26 Mars 12:45I want to go home. I'm trying to do that right now. I'm on the train to CDG Aeroport. At least I hope I'm on the correct train.
I left Mme. Rey's at 11:15, took the subway to the Gare du Nord Station, where the airport train leaves from, and spent more than an hour trying to figure out where to go, how to buy a ticket (which included finding a ticket machine then walking around the station - a long walk - and then to two stores to buy small items to get the right coinage for the machine, then finding the machine again).
I'm not happy here. I feel stressed about money. I'm going to the airport to see if I can get my ticket changed from Sunday to Saturday. I also wanted to do a practice run on getting to the airport by train. Good thing.
Last night was actually the best time I've had here, but it was a fluke. M&M and I went to a club called Andy Wahloo last night. It was in an alley on the way to another club we were looking for - a French cabaret. People seemed to think I was a famous deejay. Half a dozen people came up to me, several of them asked me specifically if I was the deejay or a deejay, or DJ Magic (I think)--
Ma went to the bar to get drinks, Me went to the bathroom, I stood in the middle of the room waving back at the people who were waving excitedly at me. When Ma returned, I told him what was happening, he said, "What did you say?" I told him I told them no. He said, "Don't do that! Tell them you ARE the deejay. What does it matter?"
Me came out of the bathroom eventually followed closely by two gay guys - or so we assumed - one a Spaniard with a low-cut T-shirt, the other a shaved headed black man with Elvis Costello glasses. They introduced themselves to me. The Spaniard's name was Martine. I told him people thought I was a deejay; he patted me on the back and said, "No, no...!"
There was a deejay already there, already playing music. I was enjoying it, enjoying dancing with Martine and all the other Parisians. M&M ended up on the couch watching the crowd.
Finally, I was ready to go. I told them; they were ready to go, too. We weren't going together. They were taking a cab to their hotel, I was hoping to take a subway (if they weren't closed, if it wasn't after 1 a.m. - I found that out the hard way a couple of nights earlier). As we were standing outside saying our goodbyes, Martine appeared with two helmets. I joked that I needed a ride; Ma told Martine he should give me a ride. Martine said okay. He was heading to the north of the City, I was heading to Bastille; it worked for him.
I said my goodbyes to M&M and followed Martine around a dark corner to a bunch of scooters. He handed me one of the helmets, said it was his daughter's, and insisted I wear it, "Because I'm very, very drunk." I was stone cold sober.
I didn't care. I pulled the tight little helmet onto my head, climbed onto the back of Martine's scooter and took a thrill ride through the wet streets of Paris with the scooter crossing lanes willy-nilly when he turned to say something to me that I could hardly understand anyway.
I could've died. I didn't care.
I left Mme. Rey's at 11:15, took the subway to the Gare du Nord Station, where the airport train leaves from, and spent more than an hour trying to figure out where to go, how to buy a ticket (which included finding a ticket machine then walking around the station - a long walk - and then to two stores to buy small items to get the right coinage for the machine, then finding the machine again).
I'm not happy here. I feel stressed about money. I'm going to the airport to see if I can get my ticket changed from Sunday to Saturday. I also wanted to do a practice run on getting to the airport by train. Good thing.
Last night was actually the best time I've had here, but it was a fluke. M&M and I went to a club called Andy Wahloo last night. It was in an alley on the way to another club we were looking for - a French cabaret. People seemed to think I was a famous deejay. Half a dozen people came up to me, several of them asked me specifically if I was the deejay or a deejay, or DJ Magic (I think)--
Ma went to the bar to get drinks, Me went to the bathroom, I stood in the middle of the room waving back at the people who were waving excitedly at me. When Ma returned, I told him what was happening, he said, "What did you say?" I told him I told them no. He said, "Don't do that! Tell them you ARE the deejay. What does it matter?"
Me came out of the bathroom eventually followed closely by two gay guys - or so we assumed - one a Spaniard with a low-cut T-shirt, the other a shaved headed black man with Elvis Costello glasses. They introduced themselves to me. The Spaniard's name was Martine. I told him people thought I was a deejay; he patted me on the back and said, "No, no...!"
There was a deejay already there, already playing music. I was enjoying it, enjoying dancing with Martine and all the other Parisians. M&M ended up on the couch watching the crowd.
Finally, I was ready to go. I told them; they were ready to go, too. We weren't going together. They were taking a cab to their hotel, I was hoping to take a subway (if they weren't closed, if it wasn't after 1 a.m. - I found that out the hard way a couple of nights earlier). As we were standing outside saying our goodbyes, Martine appeared with two helmets. I joked that I needed a ride; Ma told Martine he should give me a ride. Martine said okay. He was heading to the north of the City, I was heading to Bastille; it worked for him.
I said my goodbyes to M&M and followed Martine around a dark corner to a bunch of scooters. He handed me one of the helmets, said it was his daughter's, and insisted I wear it, "Because I'm very, very drunk." I was stone cold sober.
I didn't care. I pulled the tight little helmet onto my head, climbed onto the back of Martine's scooter and took a thrill ride through the wet streets of Paris with the scooter crossing lanes willy-nilly when he turned to say something to me that I could hardly understand anyway.
I could've died. I didn't care.
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