Never, Ever, Quit Smoking

People sure enjoy their cigarettes in Paris. Lots of grim smokers. My late friend Barry Lenhart had a theory that people should keep smoking in order to increase their offspring’s lung health and their ability to resist pollution, toxic waste, greenhouse gasses and other airborne poisons. In future, we will be overwhelmed by terribly tainted, thick, impossible air, so we should all be busy smoking cigarettes, right now, in order to weed out the weak. Those with stronger lungs will survive and metamorphose, and, Darwin-like, breed a stronger race of humans with the organs to resist cancer and emphysema and other terminal diseases. It was funny then, but by the number of fuckers who are smoking here in Paris, I can only hope that there is some validity to his sarcasm.

If you care about your children’s future, you selfish dimwits, smoke, and strengthen the evolutionary strain.

On the other hand, there are too goddamn many people everywhere. There are times when the Paris metro is a crushing nightmare, the buses are crammed, even the big comfortable trains are too full and it doesn’t look as though it’s going to improve.

Keep having children, breeders, go ahead, it’s your right, cough out those brats while you fight and vote and argue about when the fuck life starts, when a fetus becomes viable, God, the bible. Keep busy and distracted. Remember, though, that little bundle of desire is going to be drinking beer in about 16 years, and he’ll need a car. He’s going to want more food and his sister is going to be taking a shower every morning. Look outside. Is there enough room for a few more cars in your driveway? How’s the grocery bill? Food prices are going up, and so will the next gen’s need for high fructose corn syrup.

H2O? Easy as pie. It’s renewable, right? Rain replenishes the lakes, reservoirs, and aquifers. So, we get a choice: plants or hygiene. Want to be clean? OK, dig up the lawn, cut down the trees, pull out all the flowers. I don’t much give a crap for yard maintenance anyway, but I’ve always found a park a good place to hang out, get some sun, rest up, chill, draw, read, visit with friends, but we are going to need parking lots and, I guess, clothing stores. Have to keep the economy chugging along and the marketing of dumbass fashion to tasteless illiterates seems to be a fairly efficient way of stacking up the cheddar.

Last week I was on a metro that was Blade Runner-crowded. It was what I imagined the fall of Saigon was like. Or Lawrence of Arabia. Refugees escaping a civil war. Except they were just people from the suburbs trying to get into the city at 3 p.m. in order to do some necessary and satisfying shopping for the latest frigging shoes, shirts, and scarves. 

I knew there wouldn’t be anyplace to sit on the train. Seats go to the people who get on at the first station. If you’re waiting at the second stop, tough luck. I stood. OK, I'm used to it; I stand on public transportation. We had 13 more stops until I reached my destination and that would take about a half hour. Otherwise it was a two or three hour walk. Fine, The metro is fast. And full. At the next platform more people got on and that was it. The End. Topped off. We were fully stocked, layered in, pressed together. No more room. At each successive station more people pushed into the flesh wall. By the fifth stop I was face to face with some guy whose hand was loosely cupped around my crotch and there was nothing I could do. He didn’t appear to be too upset by our intimacy, but man, I’m just not used to strangers touching me like that. Not since I quit drinking.  There was no place to go, couldn’t move, couldn’t even shift my weight to my other foot, since someone else was using it to stand on. It was pretty goddamn uncomfortable with a low level claustro-panic coming on. I held my breath and eventually, as we got closer to the city center, people began spurt out.

Too many people. Too many children. What happened to the healthy idea of birth control, family planning, abortion on demand, Planned Parenthood? Jesus Christ, is everyone asleep or just waiting for the neighbors to tie their own goddamn tubes? 

But they smoke. Lots of smoking. Their kids will begin to mutate, their genes will scar in favor of future air quality and great shoe sales.

Or there may be a decent balance. Have a kid, die of cancer. Makes sense. Not terribly scientific, but somewhat satisfying to consider that every dogwipe who still smokes is maximizing their chances for an early death. They know, by now, that they will in all probability expire painfully, choking and gasping for breath, sucking air through the holes in their throats, clawing at the bedclothes, feeling their organs shutting down, begging for relief but glad they kept on smoking and proud that they were rebels.

They didn’t take any shit from the nannies that legislated against them and eyed them in restaurants and bars as though they were mass murderers instead of simpleminded, ignorant suicides.

Never quit smoking. The benefits to society are too important.

Feng Shui with Marie Antoinette

Marie Antoinette and I share the same birthday. November 2. Her’s was in 1755, which placed her in an unfortunate political, social, and eventually fatal, historical situation.

Yesterday we went to Versailles; got an early train, and spent the entire day there. Up at seven, which is very, very early in Paris, where the sun doesn’t appear until eight-ish. At home, in New Mexico, we get bright sunlight all day, sometimes as early as 5:15 a.m.  The winter days are clear and light, too. I didn’t realize I had seasonally affected disorder until it went away.

There are very few things I believe in. Not God, not UFOs, not Bigfoot or Astrology, Past Lives, Karma or most cases of Lupus. Sorry to all my Sagittarius, Lupus, and Yeti friends.

But I know that some seemingly strange things are real, observable and quantifiable. 

Feng Shui.

Not the traditional old-school religious Feng Shui, but the new age, architectural form which claims that the arrangement of structures and windows and furniture influence the people who use built environments. It’s real. I can walk into an apartment and immediately feel good and at home. Sanctuary. Comfort. The way light enters the room through the windows is important as well as the placement of the furniture, colors, and airflow. I appreciate clean surfaces. I used to think all a room needed was an open bar, but I was wrong. Once I sobered up, I realized that angular furniture, ugly wallpaper, and shag carpet were contributing to my hangovers.

Aromatherapy.

Snicker if you will, but the smells of pine, lavender, cinnamon, garlic and fresh bread change my mood as quickly as a shot of brandy and a line of coke. Several years ago I received a good deal on a terrific room on the 68^th floor of the Swissotel in Singapore. It cost a load of dough even with the discount, but it came with an Aromatherapist. I laughed it off for a few nights and then I began going through the aroma menu and choosing lemon, rose, or musk. When the nice aroma lady dropped in, around 8 p.m., she’d note my selection and set up a little oil lamp. I enjoyed it immensely and found that I relaxed and was calmer, even though, with the discount, I was still paying around $400 a day for the room. It totally works.

And sunlight.

After living in New Mexico for six months, I wondered if it was the right move. Lots of busted 12-packs on the roadside, crazy goddamned dogs, and a broad cross section of whacked out people contributed to my unease. I was a long way from my California comfort zone. Alcoholism and drug addiction, which I hoped I’d put behind me, were prevalent, and there was no Italian food.

 

The natural beauty was abundant, though, and I could achieve silence and relaxation and solitude with little effort. I have a quiet home with terrific views and the pine forests are about 20 minutes away by car. I like a little snow and it never gets too hot. Plenty to like, plenty to dislike, same as everywhere. Even with the litter and the dysfunctional government and limited medical services, I felt good almost all of the time; much better than I thought I would. 

I was seeing a doctor for some reason, a knee problem, blood pressure, flu, and I told him that I wasn’t all that secure in my move to New Mexico, but I felt great, healthy, happier. 

“It’s the sun. We get lots of sunshine here. You probably have seasonally affected disorder, depressed in fog and rain and overcast. We don’t have much of that, and you’re experiencing the benefits of vitamin D and long hours of sunlight.”

It has rained in Paris for most of the past three weeks. I was beginning to become depressed with the low, darkgray skies and though Paris is architecturally incredible, it’s a 19^th century city and crowded, so Feng Shui and private space are impossible considerations. For the past week, however, the weather’s been phenomenal. Bright blue skies over the Seine, a few pink clouds behind Notre Dame in the evening and the trees are changing color.  It’s picturesque as hell, and I like walking around the city without an umbrella. 

A few years ago we went to Versailles on a sunny, warm September Sunday and it was so mobbed that I took one look at the outside of the chateau, turned around, got on the train and went back to the city. I gave it another try yesterday and, though it was foggy, it remained dry, and cool, and the palace was oddly uncrowded. We bought tickets and explored the overdone rooms, incredibly painted ceilings and gilded staircases. We could wander around without being crushed, shoulder-to-shoulder in small spaces with thousands of other visitors. Nice. The Versailles Chateau is a world heritage site and it should be. It’s also and accurate indictment of the monarchy and what can happen when a few people have too much power and money. I don’t approve of the brutality that followed the Revolution, but I completely understand it. As we walked through chambers of riches I initially found myself getting bored. In my mind I was chanting, “Seen it, don’t care, more crap, seen it, familiar, waste of time, don’t care, crap.” 

Then I got pissed. 

“How could these dipshits have so much? I mean, they were born into it, it’s not like they ever goddamned worked. Concentration of wealth is dangerous and deadly. I’m glad they were murdered and guillotined. Fuck em, I’d have been in the front lines dragging them out of their beds with their wives and children, this crazy shit has to stop!”

Unfortunately, I wasn’t just saying this in my mind.

It was time to explore the Gardens of Versailles. 

The more than three square miles of forests on the grounds of Versailles are landscaped and aromatic and perfect. Entry is free during the off-season. It’s like an insane saint’s image of heaven or a desperate attempt to recreate John Milton’s lost Paradise. There is still plenty to hate out in the rolling gardens, such as the nice little pink marble palace that Josephine got in her divorce settlement from Napoleon and Marie Antoinette’s estate, where the soon-to-be-headless fruitcake built a little hamlet with a mill and inns and towers. She used to get done up like a shepherdess tending pre-washed sheep and milking hand-picked cows. I am not kidding when I say I walked around for five hours, breathing in the sweet aromas of grasses and flowers, feeling the light as the sun broke through the fog. Don’t tell me about Feng Shui, either. These thieves had it down with the winding pathways, mazes, ponds and trees, even a meadow for Marie Antoinette’s flock. It was like being inside of a Monet or Cézanne. And it was almost real; real enough for me, anyway, after the expanding rage motivated by the opulence and undeserved wealth and power that the chateau represented. I know that the grounds were just the front yard of the ruling morons, but there were lovely places where I could gratefully forget the politics of the past and present.

I can’t completely understand why I keep coming back to Paris. It’s one of the personal mysteries that I have given up trying to figure out. I love it here; the size, history, culture, art, food, all of it, even the sometimes disgusting smells and the dark rain and the crowded, unaesthetic metro. There is no reason why I should feel so at home here, but I do. 

I also know, absolutely and without question, that I must get outdoors once in a while, away from the palaces and mansions. If I don’t, I begin thinking about spoiled, over-privileged Marie Antoinette (a Scorpio), the oh-so-goofy queen of France, all dressed up like Little Bo-Peep, scolding her sheep, sniffing the clover, delightfully unaware that she is about to have her empty head hacked off by an angry nation engaged in a bit of Political Feng Shui.

Why I Miss The Seventeenth Century

     The “O” key on my computer seems to be sticking. That’s not cool at all. I really have to be able to use the “OoOo” key. Too many words require the use of the letter “O”. I wonder if I can write a thousand words without it? An Oulipian experiment? Crap. My usual approach to repairs, household, automotive, technological, is to wait and hope that the problem will solve itself and become magically fixed. I don’t think that I am capable of repairing it myself; I’m full of self-doubt and my inner voice tells false tales of the harshness and greed of the world and inhibits me from asking for assistance. I will fail, they will rob me, take advantage of me, steal, destroy, make it worse, humiliate me in some way. Pricks. I must be ready, at all times, for attack.

     I just took a small business card-sized piece of paper and ran it around the “o” key and it is now working perfectly. That is, in fact, a much more common method for fixing problems. A simple tool, an instinctual thought, a deft and economic motion and, et voila, il est repare. You just have to shake your head.

     On the way about my business I noted that there is still construction going on at Eglise Saint-Paul-Saint-Louis. It’s the landmark building in our quartier. They have cleaned it since last we were here in 2010. Then, it was a huge dark threatening slab of religious stone looming over the St. Paul area of the Marais. If I lean out of my living room window and look to the left, I can see the church at the end of the block and it fills the sky. In the past year or so they’ve cleaned it, ground off the accumulated centuries of weather, coal and exhaust that blackened it. Now, it’s creamy white, the natural color of the limestone blocks that have been in place for 400 years. It’s the church where the kings were baptized as infants, before assuming the mantel of monarchy and before the revolution.

     The tall wooden doors have been repainted a blood red, the massive columns are smooth and all the detail of the carved capitals is visible. The giant clock above the entrance has been reconditioned; it is colorful and a bit disorienting. I’d expect it to be on the front of a bank and not a church. Another Christian reminder that “time is running out?” Goddamned busybodies.

     Paris, like everywhere else, is changing, getting in line with the superficiality of the 21st century. The bar where we used to hang out, Le Dome, has been renamed Le Favorite and the prices have doubled. The tangerines, which we ate by the dozen, are harder to peel, larger; they’re probably from another country, cheaper to import. Also, there is the noticeable disappearance of booksellers, both French and English language.

     On our block there was the Librairie Charlemagne, a cluttered Parisian stationary and bookstore. Now, it’s Maje, an upscale boring clothing outlet. The Village Voice, a great English language bookstore in the fifth arrondissement has closed and The Red Wheelbarrow, with a good selection and a friendly owner, is selling their stock and closing. Will all bookstores eventually become clothing stores? Another great city becomes a mall. It diminishes the culture. The external life, “how do I look”, becomes more important than the internal, intellectual world.  I don’t much care about fashion. I’m not so poor that my self-esteem is tied up with how close to the wealthy and privileged I can make myself look, which costume to wear. I’m not rich and detached enough to waste money setting myself apart from the subspecies of poor, middle class, and working people.

     I like bookstores more than clothing stores. I like grocery stores more than clothing stores. I like hardware stores more than clothing stores. Pretty soon, I guess, everything will be coming to us via online shopping, which is convenient and cheap. Everything except clothes, because we are all still built differently and you pretty much have to try on a pair of pants before you buy them. I guess, if I was rich and insulated from the real world, I’d hire a personal shopper who would come by the house every week, take my measurements, adjust for diet, and go off with my account numbers to top off my ego. For now, I hit Target or Penny’s once a year and stock up.

     Paris seems to be changing from a literary, political, artistically rich culture into a shallow, badly lit shopping center.

     You are what you think other people think you look like.

As I laps into bitterness I’m walking by Eglise Saint-Paul-Saint-Louis. There is a group of workers struggling with a huge stone section of one of the main columns that holds up the front of the church. A drunk, crouched in a small alcove, laughs at them as they struggle to slide the giant block into place. It’s a thick section of limestone, very heavy, perhaps close to a thousand pounds, and cumbersome. A hook is attached to the top of the stone and nine men are maneuvering a block and tackle system into place so that they can move the piece.

     They must look like the same guys who built the cathedral centuries ago. Lean, serious men, dressed in canvas pants, covered in dust, each in his position, making eye contact, muttering directions. They’ve got the stone halfway in place and then a big guy steps up with a long-handled, heavy rubber mallet, much bigger than a sledgehammer, and pounds hard on the front of the curved surface of the section, moving it into place, millimeter by millimeter. One of the workers is wearing a dirty beret, another has a rag wrapped around his head, turban-like. The rest are wearing toques and bandanas and could have modeled for a painting by Millet or Caillebotte.

     I’m not alone. A lot of people have stopped to watch the work. A woman smiles at me as she walks away, as delighted with the scene as I am. There is something important about a group of people watching others doing a difficult job, a job that can only be done by hand, delicately and with purpose. It’s genuine and ageless in a rapidly changing and frivolous world. The stupid clothing store across the street, which has taken the place of the Librairie Charlemagne, looks thin and dull. I’m sure that I’m romanticizing the event; the church, the stone, the drunk, the authenticity of the work, the domination of modern culture by the artificial and synthetic.

     So what? It’s why I’m here, in Paris, again. I’m a romantic, and what better place to practice romanticism? I’m glad that I saw those guys working on the church, otherwise I’d just drift around looking for trouble.

     Also, and I know it’s not the same as moving a thousand pound stone into place while being ridiculed by a drunk, I fixed my “O” key.

Butter for Health: A Doctor's Advice

Our guest editor, Dr. Rado Gjalpe, is an internationally acclaimed scientist and highly respected expert on the subjects of Art, Music, Literature, Diet, and Sex. Today, Dr. Gjalpe responds to inquiries from an American traveler, Joseph, who is living in Paris and has some concerns about his increasing use of butter.

Doctor Gjalpe, how much Butter should I eat?

There is really no limit. I recommend eating butter three times a day. Studies have been inconclusive about how much butter the human body really needs. Let’s just assume that we are not getting enough and take every opportunity to enjoy this wonderful food.

Isn’t butter supposed to be bad for you?

My God, this old fairy tale keeps coming up every few years. No, emphatically, butter is not “bad” for you. Butter is excellent for the circulation, the immune system and hair growth, and is one of the healthiest foods every produced. I wish the fundamentalists would do their homework and study some science before making these “faith-based”, uneducated claims.

I’ve heard that butter can raise cholesterol levels. True?

If it did, wouldn’t cows have high cholesterol? Cows are second only to dolphins as the healthiest mammals in the animal kingdom.

Dr. Gjalpe, what is your favorite way to eat butter?

Naked. If I can’t be naked while eating my butter, if, for instance, I am in a public place in broad daylight and there are children present, then I prefer it slathered on a large piece of crusty bread.

Does the human body build up a tolerance for butter as we age?

Yes, of course. Our bodies require more of everything as we grow older and we must increase the amount we use in order to maintain optimum satisfaction and health. It’s similar to the actions of certain prescription drugs. There is nothing wrong with keeping up a healthy level of both.

Is it a myth that butter increases the sex drive?

It's not a myth. Native Americans and the tribal peoples of Tibet considered butter an aphrodisiac for centuries. In 1947, researchers from Johns Hopkins University, in cooperation with scientists at the University of Basel in Switzerland, discovered that butter did, in fact, increase sexual vitality in both men and women to a significant and measurable degree. Further studies have proven, beyond a doubt, that people who eat large quantities of butter produce a certain pheromone-like secretion that makes them much more attractive to potential sex partners. They generally live 5 to 15 years longer than the average and remain sexually active, vigorously so, to a ripe old age. Many die in their late 90s during the act of coitus.

Thank you, Doctor Gjalpe. You’ve certainly put my mind to rest.

You are very welcome, Joseph, and thank you for asking these important questions. I find it sad that more people are not interested in the healthy consumption of quality butter. You are to be commended. Please, before accepting the advice of religious zealots and so-called “health” experts, always consult with a doctor such as myself. Reject religion and embrace science and enjoy your butter.

The Secret Behind the Bookcase

A week has passed already. Paris has been great, with a few problems, nothing severe. We’re settling into our odd apartment. The furniture is tattered but fairly comfortable. There are two three-quarter-sized sofas that can support us for an evening of reading, writing, laughing. One is rose red, the other a canvas-gray.  A lumpy queen-sized bed, a luxury, fills the small pink bedroom. The unfathomable telephone is on a tiny table near the kitchen door and underneath is a tangle of French wiring and cables for the TV, Internet, phone and DVD. Every year that we stay here I hope nothing goes wrong with that crap, or that it ignites. Four floors up a narrow 16th century staircase, we’d be done for. The sisal floor covering smells sour on humid days and every day is humid, but it’s tolerable. There are no goddamn closets and the oven is a complete mystery.

The toilet is always a laugh. I’ll bet a lot of people can’t say that. The big bathtub, sink, mirrors and shelves full of towels and bedding are in a well lit tiled space connected to the bedroom. The toilet, or WC, itself, is right off the living room behind a bookshelf. Over the years tenants have left behind paperback books, everything from Kerouac and LeCarre to Danielle Steel and Agatha Christie. A couple hundred abandoned books. Ours are here from the past five years, my copy of Les Miserables, a couple of pulpfiction airplane books and some Graham Greene. Three walls of shelving have been built to accommodate all of this literature and behind one section is the toilet. The thick, cork-lined wall swings out and, voila, there is le toilet, discretely stationed in a closet that sticks out into the living room, two feet from the red sofa. For some reason there’s a full-length mirror on the wall, facing the user, which is a bit daunting. To watch one’s form? To see oneself at one’s most vulnerable. It sort of works. The first time we saw the positioning of this most intimate of appliances, we were surprised. It’s like something left over from the pre-revolution days of intrigue and romance. A secret passageway/toilet for discrete liaisons.

We Americans have a great need for privacy, particularly when it comes to personal sanitary functions. The French, I think, are much more open about bodies and how they operate, and now, so are we. There is no way to use the loo, which for all intents and purposes is located in the living room behind a thin layer of cheap paperbacks, without acknowledging the existence of anyone else in the room. We grow more intimate with each passing jour.

I promise I’m not going to write too much about the bathroom. I am not fascinated by what happens there. Sure, I like a bath from time to time, but the rest of it is just the confidential detritus of the day, so to speak.

I’m a self conscious American and have spent much of my life trying to understand the world or how it operates. It wasn’t until I began traveling extensively that I found I was a part of a really big picture and I didn’t matter all that much. It was a revelation and an interesting feeling, that of insignificance and anonymity. I travel and learn from those around me.

Paris is full of hip, skinny, well coiffed overdressed youngsters, barking and gawking and hopping up and down. It’s too late for that and I’m grateful.

But there’s an old dude who I’ve seen several times as he wanders back and forth on the Rue de Rivoli. He’s anywhere from seventy to ninety years old, short and bent. His shoes are scuffed but serviceable and he wears an old tweed suit with a yellowing shirt, wrinkled and stained, unlaundered, I’m afraid, for years. The green overcoat falls below his knees almost to his ankles and his brown cap sits squarely on his head, like a roof. He has thick hair in his ears, is unshaven with bushy eyebrows. He moves slowly, much more slowly than the rest of the foot-traffic on the busy street. Everyone passes him. He keeps his hands in his pockets, an unlit cigarette hanging off his lower lip and he strolls.

That’s it. The image is one of absolute unconcern and blankness. He has given up hygiene, style, and companionship. He is self-assured and confident. I may be inventing a lot of these traits for him, but what convinces me is that his zipper is always down. His fly is perpetually opened.

I don’t think he’s purposely exposing himself; it’s not a perversion. He’s not an animal, for Christ’s sake. He ambles and when the need strikes him, he steps into an alcove and relieves himself against a wall, modestly engulfed in his shapeless green coat. His life has been reduced to a slow walk and necessary functions. Other people, culture, politics, history and philosophy are of no concern. I am curious about what goes on in his mind, if anything. I haven’t given him a name; it would be unfair.

He’s either a demented old Frenchman who has completely given up or else he is self-contained and living in the absolute moment, admirably indifferent about the complications and enigma of the modern world. He may be drunk.

I don’t know what to believe. It doesn’t matter, I guess. I can only make up stories about the old guy, watch him and wonder if I could live that way, totally insane or totally free.

I have a long way to go; I admit it. I am concerned that the sleeves of my sport coat are an inch too long and I try to keep up with traffic as I barge along with the rest of the pedestrians, dodging buses and bicycles. I’m embarrassed when a native laughs at my pronunciation of French words and I’m a little claustrophobic on the metro. Suppose I order the wrong thing for lunch? Should I buy a hat or use an umbrella when it rains? Am I eating too much butter?

And I’m still getting used to the toilet behind the bookcase.

Roadrunner, Skin Care, and Luggage

September 30, 2012

Departure.

            Finished packing. Loaded car. Drove to ABQ. 2 hours 10 minutes. Seamless and easy. Coffee at the Purple Sage. Crappiest muffin I’ve ever had. At the airport we mailed our absentee ballots and saw a roadrunner. Very cool. The cartoon symbol of confident, indomitable, eternal frustration.  At the airport, more expensive crapfood for 15$. Tiny Dannon yogurt, two hardboiled eggs, three small pieces each of celery and carrots, orange juice, 2 coffees. Fifteen dollars.

I’ve been hearing the soundtrack to South Pacific, again, running through my head all day. Happens a lot.

What the hell don’t people understand about the concept of carryon luggage? Do not bring huge, cumbersome, heavy, overstuffed, hard to manage bags that the owners cannot lift or move around in the narrow crowded aisles. Really, dimwit, if you packed it, you handle it. Can’t lift it over your head to the luggage racks? Tough shit, loser. It’s always amusing to watch the beta codependents helping some entitled arrogant piece of refuse who can’t hoist his/her own bag. I do not budge. Ever. If the goddamn thing falls on the owner and crushes him, trapping him, he can damn well get up without my help, or die. See this Mr. or Ms. VIP? This small bag with a paperback, a notebook, an iPod and a spare pair of glasses? That’s my carryon. Everywhere. Paris, Singapore, Hawaii, Vegas. Everywhere. Apparently, I am able to bear the agony of waiting ten minutes for my luggage to come around the carousel so I can snag it. You entitled, needy waste of clothes. I figure by your shorts, Harley Davidson tattoo and tank top that there isn’t anyone waiting for you. You have nothing to be late for, Mr. VIP.

I also noticed that there is now a sign, just as we enter the TSA screening area at the Albuquerque Airport, that says, “If you were born before today’s date in 1937, you don’t have to remove your light jacket or shoes.” More perks and special treatment for the goddamned old people. Aged elderly seniors. Dues paying AARP members.  Some security genius has decided that there are no terrorists over the age of 75. He’s never dropped into Matteucci’s for a drink before 8 a.m.

October 1, 2012

Arrival.

An exceptional trip. No hassles, no trouble, all minor divergences quickly and efficiently overcome. Big ups to American Airlines and Captain Pyle, the two (!) first officers and particularly to the well-fed flight attendants, aging women and men who are the experienced front line representatives of this amazing, patriotic organization.

The flight from Dallas was late getting off the ground by 45 minutes or so. Captain Pyle, who insisted on introducing himself every time he made an announcement, (as if I was going to remember his name, write a nice recommendation to American Airlines for him), reminded us of how delighted and honored American was to have us “choose” them to be our airline. He knows, really knows and appreciates that we have lots of options and he’s very happy and grateful that we picked his airline.

He explained about the delay. It appears that there are other planes using the runway and we have to wait our turn. This always sounds like bullshit to me. Don’t they have air traffic controllers? Line them up and make them take off for God’s sake. From where I’m sitting, in my lumpy cramped seat, I can see at least 4 other giant runways empty and disappearing into the long, flat, Texas distance. It’s Dallas, the biggest, most annoying city in the US. Everything they have is better than all the rest of us. Sports teams undefeated, women with hair the size and density of furniture, 96-ounce steaks. But our airplane, part of the fleet of one of the biggest companies in world history, named after the country wherein they are stationed, “American” goddamnit, can’t take off on time because the line’s too long? It’s Sunday. There was no traffic on the road. Security took five minutes. There are no other planes in sight. I am losing confidence, Captain Pyle.

Once up, though, it was pretty easy. Nine and three quarters hours from Dallas to Paris. It’s almost miraculous as one flies out of Texas, looking through the window at the flat, hot land, pickup trucks speeding along frontage roads, shopping malls in a sea of automobiles, and then, nine hours later, a little more than a soul numbing shift at Wal-Mart or Burger King, we’re seeing small villages far below, surrounded by well-tended green fields, meandering streams, all punctuated by church steeples and surrounded by feathery forests two thousand years old. Nine quick hours. The plane was old, still had the ashtrays, welded closed, on the armrest. The in-flight entertainment consisted of unheard of and unreviewed films shown on several small screen TVs affixed to the ceiling. No one watched.

All of the women flight attendants had excellent haircuts and they kept shaking their heads so we could all watch their thick dyed locks fly around the cabin like birds of prey, and then fall back into place, finding their nests, settling in until the next time she needed to laugh, gesture, or indicate confusion. Man, who the hell cuts their hair? Fabulous. It must be one of the benefits of working for American Airlines.

“Sure we took your pension and terminated you because you had gained twenty pounds and are over 50, but you’ve got to admit, you’ve had some marvelous haircuts.”

The men on the staff all looked like the creepy guy who stocks shelves down at the liquor store.

On our plane, first class really sucked. I guess. I only travel in coach with the proletariat. No complaints but, wow, if that had been my first experience with the whole American bullshit class system, (we are more valuable than you, look where we get to sit), I’d have been super-pissed. The seats weren’t much better than coach’s, they got the same blankets, had to watch the same crap movie on little obsolete screens and were of cramped and sweaty with a little extra leg-room. I checked them out a few times during the flight and they didn’t look like they were having a big party, either. I guess they got free drinks but for my money none of them took advantage of that grand extra special deal.  If I would have found myself in that situation after having forked out $4000 for the privilege of being only 10 percent better than the schmucks in coach, I’d have drained the liquor cabinet and at least taken off my pants and demanded a foot rub. Maybe a haircut.  But they all disembarked with no staggering and no belligerent remarks or inappropriate offers made to the crew. It’s true, I guess; I don’t belong in first class.

They had nice skin, though, the first class passengers. I can’t figure that out, unless there is a special additive in the air recycling system for first class. Maybe the well-coiffed attendants rub moisturizer on them while they’re asleep, to sort of make up for the crappy movies and uncool seats, the smell, humidity, and cheap vodka. A more obvious answer is that those who can afford first class and think they deserve it have the leisure and money to take better care of their skin. Spas and saunas and expensive oils and lotions are part of the whole class system in America, aren’t they? I try to make eye contact with this pampered part of the herd, the filet mignon of travelers, and I smirk and nod knowingly as they nervously watch us board. I imagine that they are hoping that none of us, the ones who will be sitting in slightly smaller, narrower, harder seats, with little personal attention to our dry, un-oiled skin, are about ready to have a revolutionary moment and screw up their vacations. But it was a fine flight and we all coexisted in the little silver airborne microcosm of society as we took off. We arrived in Paris nine hours later, hardly long enough to get beverage service, dinner, have a short nap and listen to all the announcements that were broadcast at high volume to a disco beat. 

The luggage took about ten minutes to locate, all safe and sound, un-ransacked, proving my point that there is no need for giant, frustrating dipshit carryon. Our cab driver was holding a sign with my name misspelled as usual. He spoke no English, but got us to the apartment, called ahead so that a young man was there with keys and departed with a smile. I walked to the ATM, took out a few hundred Euros and had a cup of coffee at La Favorite, formerly Le Dome, remodeled and upscaled. The waiter, a wild looking guy right out of an old can-can poster, corrected my French good-naturedly. Afterwards I went to the river and walked along one of the quays, shopped for fruit and yogurt at the grocery store, bought a baguette and a small round of Camembert. It’s six p.m. and I’m tired, safe, well fed, inspired, comfortable. One the way back our building I noticed that all the Pharmacies sell special French moisturizers and anti aging snakeoil. I’ll probably give some of it a try while I’m here. Can’t hurt. My skin will look first class, even if I’m not. Perhaps I’ll just spend three months writing about skin care products, testing and reviewing them. To the soundtrack of South Pacific.