forgetting my american

Oh, god. What time is it?

Paris is so fatiguant in August. Almost not worth being here.

Hmm…but no. Too much effort to get off…this…

What was I saying?

It would be merveilleux if Pierre called. But I don’t honestly think I could meet him anywhere until it was too late for meeting. It’s awkward to meet when everybody’s already met and doing things. Then you can only really pay attention to each other and that never works.

J’espere the allowance came today. Last month le bon père was late with it and Madame Degouttard nearly a chié une brique. But c’est la vie. I’ll just stay up here and pretend il n’y a personne if she comes up the warpath.

Up the warpath? Is that the proper usage of the expression? Isn’t that lovely…I’m forgetting my American.

There’s really no other place to be, pas vrai? Despite the heat. I mean, you could lay supine on a daybed in the Hamptons or you could lay supine on the fifth floor of a nineteenth-century mansard-roofed appartement on Rue Lepic overlooking the blinding sprawl of Paris and the faubourgs. Take your choix.

I’m no idealist. The accordions do get old and so do the portraitists. I mean, I’ve been here eighteen months and they still follow me around the Sacré-Coeur offering to do my portrait. I know they see a thousand people pass by a day but still, eighteen months in this neighborhood and they still think I'm a tourist? Les connards.

I suppose it’s possible they just want to draw me for art’s sake…unlikely, because they’re mostly hacks, but even hacks in Paris love art for art’s sake.

What was I saying?

It is a little odd that Pierre hasn’t called. One might call it drôle if it were not a little annoying. I’d rather stay on this bed anyway, but at least I need feel no obligation to meet him anywhere, even if it’s only downstairs.

If it cools down, I might go downstairs anyway for a drink. I’ll feel like it. Paris is so apropos in the evening in summer. The sky is still bright but all of a sudden it’s cool out, and you know it’s about six o’clock just because the sun has realized it’s the end of the working day.

Look at that. You can’t buy that kind of feeling, anywhere—you can only get it from a fifth-floor appartement on the corner of rue Lepic and rue Tholozé. Holy Moses. It would be nice to have someone to baiser right now. I’m so full of the joy of Paris and living and dusk. I hate drinking alone when nobody’s coming.

The bartender at that place on Mouffetard was très beau. But I hate to leave Montmartre by myself.

Josh would have called that cowardly. Well…he should know.

It’s got to be close to dusk now. Shame the bells aren’t working. I wonder what would happen if I leaned out over the window? Someone would probably take my picture. Someone would point to their lover and say, oh, look at that, isn’t that picturesque, isn’t that just so French? I’m not going to do it. Leaning out a window isn’t French. French is how you do it and why, and anyone who noticed and said anything about it clearly doesn’t know the difference. A person who did know the difference wouldn’t say anything about it.

What was I saying?

I should probably take a shower, whether or not I sortir tonight. And you never know who’s going to call.

Nobody here is reliable. Even if they were before, people stop being reliable when they get to Paris. I know I’ve changed. But I don’t think that was the fault of Paris.

Paris is not a place for famille, but sometimes you want it just the same.

What was I saying? Maybe I’ll go downstairs.

first published 7/30/07, 7.36pm