CHAMPAGNE & TESTICLES

Paris, France - 1999
Some Internet Computer Center

I had finished this whole letter and the damn computer disconnected me. I screamed out loud, frightening all but a few people sitting on the other side of the room. I thought everything was lost. This trip has been a nightmare of computer horrors. More than once I have written long, detailed, elaborate letters only to lose them because of some demon in the works. But once I convinced the highly sensitive, computer-wise genius who works here that I wasn’t dangerous, and coaxed him out from under his desk, he came over and somehow retrieved my letter.
So, here it is...


Well, looks like my magical knack of getting upgraded to first class treatment is still going strong. Got upgraded at the beautiful Hotel Lutetia, from a regular room to a junior suite. And, they sent me a complimentary bottle of champagne and a whole tray of little cakes and cookies. Never underestimate the power of flirting with the desk clerk. They hold the power!!

My suite has… two rooms, two bathrooms, two TVs, two balconies and of course... a bidet, only one. For as loudly smelling as the French can be, God bless them, their butts must be clean. I took a picture of the bidet to add to my growing photo collection of the bidets I have seen in my travels. Maybe one day I will exhibit my work at the New York Museum of Modern Art. Perhaps I will put out a book, "THE BIDETS OF EUROPE." Then I could option the rights to some major movie studio to make as a light comedy starring Julia Roberts. Julia could star as a poor yet proud hotel maid whose talent for cleaning bidets catches the eye of Richard Gere who then hires her to be his escort. Catchy, huh?

Today I'm going to Pere LaChaise. I went last time I was in Paris but figured I'd go see Jim Morrison at his final resting-place before they move him to his final, final resting-place. The owners of the cemetery it seems, are tired of distraught youths, who weren't even alive when Jim was prancing drugged and naked onstage, tromping over Edith Piaf and Simone Signoret to get to their fallen idol. I remember standing at Jim’s graffiti-ed grave watching a young girl sitting in the dirt next to his headstone, crying her eyes out. I was saddened by her deep despair. Was all this for Jim? Nah, couldn’t be. Maybe she just broke up with her boyfriend.

Last night I had an experience that makes one alone in a foreign-speaking country feel very stupid. I went to this cafe that was listed in my travel book as being a favorite spot of Hemingway’s. It's famous for French/German food. That sounded interesting. I was up for trying something new since I'd eaten duck for the past five nights. I’m one of those people who finds something they like and sticks with it. I love duck. Although the last duck dish, I’m almost convinced, was steak. Anyway, after hearing the thick-accented waiter try to explain the entrees in half French-half English, I ordered a sausage and potato dish. It sounded pretty plain but knowing German cuisine, figured it could be tasty in a spicy, mustard-covered way.

After debating whether to have an ice-cold German beer or a glass of full bodied French burgundy wine, I settled for a glass of champagne. Hey, why not? I’m in Paris, in a café where Hemingway sat and perhaps was inspired with the idea for his next novel. Viva la France!

They allow dogs in restaurants here. I sat contentedly; sipping my champagne and watching a beautiful, silvery-gray, sleek-looking dog lick his incredibly huge balls. Ever try drinking champagne while a big dog licks his balls? The French love dogs. I met a guy, while waiting in line at a perfume store, who was severely reprimanded by a French person for making a sarcastic remark about a dog. Not even a mean comment, a sarcastic one.

If the French love dogs and the French love Jerry Lewis, imagine how much the French would love Jerry Lewis’ dog. I don’t even know if Jerry Lewis has a dog.

I was hungry and happy to see the waiter heading my way. But obviously the food he carried wasn’t for me. It looked unlike anything I had ordered. It was disgusting. He got closer. “Keep going, keep going.” I prayed. He stopped and sat the plate down in front of me. I smiled politely, “Merci.” What I thought I had ordered from the waiter was sausage and potatoes. What I had actually ordered was… two fat, pale-looking veiny sausages that closely resembled that big dog’s balls. Next to them was a large boiled pig's ankle on a bed of sauerkraut. Yummy yum yum! I find eating a meal that too closely resembles the body part it came from totally barbaric. If you want me to eat a pig ankle, slice it up, grill it and throw some sauce on it. Then tell me afterwards what you killed to feed me. ("You mean that was..?! I'll be damned! Now, that's good eatin'.") Don’t just shove it in my face looking the way it did on the animal, conjuring up images of poor three-legged ‘Babe’ limping pitifully around Farmer Hoggett’s yard.

I examined the victim closely. Obviously, this had been a very large pig. My gastronomical desire waned while my scientific interest rose. Rather than eat it, I would dissect it. It was like I was back in physiology lab at SF State, cutting into cadavers, rabbits, rats, frogs, fetal pigs… shall I go on? I made vertical incisions, lateral incisions, sliced and jabbed. As in college, I learned nothing from the experience.

I saw the waiter, huddled with the other waiters, watching me and babbling in French. I had to do something. Unfortunately the silvery-gray dog had left and there was no other sacred pooch resting nearby that I could feed the porcine joint. I ate a few bites of sauerkraut, faked eating some ankle and… scattered pig parts around the plate. Maybe the waiter would be fooled into thinking I ate some. Who was I kidding? Out of extreme embarrassment and a deep sense of Catholic guilt, (There are starving children in…) I snuck out when the waiter wasn’t looking, leaving a larger than necessary tip.

Tonight I’m going to a restaurant my tour book says is where James Joyce and Orson Welles used to hang out. I don’t care what they ate. I’ll have the duck.