God's Decadent Hand Strikes Again

To recap to the quick my sorry decadent tale, I must first make a long and circuitous detour through the tale of last Thursday. I was supposed to meet my aunt Daphne at her hotel at 9:30, but because I had a discussion section in Montmart, and I took an absolutely idiotic route back, I was running late. Also, for some reason I didn't realize I was running late, and decided to have a leisurely dinner at the cafeteria. So it's 9:30 when I check the time, but since it's Paris, and the subway system seems to provide miracles to those in need more frequently than the big G-dubs, I had hope that I might only be ten minutes late.

Sadly I was wrong, and despite running like a crazed panther through the metro stations, it takes me thirty-five minutes to get there. Also, I was running in a coat so I'm sweaty and disgusting, which is exactly how one wants to be when going out for a nice appertif. I run up to the hotel, burst through the door, and expect to find my aunt tapping her watch, tisk tisk. But she's not there. I frantically tell the attendant working there "Je suis retard," and then wince at the bilingual pun I've delivered at my own expense. Thankfully the attendant didn't speak English, so saw no problem with my statement that I was retard, and asked me who I was trying to meet. When I gave him the name, he looked puzzled, at first because the last name was clearly Chinese, and I looked to him like an Italian, but later because he had no record of this person coming to the hotel. I asked him if I could check my email, so he says of course, but the only email is on his machine, which he says I am welcome to do. So I come behind the attendants desk and check my email, and show him the email that says I'm supposed to meet here. But then I realize it's only NEXT WEEK that I'm supposed to be here. I explain my mistake to him, and he starts laughing. I tell him thanks so much for letting me use the computer, and that I'd see him same place same time next week.

And so next week came, that was today, and I arrive on time as a good nephew should. The guy behind the desk sees my face, "Ah, Monsieur Retard!" he says, perhaps knowing now the double-entendre. I laugh, and we chat a little bit about whether I know which room she's staying in or whether he should ring her to come down. Anyways, my aunt comes down, and we go out to eat dinner.

At dinner we sit at a lovely square on Rue Mouffetard. After five minutes of eating, what looks and sounds like the rotary club of Boor County, USA shows up to eat dinner. The leader of the pack, who bore an uncanny physical resemblance to Gary Herrigel, for those who know him, immediately identifies himself to the waiter as a boor, by saying "Nous are six, c'est bon?" He then attempts to speak French with me, as his wife and the other members of the married swingers society of Boormouth, Connecticut, look on adoringly. After two minutes of confused conversation, which mostly consisted of me suggesting to him that we should speak English, he determines that I am neither a French person refusing to speak French with him, nor an Italian who doesn't know French, but am a real flesh and blood American. He asks where I go to school, and then I say U of C. He says, "Oh yes, a marvelous school. Saul Bellow went there, have you read Ravelstein by Saul Bellow?" "No," I tell him, parenthetically thinking that Bellow's writing career should have died before he got old. "Oh, well you should, it's a really marvelous book. What do you study in school?" Math, I tell him. "Oh Math, that's wonderful. You know my nephew just got an 800 on the Math SAT." Thankfully a street-performer dressed like Indiana Jones began accosting the boor and I went back to my meal.

The meal proceeded for the next twenty minutes without major events, although from a mix up of dishes I managed to infer that my French enunciation is not sufficiently clear as to differentiate the words "Jambon" and "Saumon."

And then suddenly, the ultimate restaurant event, which comedians and writers often fantasize about, actually happens. An ambulance pulls up to the restaurant, paramedics go into the restaurant, and emerge three minutes later with the prostrate form of a man laid out on a stretcher, covered by some kind of cloth. And then the paramedics leave the body out on the restaurant patio for five minutes, while they take care of some things. That's right folks, tonight's entertainment on the deck tonight will be a corpse. Five tables immediately clear, the customers throwing money down on the table in excess of whatever there bill was, just so that they could flee the presence of the recently deceased. But then as I look around at the rest of the people, it sort of becomes clear, that if we've stayed this long, we're not going to leave, and if we're not going to leave, then we might as well finish our dinner. Another five minutes pass and the eating, smoking, drinking, and joyous merry-making, continues as it was before, all within ten feet of a dead body. Pretty, pretty decadent.

It goes without saying that the Boorish Mafia decided to keep stuffing their faces, and I mention in closing the final discussion I had with the head boor. He leans over to our table and asks me, "So we were all wondering, what's the relationship of you two." Meaning me and my aunt Daphne. "Are you two married?" Now the only sense I can make of the boors thinking here, was that Daphne is Asian, and that it would be clearly impossible for an Italian, Jew, or Lebanese-whatever to have an asian person in their family. Daphne starts cracking up, and I say, "No she's my aunt." The boor seemed unconvinced, Daphne says, "His mother is my husbands cousin. He and my sons have the same Great-Grandparents." The boor says, "Ah some sort of God-child arrangement," and then seems satisfied.

Some Belle Gens Visit Brussles

In accordance with my most fervent wish, to set my feet on as many parts of Europe as possible, without having to travel very long or for very much money, I journeyed with the dear squire Henderson, and his journeyman Elan Bechor, to Brussels, capital of Europe, seat of the world.

We rode together on the same fire-tempered steed the dear squire Henderson once rode from Amsterdam: Eurolines - "THE BEST ride in Europe FOR UNDER 40 euro." We thought to arrive early to the bus station, perhaps to manger a croissant and cafe as we looked out upon the bounty of Gare D'Est. But it was for not, as the once glorious Gare D'Est has become banlieu-ized [a word which figuratively means ghettoized, but literally means suburbanized). The only thing we could find was a strange peasant bakery that served several varieties of a pauper pastry which they call "Paul." We tried to order several of these "Pauls," but alas, it was for not. Their peasant dialect was too unsophisticated to understand our simple request, "Je voudrais un Paul, s'il vous plait."

The aphetamated turk who drove the our bus struggled mightily against Friday traffic, but it was for not. Our arrival in Brussles was much delayed, and it was nearly nightfall when we arrived. The turk, possibly in violation of our ticket agreement, deposited us in a deserted parking lot with no train station in sight. Alone, cold, and confused in a city we knew not; we wandered aimlessly; Flemish street signs with words like "Velcome!" and "Main Straat" meaning nothing to us. By sheer luck we managed to find our hotel, Hotel De France, positioned appropriately next to a gay strip joint called "The 3000 Club."

Our logging was ample, as is fitting for men of our stature. We drop our bags and set off for the heart of the city. As we walk to the center of the city it slowly dawns on us that the flowing script on all the businesses could not be either Flemish, or Dutch, and that the burka was not known to us to be a traditionally Belgian garb. Henderson's journeyman remarks, "Hey guys, I think our hotel is in the Arab quarter."

Just then we hear a deafening crack from the next street over, as if a thousand sticks had just hit flesh in unison. The air is soon filled with the disparate cries of a thousand men suffering together through religious ecstacy. And then a still silence, as if a great horde had just together swallowed its collective breath. And then the thousand "whack" fills the air again.

Henderson asks, "What the hell is that?"
"I'm not sure" I said, ". . . the only thing it reminds me of is this video I saw of Shi'ite's celebrating a religious holiday when they hit themselves."
"Jesus . . . you think this is Ashura!" - Yes, Ashura, the day of remembrance of the great fallen martyr Ali, grandson of Muhammad, and a well-known excuse for Shi'ites zealots to act completely fucking insane.
Henderson asks, "It sounds like it's just over there," there in this case being the street just over. After some debate, we decide to go and check out what's happening. But just as we set out, suddenly the sound disappears. Without the sound, we have no way to track down the source, so we give up the chase. But I think we all know what happened: the thousand crazed Arabs saw a plucky cadre of three Gaulic crusaders, and knew it had met its match.

After this endeavor, we wandered around downtown a bit and grabbed dinner. Considering the various gastronomic alternatives, we finally settled on Thai food. Henderson's journeyman, always adventerous, tried something called "Pad Sieuw with Chicken," while Henderson got "Pad Thai." For my part, I ordered a spicy fish dish, which it turned out was actually an entire fish, complete with bones, skin, and cold dead eye staring out at me. The fish was excellent, although after a good long stare at the fish's eye I became sufficiently disgusted so as to decide to take a hiatus from fish of indeterminate length.

After dinner we wander around, hoping to find a meager watering hole in which we could perhaps find some beer, if they have it in this country. Not five minutes later we find something called "Cafe Kafka" and venture into it. The air is so thick with smoke that I cough for the first five minutes I'm there. The beer is extremely cheap, the people in the cafe jaded 40 somethings, teeth gnarled and warped by years of engaging in lavish spectacles of Belgian debauchery. We drink pint after pint of Hazelnutpastaverkenbeer, by we I refer to myself and squire Henderson, of course, for he did not wish to expose the dear boy to such extravagances too early.

We left the cafe, stumbling over the world-worn Belgian streets. Off in the distance we hear a pulsating sound, and as we approach our hostel we realize that also we are approaching the sound as well. We think to ourselves, what could it be, Flemish Grunge? Belgian Grindhouse? Technopolka? But no, something was wrong, the texture, the flavor of the song, somehow familiar. It was as if someone had already called on our behalf so that it could be made juicy for us. Henderson's jounreyman asks, "Are they playing lollipop?" Indeed, they were.

We have to climb over an embankment to get to the source of the sound. Just as we mount the rise, we hear the sound change to the familiar "Denh, denh, den, dun, denh" of Temperature by Sean Paul. Now with a clear view we survey the scene. Underneath the train tracks of the central train station in Brussles, were six cars taken directly from the Fast in the Furious Series. All six cars were playing the music in unisoon, while around the cars were the gyrating forms of a thousand incensed Brazilians. The people who owned the cars were clearly scary motherfuckers, enormous men, with entourages. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and urine. Cops, nowhere in sight. Apparently they'd learned whose town this was.

After soaking in a bit of the debauchery we went to bed. We woke up bright and early, saw the Atomium, and a bunch of other shit too I'm guessing, but now I have no time to finish the tale.

A Man in the Park

It is only fitting that I should begin my description of the travails and tribulations in the Frankish lands with a tale of unrequited love. Homosexual love, to be sure, and unsolicited more than unrequited, to be fair.

After waiting around for an hour and half on Saturday for my friends to wake up to go to Chartres, I decide to take up arms against a sea of waiting around. I struck out for the Chateau Vincennes, which sounds like it should be much farther from Paris than it actually is. On the east side of the city of lights, there is a park comparable in size to New York's Central Park. At its north eastern tip there is a castle that used to be a hunting lodge. This is the Chateau Vincennes. I walk around this castle for a while, there's a nice fort inside, but not much else to see. I decide to head for a lake inside the Bois de Vincennes, where I figure I will do my homework. I sit by the lake thinking about ways to measure the randomness of meaningless infinite strings written in binary, as a massive crow kerfuffles with four pigeons and a duck over peu de pain.

My head throbs from puzzling the onerous opacity of Omega functions. I wander aimlessly towards some exit from the woods lonely dark and deep. I take a wrong turn down a less beaten path, and find myself on a trail that I assume only those worthy enough would even dare to forge. I press on, even after discovering the bloated corpse of Robert Frost left on the wayside. Upon his forehead some more hearty traveler had tattooed the words "Choosing this path - well, it really did make all the difference."

And just then - as I had only just begun to fear that I would have to make camp in the middle of a picturesque woods, in the bitter twenty-two degree Celsius climate - a fifty year old man emerges out of a bog and fen potpourri. Withered age spots mark his balding head; he smells of cracked earth and pumpernickel. He approaches me and asks something in French, of which I only catch the word "walk." I tell him I don't understand his question, and he replies, "You speak English." I say yes. He asks to join me as a go on my way. I agree. After all, one only happens upon a bog-man in a yellow wood once in a lifetime, if one is lucky.

Immediately he asks me my age, in English, and I respond in French, "J'ai vingt-et-un ans." He replies, "Vingt-et-un, vingt-et-un, etre encore vingt-et-un." He then tells me in English, "You know you're beautiful." I turned the words over in my head. Perhaps in France it is an every day occurrence to be approached by a strange older man who provides unsolicited affirmation of one's beauty. Nevertheless, I told myself to remain wary, lest I be taken in by strangers.

He pushes to speak English with me, but I push back at the outset. I have no idea what this bog-man wants from me, but I know what I want out of him: twenty minutes of free French instruction. So i tell him, "Je prefere parler en francais." He yields to me, as he must, and we go about the motions, him asking me questions about myself, and I answering to the best of my abilities. I tell him I come from Chicago. He asks my name. "Louie Farikani" I reply. He asks about my family, I say that we're Italians, each and every one. I ask him, "My great-grand-uncle was very famous, have you heard of Al Capone?" He asks me if it bothers me to be so far away from home. I tell him no, only to be away from my lover. "A boy?" he asks. "No," I say, "a girl." He tells me again that I'm beautiful. I tell him thank you. I ask casually if he knows where the metro is. Sensing his game was lost, he finally releases me from his sylvan domain, and points me towards the metro.

Before getting on the metro, I stop at a cafe, drink 25cl of stella artois, and puzzle over my remembrances of the time just passed.