My course in school finished, my glorious return to the maison of my infancy not impending, it seemed that all the adventures I could have, I had already had, much like most of the world's beautiful women. With no fresh adventures a field to be sought, yet alone found, I found myself in a state I had envied after all my life - it seemed that it was at last time to rest on my laurels, and write my memoirs.
As I began to write, however, I found that, for the first time in my life, the act of writing felt utterly pleasureless. My sentences, which had once risen up with that full, firm dignity you know so well, seemed to have turned flaccid, limp, and, what is most troubling, small, in my very hand. Thankfully, as should be apparent from the eight commas in my last sentence, my ability to write rich, long, and intricate sentences has since returned to normal. But still the mystery remains: how could such an affliction strike my proud, Coq-like pen? I know now the answer to this question, but only thanks to that blessed 20/80 vision with comes with hindsight; at the time I had not a single clue. I became panicked. I did everything to bring my former strength back : changing my diet, exercising, even delaying the moment of writing until seconds before I intentionally smashed my car into oncoming traffic. Nothing worked.
And so it was as I stared blankly at my notebook one night not so long ago. There was only one sentence written on the page: "Finally, I left Rome." I nearly burst in to tears then and there, looking at those pitiful, mocking, Hemingway-esque words. I knew there was so much more to say, but I knew not the means to say it. It was then, with a single tear rolling down the left side of my cheek, that I received an urgent facebook message from the King of Monaco, the subject header of which read "Elections European." As you are no doubt aware, that universalist, republican sham which goes by the name "The European Union" held elections several weeks ago, to decide which whores and curs would serve in its Parliament. I, naturally, boycotted the election, not only because I am not a citizen of any European country, but also out of respect for a certain principle: when the Hindenburg explodes, makes sure you're watching - from a safe distance. In any event, here is the text of the King's message:
Hey Chat B,
Yo it's your dog King M. Can't wait to finish reading about your trip to Italy - hope it comes out soon : >. Anyways, I'm writing because I don't know if you've noticed this, but of all 734 elected members of European parliament, not a single one professes to be a monarchist. For shame! Where would Europe be without the Kings of Europe? Physically, probably in the same place . . . but metaphysically? It's hard to even imagine. World War I probably wouldn't have happened, nor World War II, the Holocaust, the French Revolution, the rise of communist Russia, or nearly any of the European wars, famines, plagues and pestilences that one can credit as ultimately stemming from the malfeasance of European monarchs. Why, we'd be little more than an America without Ronald Reagan or apple pie! But who am I writing to, Chateau-Brian-D., the paragon of all that's right and true, the foremost defender of the one true political faith: Monarchism. I plead to you, Monaco has but one representative in European parliament - I was going to appoint my third son Jean-Maximillian August to the post, but the boy is like a pure-bred Dalmatian: blind, retarded, and with backwards joints and black spots all over his albino skin. It would be better if you served in his place. Do it Chateau-Brian. For the good of Europe, I implore you.
TTYL
King of Monaco
Who could not be moved by this impassioned plea, and the kind gesture of denying his own son for my sake? I decided immediately, there was not one moment to waste, I would go to Strasbourg, challenge evil at its source, grabbing the Socialists, Sarkozyists, and Greens by their roots . It would be 734 of Europe's most brilliantly deceitful Parliamentary tacticians in collusion against moi - the only one who I would be able to count on even as a fickle ally would be the irascible crypto-fascist Jean LaPenn – and even then only on issues relating to the sanctity of French national sovereignty.
And so it was that I find myself tout de suite packing the entirety of my suite at the Cambodian house, in the hopes of getting to Strasbourg the next morning.
For some, the idea of moving all one's worldly possessions from city to city by one's self seems frightening and unreasonable – they might even pay to have someone else do it for them. But not I. In fact, I treat it very much like a training exercise for my favorite sports-pastime – competitive moving. In the sport of competitive moving, the objective is to carry as much stuff as quickly as possible from city to city. One can choose what suitcases one takes and what one puts in the bags; there is, however, a required item. In every race, one must carry a tennis racket. For although the tennis racket is not particularly heavy, it is always particularly awkward, since it inevitably cannot fit into any other bags. The result is that you always ends up having to carry it strapped around your shoulder, and as the course of the move continues, the position of the racket will change, and the strap will gradually twine itself tighter and tighter around your neck. This at once presents two grave difficulties for the competitor. On the one hand, he is being choked. On the other hand, he is being choked by a tennis racket. The former poses a physical challenge, as he won't be able to breathe, while the later presents a more psychological one, as the competitor is forced to deal with the irony of feeling himself choked by his own instrument of pleasure.
Of course it need not be said that my boy-hood friend, an infamous Marquis who need not be named, would have not seen this as a great irony.
In any event, I was sure the course to Strasbourg would be nothing for such a fierce competitor as myself. It was only two years previous that I had finished in legendary time, and with a heroic burden, the Iron Mensch Competition, wherein one moves from New York City to Tel Aviv. Not to revel in past glories, my remarkable burden consisted of 3 backpacks, one rolling bag 50+ lbs, and a tennis racket, which I carried over three train transfers and a wrong terminal in New York City. No elevators or escalators at any of the subway stations - a special difficulty for the rolling bag. And also a special surprise for the course: on the way to the first train station, one of the backpacks, the University of Chicago bag I received orientation, rips completely in half. No time to buy another one, everything packed to the gills, I have to use my arms to hold together the shattered corpse of my backpack together, and if anything falls out , there's no way to pick anything up without the bag shattering completely.
And yes, things did fall out.
But that is a story from a different time, we were discussing Strasbourg.
At the crack of dawn I wake and after forty-five seconds of moving I know that the weight would not amount to anything grave. And yet I steadied myself not to become overconfident, for one of the rules of competitive moving is that there is always a surprise. Maybe a turnstile would lock before I went through. Maybe a band of gypsy children would surround and attack me. But in fact, what challenge awaited me was one of a purely psychological nature: the scorn of rush-hour Parisians.
From my boarding at Cité Universitaire, until my descent at Gare d'Est, I find the air filled with aggravated quips aimed at my general direction. "Pardon Monsieur," "Excusez-Moi, Monsieur," "Ne mettez pas ton sac sur mes pieds, s'il vous plait, Monsieur." My existence that day seemed to offend one elderly Parisian in particular. He was well-dressed, and had with him his dog, a Pomeranian, which he kept on a short leash. I accidently brushed this man's shoulder with the side of my backpack. "Herumphah" he said, and followed with a statement whose words I cannot exactly recall, but were to the effect of "Why does this idiot have all these things with him?" Several indignant quips came immediately to mind, but I wasn't sure about their gramaticity so I decide to let it be.
I arrive at the Gate t the East, grab what was to be my last espresso in Paris, and my last Paul, and enjoy what will be my final exposure to that intoxicating mélange of sludgy, acidic espresso and crumbly, buttery Paul. For a moment Paris pauses, rush hour detouring itself around me and my bags, as I eat on the steps between the correspondence of Gare d'Est and Metro 14.
And then I'm off, running precisely on schedule for my train. I validate my ticket, and then take an endless walk down the train's length until I reach my car. My seat is next to an elderly Maghrebian, who appears to be performing some sort of numerological analysis of Arabic text. He lets me sit by the window, I stare out as we leave the station.
I'm not sure I will live to see interstellar travel, but if I do I expect to find it much like riding the TGV. Basically for a long time I cruise along at normal speed, watching the vast emptiness of the French country side meander by. Then I hear over the intercom "Mesdames et Messieurs, vous vous préparez: nous commençons TGV Vitesse." "Guchsprach, bich bach, mich schlack tung: TGV Shpeed." "Ladies and Gentleman, prepare yourself: we are now entering TGV Speed." A great noise from the front of the train is heard, and trees by the side of the track tear by so quickly that you can't distinguish one from the other, as if light itself bent around our train's wake.
Watching the countryside on the TGV isn't like any window-viewing experience I've ever had. Maybe this is a common weather occurrence in France, maybe it has something to do with the unusual speed of the TGV, but as I look out the window I see clouds rolling over the hills at a height of no more than 60 feet. These are honest to God clouds, not the great puffy white cumulus kind we used to love to watch as children, these are a bit more wispy, but nevertheless all have definite color, shape and form. Which is to say, clouds, nonetheless. I watched them like great specters as they ran across the land; when the train turned so I could see through to its back, one could see these forms churning in the TGV's wake.
Four minutes after engaging TGV drive, I arrive at Strasbourg. It seems we had gone so fast that we had caught up with the previous days weather, sporadic downpours of frigid rain that come in big fat drops, so large that even one soaks my hair through and through. It is out into the cold rain that I walk, carrying my all-terrain back pack, battle-racket, and orange shopping bag overflowing with excess clothes and computer cables. After searching the plaza in front of Strasbourg's main gate, I eventually determine that the city tram I was looking for actually had its station underground.
I board the city tram, make my route to the hotel with one stop-over at a place called Homme de Fer, and appropriate enough: although cold and wet, it seemed that Strasbourg itself was bowing down to recognize that the Iron Mensch had at last arrived. Even on the tram, I noticed however that there was something very different about the Strasbourgeois from the Parisians. Something about their speech was somehow . . . clearer. In France people are usually very quite on trains, if they talk, they talk at a volume so as not to disturb others, which makes it a bit difficult for me, since I like to listen in on their conversations, and I need for people to talk to me LOUDLY and CLEARLY if I'm going to understand them at all. But somehow, it seemed that on the Strasbourg tram, it was possible to hear more of what they were saying than I was used to.
I get to my hotel, and the man at the desk says, "Bonjour." I say Bonjour back." He says to me, "Do you speak English?" Immediately, I notice something strange about his accent. It sounds like a French person trying to impersonate German, while still speaking in English. I think for a moment, maybe he's faking. But then I reconsider. Usually when people affect an accent, it sounds forced, especially when they're trying to do it in a language not their native. After listening to Italians, French, and Germans all try their hand at a British accent, I can say that such attempts uniformly lead to disaster. But this man now before me was speaking as if it was completely natural for him, as if this was the way he had only ever spoken English, as if this was the only way he could speak English. Maybe he's a German who lives in Strasbourg, I thought, and maybe this is the result. I switch to French in order to answer his question: "Je peux dire quelque chose, mais je suis ameicain aussi, so I speak English." He gives me directions to get to the room in French, the whole time I try to pay attention with half my brain to what he's saying, while with the other half trying to find signs of Germanity in his French - signs not found.
With my keys and bags I walk up to the fourth floor where he says my room will be. On the top of my room card, the Franco-German had written 1432 in black marker, so I assumed that this was somehow code for my room - a code easy enough to figure out. 1 probably meant first building, 4 meant 4th floor, and then 32 must mean my room number. When I get to the 4th floor, however, I find that the corridor is almost pitch black, except for a light coming from one side of the corridor. I go towards the light, and find a room full of hotel soaps, mops, bleach, and various other cleaning supplies. It doesn't look that there's a room on the other side. I go back, and use my iPod to illuminate the numbers on the doors. In fact there's only 5 rooms on the floor, 401, 402, etc. Well, I think to myself, maybe the two doesn't mean anything, so I try room 3. No luck. Then I think, well, maybe for some reason the 3 doesn't mean anything, so I try room 2. No luck.
Could it be that there's another building and I didn't notice he said anything about it? I go back down with all my bags, and back outside, butting myself once more again a wall of cold enormous rain. I squint through the sheets of rain, looking for another building. There isn't one. Clearly, the stakes had been raised too high, it was time to fold.
I go back into the hotel, the Franco-German isn't at the desk. I poke my head into the restaurant; he's in there waiting tables. I wave over to him; he sees me and comes closer. I say, for some reason a bit breathless "I think I've misunderstood something. Is there another building?" "No, just the one."
Shit, I had definitely screwed something, "But, I look on my key" and then I show him my key, "and it says 1432, one for the building, four for the floor, and then 32, for the room."
"No, no, that's not your room number." Then, he points at the key a little lower. A bit faded, and smudged, I can make out the letters "ch" and the number "401." "Voila, chambre quatre, nul, un. The other number is the code for the door if you come back after midnight." I make the mandatory, Oh, obviously, motions with my hands, and go up to my room.
At the request of my father, due to the rather lackluster evaluation of my dear friend Carl, and because it befit more a representative of the sovereign kingdom of Monaco, I had decided to eschew spreading my largess upon French hostelery, in favor of giving all the more to an American budget hotel. That is to say, rather than spending 20 euros on what was likely to be a filthy and uncomfortable French hostel, I decided to take the chance, and see what more 40 euros would get me from a reputable American company: The Comfort Inn. By symbological analysis, it is clear that Comfort in is somehow affiliated with Days Inn, which as we know is fighting neck and neck for survival against Motel 6 and that other company, you know the one, it's like Motel 6, but it has an 8 in its name instead of a 6, and it doesn't really have the word Motel in its name, because Motel 8 definitely isn't what it's called. Mega 8? Hotel 8? Super 8, I think it is, but I'm not really sure that's it. Anyways, I wasn't sure if Comfort Inn was a higher-end version of Days Inn, designed to compete with such luxury hotel lines as Holiday Inn Express and Budget Inn, or if it was a lower-end version of Days Inn, designed to compete with crack-dens and park-benches. After looking at the room I can say, definitely the former; in the room I found an HDTV, a down comforter on the bed, plush Pier-1 Imports Style Papazan Chair, and, best of all, a water boiler with tea set, including biscuits. I put the water on a boil, had a shower, and then watched out my window as the rain fell, while sipping tea and eating biscuits in a towel-robe the hotel had provided. In short, I had within twenty minutes of arrival determined that although I was paying twice as much, I was getting much more than twice the quality.
After I finishing my tea, and soiling my robe, I decide that enough is enough; Strasbourg is my hostess, and I'm not one to keep a lady waiting. But what to do about the rain? I had no umbrella, and although there was daybreak for the moment, if I went without protection, Lady Strasbourg might later stab me in the back, like most women do when I don't wear protection. I decide to take my black Calvin Klein late-fall, earlier winter coat. Fashionable and sportive, the Calvin Klein is flexible enough to weather anything from a light chill to deep winter. The only problem is that it clashes horribly with my brown shorts and sandals. No matter.
So I set off for the city in my black winter coat, my brown shorts, and my Adidas flip-flops. I had a map of the city with me, and I proceed to make my own impromptu route from the hotel to centreville. The route takes me through a charming part of the old city called Petite France. Located in the southwest of Strasbourg, Petite France is on a tiny island between two branches of the Strasbourg River. In total, the two branches can be no more than a hundred feet apart, so Petite France is packed to the gills with charming buildings that look like they came out of a Hans Christian Anderson stories. For some reason, there are also locks to go up and down on these tiny branches of the river, and I stand on one of them, watching as a boat, as long and as wide as the dock space itself, goes up to cruise around in the highly cramped maritime space of Petite France.
After Petite France, I go to investigate some of the well-known squares in Strasbourg. While walking up a side-street to one of them, I suddenly see, down another side-street, my first view of Strasbourg's main cathedral. Although the church did not incapacitate me to the same extent as Italian lighting did several weeks prior, it still struck some nerve inside me, and an eloquent expression of my appreciation came unbidden to my lips: "Whoa ho ho!" I said, and turned red when I realized I must have sounded like a California Surfer-dude version of Santa Claus.
After getting a good look at the thing, I move along down the avenue I had been on, stopping and enjoying some of Strasbourg's more wonderful plazas. After this, I walk along the banks of the river, see a couple nice statues, and take some pictures of me interacting with them.
After that, I made south for some more of the city's plazas, and immediately run into two encounters which I think are indicative of some of the major cultural differences between Paris and Strasbourg. The first, is two middle-aged women sitting in a park, sweetly talking and playing with each other's dogs. From their conversation I could tell that these people were strangers, but could enjoy each other's company very easily. Strasbourg seems to be a friendly place, with a friendly, small-town, Midwestern vibe. The other thing I noticed was that I accidently stumbled upon a couple making out in the middle of an empty street, and when the couple saw me, they decided to stop making out and continue on their walk. I was absolutely shocked and appaled. A halting to a public display of affection! In France! No! Really, this was completely new for me – if one stumbles upon the same thing in Paris, one gets the sense that the display gets if anything more intense, when the couple knows their being watched.
Shortly after these two encounters, a fierce rain begins. Luckily, it was already 6 o clock so it was reasonable to stop in for a pre-dinner beer as a way of avoiding the rain. I sat drinking a Kronenburg on a patio, looking out as the rain pitter-pattered on a plaza dedicated to the Republic. I checked my iPod, on which I had put a pdf of the LonelyPlanet Guide to Alsace-Loraine, and found that one of the restaurants they recommended in Strasbourg was actually located in the very plaza I was presently in. Finishing my beer, I walked twenty yards to my dinner place.
One of the timeless questions that has frustrated every man with even the remotest of intelligence is, "Would a pizza by any other name, taste as good?" I knew that at last I would be able to answer this question for myself, since one of the traditional dishes of Strasbourg is called Tarte Flambée, and it's basically pizza. The restaurant I was now in served some of the best Tarte Flambée in the city apparently, and I ordered the mixed Tarte, which came with four different sets of toppings at once, so as to get a sense of what the dish was.
When the dish came, however, I was horrified to discover that the dish was covered with shredded pork. Pork? What's the problem with pork, you might ask, quietly snickering to each other about me being some kind of kosher-keeping, bond-collecting Jew. To you I say that I am not, nor have I ever been, a Jew, that none of my friends are Jews, and that no matter what the meaning of "is" is, I have never had sexual relations with someone who was to my knowledge of a Jew or Jewish persuasion. In fact, if need be, I can prove to you my complicity in the Dreyfus affair, and tell you that I only did it out of my own bitter and heartfelt anti-Semitism
But why do I not eat pork? It's just one of the traditions of a noble family like mine, which we've kept for the entirety of our noble history. We have lots of other ones too: for example, circumcising male children 8 days after they are born. Or eating unlevened bread for the week before Easter. And lighting candles on Friday evenings. I don't do it because I'm Jewish. Trust me, the Chateau-Brian's are just as Celtic as the next Gaul, if not more so. It's just that we're noble, and so have these rules we have to follow and pass on to our children until the day Christ our savior returns to walk the land.
In any event, as I stare at the Tarte covered in shredded pork, I weigh my options of eating it or not. In the end I decide, with some hesitation, to do it, because you only live once, or in my case, nine times, and when Strasbourg do as the Strasbourgeois. The Tarte was delicious. I had initially been skeptical, since it used Crème Fraîche instead of cheese or tomato sauce, but in fact it had a taste very much like any other white pizza made without pasta sauce, if a bit heavier and tangier. Nevertheless it was great.
At dinner, however, I gained confirmation at last that the Strasbourgeois have generally the clearest French for English speakers to understand. The couple sitting next to me was certainly from Strasbourg, from the manner in which they talked with the waitress this was clear (the woman in the couples says to my waitress, a somewhat elderly woman, "Good to see you again my young girl, will you be our server tonight?"). But as the dinner went on I realized for the first time I was listening to a real conversation in a foreign language where I was following (nearly)-every single word.
My dinner finished, I step outside only to find the rain still falling. There is no point in wandering around the city getting soaked after dinner, probably to get sick and ultimately die. I decide to head back, walking through the rain to the central Man of Iron stop of the tram, and returning home.
At home I decided to watch for the first time on my trip French television. What I find was a fascinating look into French culture. First, I start watching a show that I had heard was one of the most popular shows in France: Les Experts. In the cafeteria at school and at my dormitory, one could always hear people talking about it or some other show, called Daucteau Ause. "Daucteau Ause, Daucteau Ause, Les Experts." It's all one hears French people talking about. I knew they were tv shows, but since I had no television I didn't know or care what it was.
At dinner once with my friend Marie, we were talking about T.V. shows, and I told her that she must watch Seinfeld, it's the best show ever. And she told me back, you know the best show ever made is still running, and it's American, so you really must watch it, it's called, as she says it, "Docteur Ouse." At that moment I made a connection, "Doctor House? Doctor House? This Daucteau Ause that everyone has been talking about this whole time is just House!" And then I laughed and laughed, "What's next: Loi et Ordre: Victimes Spéciales Unités?"
But I should have known better, as I watch television I realize within ten seconds that this Les Experts show was dubbed from American English, and, after another minute, that Les Experts is nothing other than CSI: Miami. You'll forgive me that it took a whole minute but I've never watched CSI, so had to infer what it was from the fact that the police were doing some kind of crazy computer investigation of fingerprints on a bullet, and that the panoramic city views reveal that the show is set in Miami.
After a few minutes I change the channel. I find it fascinating that these shows are so popular in France, since my impression of them is that there's nothing really unique about them. I'd already been watching Law and Order six years before CSI: Miami came out, and E.R. a long time before House. While I'm sure these shows are fine, I never paid attention to them, because they seemed to just be the same stuff that you could get in three or four other shows running at the same time – and the crime investigating/medical genre never appealed so much to me as the court drama show, or a good comedy show about Jewish people running pointless errands. For some reason, the Chateau-Brian's have always loved Jewish comedians.
The show that I began to watch afterwards was still more interesting than Les Experts. The premise of the show is that the producers are sent letters from thousands of women looking to find true love. The show selects six eligible bachelors, who read the letters and decide which ones they like. There's some screening process so that the contestants are only permitted to select women of similar ages. Then, there is some process of correspondence, exchange of pictures, finally terminating in everyone meeting for a speed date. Gradually the whittle down the pool of aspiring female contestants, and eventually they choose one. Then the show catches up with everyone a year later, to see how it turned out. The funny part of the show is that all the contestants are agricultural workers of some kind. I start watching and it's like "Jean is an éleveur de porcs." "Michel herds cows." "Gerard raises chickens" By the fourth one I was cracking up hysterically, thinking about all these poor, lonely French country-bumpkins. But as reality television goes it was actually great, and I think it should be brought to the U.S. in some form or another. I turned the tv off and went to bed, having wonderful dreams about spending a night with the dark-haired, hook-nosed, woman of my dreams. In the morning, I brewed myself another pot of tea, watch a ten minute cartoon show in French about why so many people are dying in Iraq. Answer: Sunni's hate Shi'ites, Shi'ites hate Sunnis, and everyone hates the Americans. But why are there Americans in Iraq, when America is on the other side of the world? Answer: Oil. America came to Iraq to get its oil. See, you really do learn stuff from cartoons.
My plan for this day called for a wide arc through less central Strasbourg, up to a near suburb called Cronenbourg, and afterwards to the Capital of European parliament where I would be able to notify them where the Monocan representative would be staying, and finally ending in park a kilometer east of town on the Rhine, dedicated to German-French cooperation and peace. The park had of course been destroyed repeatedly by invading German armies: rebuilt after WW1 using the money from German reparations, destroyed by Hitler during his Blitzkrieg, and rebuilt after WWII using the money of U.S. taxpayers, from where it gets its present look.
On the way to Cronebourg, I passed the train station and the museum of modern art. Both beautiful buildings, they were exceptional as the western side of Strasbourg is pretty residential. This afforded me opportunity to wonder if director David Cronenberg's family is from this unobtrusive suburb.
As I walk onto the bridge separating Cronenbourg from Strasbourg, I look ahead to see what awaits me. What I find is an impossible spectacle of disturbing violence, demented sexuality, and other unspeakable elements, which include a typewriter that looks like parts of the human anatomy combined with butterfly wings, a television that convulses like a busy prostate, and David Arquette sitting on a lawn-chair sipping a mojito. Instantaneously, I contract post-traumatic stress disorder, and stagger backwards from the bridge covering my eyes. I do not repeat what I saw in any detail, lest it kill or otherwise maim any of my beloved readers. Suffice it to say that the memory of what I saw still haunts me to this day, still causing me to question both the existence of God and the validity of reality itself.
I stumble away from the bridge, wondering how I would go on living after I had touched the very void itself by looking into that abject metaphysical blackness which goes by the name of Cronenbourg. But I exaggerate a bit, for it was only the briefest moment that I touched nothingness, before thinking again of myself, and how much faith I had in myself, my purpose, and my mission. A weaker man, less enamored with himself, might then and there have crumbled without anything to believe it. Me? I came away even more firm in the foremost pillar of my belief: me. In short, narcissism saved me from nihilism, much like it did post-world war II Germany.
And of course there was the small matter of my duty to the people of Monaco, to defend them from the destructive fad of democracy, and also the much larger matter of my promise to the Monacan king – I never go back on a promise made to a friend.
So pressing on, for it was really not difficult, I made my way to the European parliament. But, since it was already lunch, I stopped in at a flee market in a statue garden that was on the way, and bought a buttery, mediocre croissant. After gobbling down the croissant – it was not a Paul after all – I see that my path goes by a Holiday Inn. I decide to stop in, to see if I can score some free internet, as I did several weeks before at a Hotel Ibis on Place de la Republic. I go in, walk past the desk with the attendants all staring at me, possibly because they aren't sure if I am a guest, probably because I'm so attractive, and head into the bathroom. I use the immaculate facilities. Then, by the time I come out, the attendants have since forgotten about me, which conveniently affords me the chance to use the computers. Unfortunately the computers are passworded. Frustrated, I move on.
At this point I'd managed to find myself in the real suburban waste land of Strasbourg. It's the type of suburban waste land that isn't quite as nice as Naperville, but has just as much crappy shrubbery randomly sprouting amongst undeveloped grassland. Think Oak Lawn. But my aim was sure, and my map was true, or at least it seemed so because I found all the streets where I expected them to.
Suddenly I turn a corner, and see what looks like a stadium combined with an office building. Probably about thirty stories high, at the very top of a building it seems there is an arboretum, with massive trees spurting out. This is the second biggest building I've seen in France, besides Tour Montparnasse, and as expected it is fact the European Parliament building. Somewhat surprisingly, the parking lot of the building is totally empty, hardly what I'd expected of a busy capital. Then I recall, oh that's right, this union is a farce, of course they don't actually do anything here. I commence walking in like I own the place, up to the front entrance.
A security guard sees me pass without stopping, and hurries out, shouting at me, "Entshuldigung!" or some other German jibberish. I guess when French people see somebody going wherever they want without proper permission, they're assumed to be German. I turn around and say in french,
"Hello Mademoiselle ."
"Oh, Monsieur. I didn't realize you were French. Today we're closed to the public."
I smile on the inside, forgiving the nymphet of her honest mistake, "Ah, of course, but, you see, I am not a member of the public."
She looks at me questioningly, not unsympathetically. I clarify.
"You see, I am the representative of Monaco."
"Really? You're very young."
"Yes - young . . . and gifted as well." I say smugly, confident and flirtatious. I was new in Strasbourg, after all, and it always helps to have friends in building management. She looks at me appraisingly,
"Mmm, I'm sure. But, something doesn't make sense here. After all, there is no representative from Monaco."
I feel doubt crawl up my spine spider-like.
"No, not yet, which is why I'm here: to claim my seat."
She looks at me now like I'm a sad or confused child, "No, what I mean is that Monaco is not a member of the European Union, and thus can have no representative in Parliament."
I flush red-hot. Could what she was saying actually be correct? How was such a mistake possible – could I really have been so credulous, naïve and trusting? Why had I not given the matter a second though – ah, of course,
"But in Monaco they . . . I mean, we . . . use the Euro."
" Yes, but so do all Microstates, like the Vatican, or San Marino. Nevertheless they are not members of the European Union, and so have no representation in her parliament." She was right, in the Vatican too I had used Euros without problem, to buy cocaine-laced ice-cream from that shifty Mexican cardinal. She adds, "Also, in Monaco they are native French speakers." She sucks in her cheeks and pulls her lips to the side, "Unlike you."
My face is now burning with shame, as I realize there is nothing to do; she has me. I am a fool. A twenty-one year old in a parking lot of a European Parliament not in session, with such a deluded sense of grandeur that I think myself rightfully a member. I am caught in my own arrogance, with nothing. The terrible biological process of humiliation swings into motion, my stomach turns to acid, skin to crimson, and my back tenses while my hairs stand on end, on top of my skin already turned to gooseflesh.
I think desperately . . . is there some lie I can say to get me out of the embarrassment? The art of lying is much like the art of writing, if anyone stands a shot at making a good lie it's me. I concentrate the totality of my essence upon the task – as I do whenever I write. To cull up from the dregs of my mortal soul something iridescent, beautiful, and timeless – it was already well-known that I was capable of doing this. But lately I had not been able to write, would I therefore not be able to lie? And indeed, it would be so much the harder to lie, for when I write it is for the sake of the divinity and, what is still more divine, beauty . . . could I apply the same necessary focus to raise up something so base as a lie, for so little as my own vanity?
To lie, or not lie. That is the question. Whether it is nobler to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous humiliation, or to take words against a sea of embarrassment, and by saying them, end it. And yet I realize, there is no choice: It is not a matter of suffering humiliation well, which I don't, it is a matter of suffering humiliation at all, which I won't. I must lie. And then something suddenly comes to me.
I switch to English and tell her, "Well, it was worth a shot – I thought it might get me in."
She bursts out laughing, "Nice try. I never heard that one before." I probably made that woman's day, her thinking that I was just some gutsy young American tourist trying to get into the European Parliament by claiming to be the representative of Monaco. What she didn't know was that she had ruined mine. My hopes, my dreams for Strasbourg – they had all collapsed. As had my friendship with the King of Monaco – who was probably in hysterics, balling fits of uncontrollable laughter on the floor, while his Dalmatian-like son licked his feet with sporadic regularity. I would have to do something about him – but not right away. After all, revenge, like sex, is a dish best served cold.
Also, I still had a lot of tourism to do in Strasbourg.
Still in a fragile state, I continue to the south of the European parliament, and find that the building is on the shore of the same beautiful river that continues on to Petite France. I cross to the other side of the river and look at various buildings of international law. But really I am looking for a park, in which to regain my composure. Very quickly, however, I find a great sprawling one to the south of the European Union buildings, and make haste to a park bench therein.
As I sit, head in hands, on the brink of manly tears, an enormous bird lands not ten feet in front of me. Birds are noble creatures, from the mightiest condor, to the lowliest pigeon - and each race of nobility has an avian analogue. German nobility are like eagles, Russian nobility like vultures, Frankish nobility like Coqs – these analogies are well known and I feel no need to detail them here. But the noblest of nobles is that of Norman stock, such as I am, and his bird is the stateliest and rarest of them all. Gaulic Blue Heron, Bird of Birds, it is you that now touches down before me. It takes only an instant of being in your presence for me to feel reinvigorated.
I spend the next ten minutes trying to take pictures of the bird, ("Okay, work it, work it. Now you're a tiger. Rarrr. Give me a Rarrrr. [Bird looks at me blankly]. Oh that's great, yeah. ") but eventually the bird becomes creeped out and flies away.
I continue south, emerging in front of another Arab bazaar. I walk through it quickly, these have become old hat, and arrive at Rue Descartes, which I can follow down to the main university of Strasbourg. I stop into a café for an espresso and to send an email to my father that I am alright, but that our family has been slighted by the Monacan king. Afterwards I walk through the campus, and marvel at how horrible the law school building looks. Pressing forward, I walk through a park that borders campus's west end. I stumble upon a man peeing in the middle of the road. I look away as he continues to stare at me, I adjust my route accordingly.
At this point my goal is to get to the park that celebrates peace between Germany and France. Unfortunately there is no path to peace-park, besides one that goes through the industrial wasteland of east Strasbourg. I walk along a highway for a kilometer. At one point I cross a bridge over a great river, not the Rhine, and on this river I see a boat, upon which is standing a half naked man drinking Kronenbourg from the can. His mangy German Sheppard notices is and begins barking up at me from the deck.
And that was the story of how I saw my first French hillbilly.
I make it to the park at last, after about half an hour walking on the highway. But then I see it, a great arching bridge over the Blue Rhine. In order to get to the bridge one has to climb up and down a number of small, artificially constructed hills – as if the French government wanted to force you to know what it was like to storm another bunker from one's home trench. At last I climb onto the bridge, and find myself in an international grey zone over the Blue Rhine – in a place neither French nor German. The only remotely metaphysical thought which occurred to me at the moment was that the Blue Rhine was rather Green – probably because St. Patrick's day had happened very recently.
I continue on, and for the first find myself In KEHL! I thought to myself, maybe this afternoon I'LL DINE IN KEHL! I wonder if it's only English-speakers that can appreciate how funny the city name is.
I wander through the rather inoffensive, suburban town. Its main drag is pretty much a smaller version of Oak Park's. One advantage Kehl has over Oak Park is that there are lots of nice bakeries where one can get sweet, gooey German pastries. I buy one that's a bit like a donut made with strawberry jam – it was really delicious, and a welcome break from the subtle delicacy of French cuisine.
I think about getting a beer to drink, but find that it's really just the same brands as one gets in Strasbourg. After wandering around for an hour and a half I decide to leave Germany for good, and head back to Strasbourg. I manage to walk a different route to pick up the Tram in Strasbourg, which saves me a good amount of time and places me right in the center of town. The only events of note on the way to the tram were:
1) I ran into a guy wearing a t-shirt that said "Fuck you very much." I almost stopped him to ask what he thought he was accomplishing with the T-shirt, which is about as grammatically coherent as "Merde-ci beaucoup," and equally unfunny. And,
2) On the tram there was a big African guy who stood way to close to me, it was kind of like we were hugging each other for the entirety of the ride. He said to me, "Ca va" I said "Ca va" back. True pal.
At this point I had really finished the sites of Strasbourg, so I elected to pick up a new book. After I finished Les Mains Sales I had been deeply impressed by Sartre's sense of humor, and thought to try and read a second play of his. The choice was a known quantity, No Exit, which I'd already read, or something new – The Devil and the Good Lord. While initially I was skeptical of the title, when I looked at the excerpt on the back, I found the following:
Goetz: I'm going to take the city.
Katherine: But why?
Goetz: Because it's bad.
Katherine: But why should you do what's bad?
Goetz: Because what's good has already been done.
Katherine: By whom?
Goetz: By God the Father. Me? I invent.
Of course many are aware of my interest in things Good, Bad, Good-Bad, and Bad-Good, and for those who do know that, it should come as no surprise that I decided to buy the book. I took it to a park where students congregate and read. Much to my horror, I discover that what I have bought is undoubtedly the most Hollywood of Sartre's plays. In fact, I could easily see it being turned into a Michael Bay film. 11 Tableaus across thirty some scenes, set in the 16th century, the main characters are the best General in all of Europe, his whore, the Archbishop, a Banker, a weak-willed priest who spits lines directly out of Soren Kierkegaard, and best of all, a proto-Marxist revolutionary whose name is Nasty, in English, and whose first line (in French) is: There won't be any peace until we get rid of all the nasties. Subtle Sartre . . . very, very, subtle. Also, the entire plot of the play is characters running from battlefield to battlefield, discussing the creation of the Kingdom of Heaven on earth.
But, since it was a book in French, I manage to forge on, continuing reading into dinner at a traditional Alsatian Brasserie. For dinner that night I eat potatoes in a soup-like substance, which after several bites is revealed to be plain sour-cream. Nevertheless, the meal is surprisingly delicious. Afterwards I have a nice nighttime walk along the banks of Strasbourg's river, and then return home.
As I walked home, several things occurred to me. I realized that there was no future for me in Strasbourg, that I still suffered from the listlessness that had haunted me in Paris. I felt that I had no purpose, nothing to guide me. And yet, I found that my heart burned with an intense passion, the kind brewed from the smoldering concoction of a quest for revenge and too much milk-product. But the King of Monaco was a foe unlike any I had faced before – and I am not ashamed to awknowledge that I was not yet ready to meet him.
There was only one man in the entire world who could help me; only one who had mastered an enemy still more fearsome than a micro-state monarch. I am talking of none-other than the scourge of Russian nobility, the vanquisher of the worst brand of Godless socialist plebeians that Europe had ever known. I am referring of course to my father, Chateau-Anatoly-S. - Chateaulya for short. I remembered that he would be sejouring in Madrid in just half a week, resting happily on his laurels at a conference to honor his erstwhile mathematical and scientific achievements. Yes, I would meet him there, killing the time until his arrival with a restful tour of the French countryside, stopping in Dijon, with Lyon and a flight to Madrid as my ultimate goal. As I curl into bed, a great contentment envelops me like a down comforter. In actuality it is nothing other than the joy of another prochaine.
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