overcame my sense of isolation, embraced my anonymity and seclusion, and had the greatest time of my life.
And how can I do this without drinking?
Jesus Christ. It’s not that there isn’t ample opportunity. I am surrounded by great, reasonably priced bars and cafes that serve fine wines in the most civilized and attractive environments. I stroll by a guy sitting alone under an awning at an outdoor table, smoking, reading a paper or magazine, writing in a journal, watching the passing crowd, sipping from his glass, and I know how simple it would be to order up a bottle of burgundy. I’d feel the warmth in my stomach and my facial muscles would relax. I’d have wonderful ideas and every word I jotted in my notebook would be exhilarating. Literature. Genius. I see that the bottle is almost empty and it’s only 8 P.M. Early. Too early to go home to my small Paris apartment. Une autre bouteille.
A short while later my mouth is hanging opened, my eyes are swollen, I’m smoking a harsh cigarette, coughing, I have heartburn, acid reflux, a chipped a tooth, and I’ve spilled a glass of wine across the table and it slowly drips onto my shoes; I look up, squinting at the other customers. They nervously avert their glances, whispering, and when I focus my blurred vision on the stained pages of my notebook I see that I’ve been writing strings of illiterate obscenities in English and French, bilingual filth, repeatedly, punctuated with several childish sketches of over-inflated female torsos. I have even included exaggerated anatomical details from memory.
Ten P.M. Still pretty early. I’ve forgotten where I am. Paris? Am I alone? What happened to the waiter? Does he sell drugs? Probably. There are not as many people in the cafĂ© and there is a buffer zone of empty tables between the nearest customers and me. No one looks in my direction. Ha. Bon. Bon temps. Bon soir. Bon vin. Plus de vin.

I don’t drink.
I can tell the baboon who wonders “How can you go to Paris without drinking” that I am allergic to liquor, I have an impaired pancreas, it’s a way to save money and to stay clear headed. I don’t go into great detail about why I avoid alcohol. The poor ape wouldn’t understand. The fact that he asked the question is an indication of his inability to comprehend that a person can travel, enjoy and enrich their lives without the addition of wine.
I just don’t want to explain, again, how glad I am to be alive living indoors. In Paris.

Friday, September 7, 2012

A Crappy Summer Job


I was watching the kid who works at the coffee shop while she was on her break. She sat down at a table outside and lit a cigarette and appeared perfectly at ease, unfazed, calmly enjoying her smoke. When she was done she would go back inside and take up her post at the counter. I watched, fascinated. When I was her age and worked my menial jobs, I could never achieve that level of detachement and relaxation.
 For most of my life I hated my occupations, my co-workers, my supervisors, bosses, offices, my desk, file cabinet, telephone, rolodex, the view, my clothing, uniforms, shoes, haircuts, duties and the parking lot where I parked my hated car.
The jobs were varied. In my early work experiences I dug holes, painted buildings, delivered furniture. I bagged and carried groceries, cleaned floors, drove trucks, and washed windows. I was a gardener, lifeguard, janitor, and sandwich-maker. I wore blue shirts in the warehouse, tan shirts on the truck and white shirts at the grocery store and all of them had pinpricks over the left pocket where I stuck my name tag every goddamned day.
I needed money so I took almost any position. I had no skills. Some of the work was hard, but it didn’t matter. Every day was difficult.
When I turned 18 I began drinking regularly and I woke up most mornings with a hangover. Thirsty, swollen, sticky, sore, a headache and usually a minor injury of some sort dictated how comfortable I was going to be that day on the job.
My clearest memories of a crappy summer job are associated with the time I was employed as a gardener’s assistant with August G. His unpronounceable  name started with a “G” and the rest consisted of combinations of consonants in the wrong places in relationship to vowels. Mr. G was a German immigrant and he was probably somewhere between 70 and 90 years of age.
This was decades ago, while I was killing time between college flunk-outs. August G advertised in the local paper for a helper. I was, again, out of work, so I applied. He interviewed me in the clean kitchen of his home, which was in a neat, upscale part of Marvista County. His wife was stout and friendly in a plain housedress, he was serious and wore brown khaki pants and a plaid shirt buttoned up to his throat. He took my name, asked a few questions (“Do you have a car?” “Can you be here at 7 a.m.?” “Are you strong?” Yes, yes, yes.)
His thick German accent was unusual for that part of Northern California. Most of the population were Italian-American and had a first generation grandmother, a Nonna, living in a converted basement room with bath. I was familiar with the Mediterranean intonations when applied to English; the lilt, the unnecessary vowels that ended many words and the romantic construction of the sentences.
Mr. G’s accent was harsh, clipped and cold . He sounded like the bad guys in a lot of the war movies I’d seen at the Saturday matinee.
He paid me a fair wage, not extravagant, but enough for gas, food, rent and beer, and I arrived at 7 a.m. five days a week. I’d park my car in front of his cottage and he’d drive us, in his pristine, perfect truck, into San Francisco to work in the lush gardens of the wealthy residents of Upper Broadway, Sea Cliff and Presidio Terrace. These were beautiful homes of marble and tile, fountains and fish ponds, swimming pools and palm trees. It was usually foggy as I pushed the lawnmower, raked leaves, pulled weeds and carried bags of trimmings to Mr. G’s, ancient, spotless pickup.
I was always hung over. Eighteen or nineteen years old and I wasted most evenings with erstwhile friends, listening to music, sitting in a beat up car and drinking beer, smoking. Most of the time someone would have a bottle of vodka to pass around, sometimes some pot. I hated the idea of getting up every morning, but I hated the idea of staying clear headed even more. If my friends weren’t available I would go to one of the nearby bars and drink with men and women who were ten, twenty years older than I was.
I’d get home at midnight, sometimes later, knowing perfectly well how I was going to feel in the morning. I’d had plenty of practice. I kicked off my clothes, flopped on the bed, dizzy, and I’d spin into a few hours of restless, guilty sleep.
The alarm was set but I was always awake before it rang, tangled in my sheet, nauseous. I was a little late and had to hurry to get to Mr. G’s place so I didn’t have much time for remorse. Dressed, sometimes shaved, I’d drive several miles in the early morning traffic, park my car behind the truck. I felt crappy when I saw how well the old man kept his vehicle; washed, tuned, detailed. My fourth-hand used car was full of books, magazines, empty beer cans and the ashtray was overflowing. The radio didn’t work and two windows were jammed closed. The tires were bald.
I’d knock on the heavy front door; August answered, ready to go. I was barely on time, and his brisk demeanor made me feel that I was letting him down. Did he know how crappy I felt? Did I look like I’d been up most of the night, muttering and laughing sourly in a dark car with a few friends or sitting in a smoky bar next to a sad woman who wore too much makeup?
“Good morning.” He didn’t remember my name. I’m sure of it. Whenever he needed me to do something he would just say, “Take those bags of leaves out to the truck”, or , “No, no, not like that. I showed you. This is stupid; it’s not how I showed you. Did you forget?” He was a prick.
“Good morning.” My reply to him was the first, sometimes the only words that I would speak all day, aside from “Good bye,” at five o’clock.
Lunch?
August would eat with the family of whomever we were working for. I found that interesting and odd. He would say, “OK, now we have lunch. I’ll be in the house. I eat mit the people who live here.”
I sat alone in the truck and ate whatever I’d brought from home, bread and cheese, salami, a piece of fruit. Sometimes I had a book or a comic and I’d read a chapter and then stare through the crystal clear windshield, looking at the homes. Money. Lots of it. I began wondering what was going on inside. Who the hell has their gardener in for lunch? What was it like to live in one of those clean, polished, light homes? I never saw any of the residents. Were they Germans, too? In my toxic reverie, I began to suspect that August had been a Nazi, a war criminal on the run or a political refugee who was now being protected and his crimes concealed by the United States Government. He was responsible for many deaths, was an officer in the SS, had killed thousands in cold blood. His clients were all part of a Nazi cult and plotted their next blitzkrieg during opulent lunches while I raked leaves just outside. Mr. G was the leader, codename: The Gardener, and he controlled them with an iron fist. The others were terrified of disappointing him.

After I finished my sandwich I’d get out of the truck, wander around the house until I found a hose and drink out of it for a long time. I was still hung over, dehydrated and very thirsty, and I gulped cold hosewater until I became soggy and bilious. When Mr. G finished his lunch he’d tell me to load up the tools and we’d go to our next job. We rode in silence until we pulled up in front of another palace, overlooking the San Francisco Bay with terrific views of the Pacific Ocean, the Headlands, and the Golden Gate Bridge. The residents of the houses had access to those views all day, every day. I was resentful, jealous, and miserable. The combination of discontent and bile was exhausting and my energy plummeted by the afternoon. Greasy and slow, I tried to avoid August as much as possible. He’d be doctoring some shrubs or cultivating a flower bed and I’d make it a point to get out of his line of site, light a smoke and sit in the shade. There were times when he’d come looking for me and when he spotted me lying back on a damp lawn he’d grunt and say, “Must do our work.”
I heaved myself up and went back to raking, trimming, loading, clipping. It was a long summer. I can’t remember if I had a girlfriend at the time, who I was hanging out with and what else I did when I wasn’t working. Reading, certainly; some writing. That summer is a cluttered, out-of-focus collage.
When the day was done we’d drive back across the Bridge and I could turn around and look at the homes perched on the cliffs overlooking the bay and recall the gardens, the ornate doorways, the tall windows and heavy curtains that were always drawn.
At home I’d take a nap, dress, eat, and count my pay. I calculated how much beer or wine I could afford, and if I had any money left over I could get some weed, maybe some cocaine, blunder through the night and wake up the next morning feeling sick and mad, ready to repeat another long, hard day.
That job and the way I felt every single morning helped me decide to go back to college. I still drank too much, but I managed to save some money and register for a few classes. I got away from The Gardener as soon as I could, took another job in a furniture warehouse, delivering and moving heavy hide-a-beds three days a week. It was indoors, there were no rich people to judge and disturb me and, along with my co-workers, I could drink beer on the job. I felt it was a step up from working with Mr. G.

The girl at the coffee shop was polishing off some kind of smoothie that looked healthy and refreshing. I’ve spoken with her and she’s funny, pleasant, and makes a good cup of coffee. In 40 years, how will she feel about her work? When she looks back on her life, will she regret this summer? Working with Mr. August G was pretty dismal, but, I’m grateful that I had the opportunity to experience that level of self loathing and resentment. After six more years I graduated from college and I never had another job that was quite so depressing. Maybe everyone needs to experience soul-crushing humiliation at certain times in their lives in order to change. I would have liked to work in a coffee shop. That tasty smoothie, cold, sweet, full of fruit and other healthy nutrients, would probably take the edge off of a hangover.