easy acess

In the hostel in Newcastle, Dave and I met a group of guys drinking beers and eating in the kitchen. One or two of them were from Australia, one was from Ireland, and one was from Britain. They were really pleasant and welcoming. They had all just met each other a few days before.

I talked to all of them, but I ended up talking with the man from Britain the most. I think his name was Robin, and he works in a gym in Bristol. Somehow, we got on the subject of Stella Artois, and how in the US it is marked as a classy beer, whereas in Europe it is nothing special. Robin told us that in the ‘80s, it was called ‘the wife beater’ beer because it had some ingredient in it that made guys go a little crazy. Robin himself stays away from Stella, because it makes him feel a bit funny.

We got on to the subject of movies, specifically ‘80s science fiction movies and Bill Paxton. Robin was very enthusiastic about this subject. He quoted several Paxton lines, including, ‘game over man, game over,’ and ‘well why don’t you put her in charge then?’ (both from Aliens). I told him he should watch A Simple Plan. We both agreed, Bill Paxton is good at being pathetic.

Later in the night, this attractive German girl that Robin obviously wanted remarked that the top button on his pants was undone. I keep them that way for easy access, he said. Paramedics are underpaid and I want to save them time should something happen. It could mean that they could move on faster to save another life, he explained. I added: it’s like how I have down on my driver’s license that I’m an organ donor, so I can save lives.

A while later, Dave and I challenged another guy and a girl to a game of pool, but I went upstairs for a while and lost track of time. When I got down, Dave was in bad shape, but I was able to clean things up a little bit. One of the Australians was talking to these two scantily-clad women about a club called ‘club sin.’ I said to the two women, you two look like you must be familiar with club sin. Surprisingly, I got away with it, and they just laughed. When I went upstairs, I told Robin about what’d I said. Oh, those girls? They’re from Essex. Jack the Ripper always went for girls from Essex, and that bastard had good taste, Robin informed me.

When we went out, it was noted by several people that I looked like Napoleon Dynamite. Much later in the night, when we were back at the hostel, I put my head out the window to call to Dave who was outside in the smoking are, and some bro again remarked that I look like NP. Well, I gave him some attitude, and for the rest of the night he was nice to me. I guess my glasses just don’t always translate well. You can’t win them all. That’s what my friend Amanda often says, or some variation thereof.

'the sports'

Very often I’ll ask my flatmate Sebastion what he did with himself over the weekend, and he’ll respond by saying he did ‘the sports.’ Likewise, when I return from a run, he’ll ask if I just got back from doing ‘the sports.’ Apparently, as far as althetic activities go, Germans do not make any distinctions—anything from jogging to swimming to soccer or even going to a sauna falls under ‘the sports.’ We asked Dave’s German friend Christoph about this (who, I should add, refers to his math homework as ‘the maths’) and he confirmed that in German, there is only one word that refers to althetic activity. I did try to explain the difference between playing a sport and exercising to Sebastion, but he continues to use his catch all phrase ‘the sports.’

Scottish bros

Last night we went to a flat party in the apartment above Dave’s. The building has mostly students in their first year—except for the exchange students like Dave—so it was very reminiscent of my early days at Hampshire. In fact, some of them are even younger than the average first year at Hampshire. The party was very loud and rowdy, I was reminded of a party with the Frisbee team, except there was a lot more hair gel. In think they were basically English bros. I don’t understand how English girls put up with all that hair gel.

One the guys with an especially excessive amount of hair gel was talking about his 18th birthday that had just passed. Apparently, his friends took him out to a strip club and he got so drunk he climbed up on the stage. The stripper poured hot wax down his pants and, so these group of guys said, every time his friends yelled out she lit his ass on fire with sambuca. These Scotsman, they rage hard.

Well, not long into the evening, I realized that I was really in no shape to be going out. At the time, I tried to ignore it, but now it is obvious to me that I was terribly feverish, as I was having hot and cold spells, and feeling generally lethargic. Luckily, I didn’t drink too hard.

When we got back, I went straight to bed. I woke up countless times during the night soaked in sweat, but I soon as I got out of my sleeping bag to use the bathroom, I got the shivers. At one point, I awoke from a dream about being alienated in the United Kingdom, and when I got to the bathroom, there was a huge truck tire in the shower. That was really disconcerting.

Today I had a fried mars bar.

golfing

I went to a club again yesterday in Edinburgh. I don’t know why. I was, and still am, suffering from a fairly severe cold. When I wanted to talk to people, I had to yell very loud, and nearly every time my voice broke. That was awkward. Several times, this girl complimented me on my glasses and asked to try them on. At one point, I ran into her later in the night and she took them to show to her friend. This was all very flattering, but I would’ve appreciated being engaged in a conversation. Again, the problem seems to be that I just don’t understand clubbing. I don’t understand clubbing the way I don’t understand golfing. Going clubbing for me is kind of like if I were to enter a golf tournament, except probably worse. Maybe I need to start using drugs. That’s the ticket.

Before we went to the club, however, I had a very nice time meeting Dave’s friends. We talked about v-necks, because I thought Dave’s German friend Christoph was wearing a uni qlo v, but it turns out it was another brand. Also, Dave’s friend Helen has the same v-neck that both Dave and I have, and she wore it out.

Sometimes I wonder if I write about the right kinds of things in here. I wonder if, in five or ten years, I’ll look back at this blog and think, ‘Damn, why couldn’t I have done a travel blog?’

Today Dave and I were walking home and I saw a construction worker using some sort of of vehicle with a jackhammer attached to it. He was using it to break up some stone on the street and for some reason that image was satisfying. I said, "I could have fun doing that for a few hours." I lack ambition.

Florence

When I got home tonight, I noticed that there was still a pot of soup from a few days ago left on the stove—it’s my host mother Florence’s soup, she seems to live off of vegetable soup. My host mother hates living with me and my other flat mate Sebastian. She has told us both on several occasions that she will never again host people. She often says, “It’s impossible (c’est impossible)” or “I don’t understand anything anymore (je ne comprends plus rien)” or “I can’t take it anymore (je ne peux plus le supporter).” Very often I will be alone in the apartment, and then she comes back and I hear her cursing or talking to herself. “Shit” or “fuck,” (in French though) she’ll say to herself. This worries me very much, because I think I’m somehow responsible for whatever she is angry about. One morning this happened, and since I was groggy and hungover, I decided to approach her and find out what was the matter. I found her in the kitchen. Immediately, to try and make myself look good, I started cleaning. Well, she complained about us not keeping the kitchen clean enough and not taking out the garbage, etc. However, she said that in fact I am rather discreet and clean, and she put most of the blame on my flat mate Sebastian. She said that he is “lourde” (which literally means heavy, although I think she meant to say that he is dense) and German. I also mentioned to her that I think the three of us should eat together one night, so that we can perhaps discuss the living arrangements so living together can be more agreeable. She said she does not want to eat with the German. Well, I think I am right in suspecting a little bit of prejudice here on Florence’s part.
Well, what I’m getting at is that, in terms of my own cleanliness, well, I base it on her cleanliness. Today, when I opened up the lid to the soup pot left by her, all I saw was a congealed, moldy substance. What is this supposed to mean? If she can get away with that, I ought to be able to be a little lazy about recycling my beer bottles. Or am I supposed to clean out the moldy pot? I don’t want to deal with that shit.

desperados, boners

Today I ran into a girl from my high school who is studying in Paris. She is one of these people who really just loves Paris. She's what one might call someone who would have a travel blog.

Later in the evening I went to Dave’s uncle’s apartment in the Montparnasse and we took a run. I had to take a cold shower because the hot water wasn’t working. Afterwards, we ate dinner with Jackie, Amanda, and Nicola. Well, I will say again, that I enjoy spending time with these girls, in fact I told them that I was considering devoting an entry just to them. I’m not going to do that now, I don’t want to flatter them too much and inflate their egos. Perhaps if they flatter me a bit, and inflate my ego, then I’ll devote an entry to them. Well, look, I suspect that at least one of them is reading this entry, so I’ll say that an entry about them is warranted, and they’ll get it sooner or later.

Well, I had some more desperados today. On the metro, I was drinking one. A young man and his attractive girlfriend (young men with attractive girlfriends are quite common, I should add) sat down in the seats next to us, and after a few stops he asked me, in a somewhat broken English, to see the desperado bottle, so that he could prove to his attractive girlfriend that a desperado is a French beer. I gave it to him and he showed it to her, then he handed it back. A while later, I was on the phone with Jared and I had to tell him what stop to get off at. When I said ‘Bonne Nouvelle’ Amanda made fun of my accent, so I told Jared to get off at ‘boner nouvelle.’ Well, this French guy, he thought that was really funny.

the flesh door

Last night I drank a Maxomator, among other things. This is a beer with 11.6% alcohol content. If I were to write a whole entry about Thursday, I would call it “journey to the toilet across from my room.”

Today, I went to the Flêche d’or. In my mind, however, I think of it as The Flesh Door. Going to clubs, I find, is always vaguely, if not extremely, disappointing. I think that I just don’t get it. That’s fine with me though. However, I was not feeling malaise, but just a slight disappointment that the night wasn’t more exciting. Well anyway, I suppose I could say a lot about why I don’t understand clubs, but I wouldn’t be saying anything new. In fact, I think that my good friend Ezra, in his blog Hampshire Fucking College, described very well the way I sometimes feel about clubbing in his post “Night of a thousand tears,” although he is talking about college parties in that case.

On that note, I ought to say that anyone reading this blog should also check out Ezra’s blog. I really enjoy Ezra’s blog. Ezra seems to experience a lot of malaise, too, but he talks about it in a wittier way than I do.

Oh, and one more thing. It’s occurred to me that these entries might misrepresent my life here. Well, that’s okay with me, but I do want to mention that, in my opinion, I do give myself a healthy dose of culture every week. But to actually talk about that, I feel, would be too close to a travel blog.

the swedes

On Friday, I went to the pop-in with a two Americans I just met. It was a good group. Some friendly Swedes who spoke good English sat down next to us. One of them, I think her name was Elena, especially took to us. She told me something along the lines of: I know you have a certain stereotype of us Swedes, but we’ll not all like that (she, in fact, did not fit the stereotype at all). I told her not to worry, and that I wasn’t too hung up on that image of the Swedish. She pointed to her friend, however, and noted that she fit it much more, being blond and big breasted. She attracts all sorts of weird guys, Elena told me. Well, these Swedes, they invited us out to party, and at first I was down, but I decided that I’d catch the metro instead. Jared, however—who joined us later in the night—went with them, and got invited to a party that happened yesterday.

This party was in my hood, in the 13e. After boozing at bit at the Motel, Jackie and co. and I took the metro down there and met Jared after some difficulties finding the place. Before that, we found an open store and I bought a desperado. A desperado is a beer mixed with a little tequila that has a nice 5.9% alcohol ratio. It tastes like soda, I like them a lot.

The party was very Nordic and Germanic: Swedes, Austrians, Germans. There was also a douchey British guy and an Australian girl. Speaking of the word douche. I haven’t had to explain it yet to a French person, but I imagine that will be a good conversation.

Many people remarked that I looked like Napoleon Dynamite. I haven’t heard that since high school. Well, I guess my hair is getting longer, and now I’m wearing metal aviators. I don’t know what to think.

Either way, I felt very international. We stayed until the metros opened again, at 5.30am. Chez-moi, I made myself a sandwich and wrote Ben an incoherent e-mail.

journey to the end of the night

On Thursday evening, I went to the Motel again because I wanted to go there and also because Jackie’s friend Maddie wanted to check it out. I was there alone for about a half hour waiting for them, and that was awkward. Mostly, I stared blankly and sipped my beer. Maddie came with her friend, and then shortly after Jackie with a couple of her friends. The bar wasn’t as lively as the last time, and Jackie’s group was different than usual. It wasn’t exactly a dynamic group, I have to admit. One of them wanted to go to the Social Club all the way on the other side of Paris, so we got a cab there. Before we found that place, I was able to get a sandwich, and that was one of the most satisfying parts of the night. A good sandwich goes a long way.

We couldn’t get in to the club. I was okay with that. Instead we went to an empty bar across the street. I started to feel malaise; it was one of those nights where I wondered what I was doing with myself. I split a cab home with Maddie and turned in at around 4am. In the morning, I almost broke the washing machine. Florence, my host mother if one can call her that, would have exploded.

french hipsters?

On Saturday night, I boozed with Jared at his place and met Jackie and two of her friends at The Motel, the bar from a few weeks ago. Daniel later joined us. If this bar were in the US, it would undoubtedly be a hipster bar, based on the music, the crowd there, etc. But in France, there really isn’t such a thing as a hipster. The style exists, but that’s it. In general, I find, style is less symbolic here. Anyway, I got a few compliments on my glasses, and that was flattering. Jared and I struck up a conversation with a guy outside smoking a cigarette who had the quintessential hipster look down. Jared complimented him on his outfit and told him that he wanted to meet French girl. I asked him if the hipster look worked for French girls, and he said he didn’t know because his girlfriend is American. I thought that was funny. He was a good guy.

Well anyway, other stuff happened that night but I don’t feel like writing about it.

The weekend ended pleasantly. Jared, Daniel and I went to dinner at Christine’s place. They did a really good job with it. I was feeling reserved, however, so I feel that I may have inadvertently made it seem like I was dissatisfied.

A cause des garçons

Friday night I went to the Merle Moquer again, this time with Jackie and Jared. I was wearing a different pair of glasses, and the bartender noticed and said I looked better than the day before. After two drinks, we left to go to a place called Chez Prune in the 11e. It was a quieter bar, and I was a little disappointed because I was hoping for another rowdy night like Thursday.

A little bit before the bar closed, I noticed that there was a very attractive women sitting alone at the bar. Jackie and her friends encouraged me to go talk to her. Finally, I figured, why not. I stood next to her and tried to order a drink, but the bartender wouldn’t serve me because it was past last call. I had noticed before that he had been talking to the attractive women, and I thought, here’s my in, and said to her, “tu connais le garçon?” (Intending to then complain about him…normally I would just translate, but the original words are important). “Garçon” is actually vaguely insulting, but I didn’t know the word for bartender. She replied that he was her fiancé. Well, I consider that a lesson learned.

hair gel encore

I was just reading Derrida and as I drifted off to sleep, I started thinking about hiding from dinosaurs. Actually, I’m not sure what they were, but it seems like that what they were. I find that when a text puts me to sleep, my mind goes to the strangest places…

I haven’t been good about updating regularly. I could just do one long entry, but I prefer them to be shorter. This one is about last Thursday night.

On Thursday night, Jared came to my hood and we went to the Merle Mouquer. This is the only good bar I’ve found in the 13e. I really don’t remember what Jared and I talked about. I’m sure we said profound things. I took a shot of one of their rums. Rum appears to be one of their specialties. Periodically the bartender lined up ten or fifteen shot glasses for different groups of people. I sat on a stool next to an attractive looking woman with brown hair and started a conversation with her. Her name was Mathilde. I find most French names at least vaguely sexy. She told me that she works in theatre and that she had a license in this and in cinema, so we talked about directors. She brought up Wong Kar-Wai. This reaffirmed my conviction that Wong Kar-Wai is trendy. I took another shot and went out side to smoke a cigarette.

As I was feeling garrulous, while I was smoking I got into a conversation with two women smoking outside, they seemed like they were probably regulars. I don’t remember what I said, or if I even initiated it. I confessed to them that I wanted to meet a French girl. One of them was somehow connected with Mathilde and I must have asked her about my chances. She explained that I was too young, that I needed more facial hair—this irked me because I had just shaved my beard—and that my plastic glasses didn’t work. Furthermore, and worst of all, she suggested that I use gel in my hair.

At any rate, back inside, I did dance with Mathilde, but after one song she started up with another guy. When the bar closed, Mathilde and her cousin she was with invited me to come along with them to these two guys’ apartment. The woman from before also came along. One of the gentlemen poured me a stiff drink. They were playing various American pop songs, ranging from Chuck Berry to contemporary, and dancing. I asked if I could play something, thinking I could find something new for them. I put on Heartbeats. I’m sick of this song, but I thought, how can anyone not be into it? They weren’t having it. The only thing they appreciated that I selected was Yelle, which makes perfect sense.

Mathilde mysteriously disappeared, then I realized that she was puking in the bathroom. When she came out, I tried to comfort her by saying that I puked all the time during my first year at college. In retrospect, I realize that this is vaguely insulting. Nonetheless, I don’t think she understood anyway because it was difficult to explain in French.

The other woman continued to give me advice. Mathilde took off my glasses and told me to put on this pair of aviator sunglasses. Then her cousin put gel in my hair. I told them that I looked like an idiot. They disagreed. Mathilde took back the sunglasses and put them on and started to dance. That was a good image. Then she French-kissed me, I don’t remember why. A French kiss, so I found out, it just a kiss on the lips. Still, I said that I needed to try it again, but she said that was it.

Mathilde’s cousin tried to help me dance. What she showed me was actually not unlike grinding, which surprised me because I was under the impression that the French didn’t really do that. Well, I assume she just wanted to be close to my body. That’s a healthy assumption, I feel. Nonetheless, I felt ridiculous, dancing with her, with gel in my hair.

I said that I should getting going, it was about 4am, and one of the women said she’d drive me home because we lived on the same road. Mathilde French-kissed me again, and I thought that was nice. When I got home, I passed out in my clothes. In the morning, I took two doses of tums, but to no avail…Finally, I was able to get back to bed, and when I woke up around at around 2, I felt great.

shitfaced

Right now I’m at ‘the center’ (the center for critical studies, where I have courses with the other Americans) and there are some girls talking about their traveling plans. One of them just said, “I think we should get our hair cut while we’re in London.”

On Friday night, I went to Molly’s place to drink with her, Jen, and Brittany. I like Molly, she talks real and she can she can roll with the bros. I talked with Jen for a while, too, about what her and her friends from school think of relationships. I think she can probably roll with the bros too. Jared joined us, we boozed a bit more, and left for the Odéon. At the stop, Molly and I randomly met three French girls, they were art students in their first year. We struck up a conversation with them and they took us to a bar in the area known for its sangrias. I was quite enamored of them. They spoke pretty good English, but we stuck to French for the most part.

At the bar we sat down with our sangrias, it was a good group: Jared, Dan, and I, and Molly, Jen, and Brittany at the table next to ours. I asked the French girls about their experiences in the United States. After a little three of their friends came and joined us, two guys and a girl. I started talking about American drinking habits, and the guy sitting next to me, a cool guy, told us that while in United States, he had learned the term “shit faced.” I thought that was good.

After that place closed, we went back to the place from the day before and got in one drink before we had to leave. Luckily, Dan lives in the 6th and had free beds. Dan and Jared got into another argument like the one before, I tuned most of it out but there was the same pomo bull shit stopping the conversation from going anywhere. In the morning we got up and had a bromantic time, we bought some baguette and sat around eating it with cheese, eggs, and humus. I was feeling pretty good, thinking something like, ‘this had been a good weekend.’

masculinity?

I have not been feeling especially aloof or gloomy, although I’m getting sick. On Thursday night, I met Jared for drinks at the Jesus bar. I enjoy being in that place. After that I had dinner at Jared’s, and after that we met up with Jackie, Dave’s quasi-ex-girlfriend, and her friend Amanda from NYU. We searched around a little while in the 6th by the Odéon and settled on this place, I forget the name. I have sort of a strange relationship with Jackie; I think a bro always has a strange relationship (if there is one at all) with his bro’s girlfriend/ex-girlfriend, especially if she’s a quasi-ex-girlfriend. Nonetheless, I consider Jackie a friend. Amanda was fun, too. I appreciate the both of them, because, among other things, they like to drink hard, harder than me, and I always enjoy it when someone encourages hard drinking, just for the sake of hard drinking.

Well anyway, I think they got some free drinks for themselves, because they’re cute Americans or whatever. They even got Jared and me a free shot. At the time, I thought nothing of this, but a few days later I realized that, in theory, girls who are with guys aren’t supposed to get free drinks at bars. I wonder if this has something to do with our masculinity—were we just a completely non-threatening presence? If I were really a bro, I might be offended by this idea.