My time in Paris was fun, though marred by the fact that I wore the same clothes for most of the trip. British Airways held–is still holding– all my clothes, undies, books, and shoes in Heathrow. I was misled into thinking I’d get it back by July 1, but no such luck.
(Pic: St Michel Square, or, how I will kick British Airways in the ass.)
So, I walked through the fair streets of the Marais, the Latin Quarter, and the Bastille in my travelin’ clothes. I slept through the beautiful nights of Montmartre in my travelin’ clothes. And, when I tried to buy new clothes… well, I was in Paris. Their idea of large sizes is almost non-existent. I tried, dear God, I tried to find something to wear, but couldn’t. In the end, I saw some cute big chick working at a boulangerie and asked her where she shopped. “Internet,” she said, then suggested, after some thought, “Ashh en EM?” So, I was forced to go to H&M and buy the fugliest pair of grandma jeans and couple of linen-y, nasty shirts. My finest purchase was a pair of wicked cool adidas to replace the impractical shoes I had traveled in, which had scarred and chafed my feet.
Once I got that out of the way, I strolled through the streets with more ease. I went to the Picasso Museum, the Maison of Victor Hugo (motherfucker was rich!), the ouvre, where I snapped illegal photos of paintings, and the Pere Lachaise, the funnest place of all.
The most astounding grave there was Oscar Wilde’s, which was covered in graffitti and lipstick marks; the most disappointing was Proust’s, a black, shiny, small thing with barely a headstone. Colette’s was almost equally disappointing, since I half-expected there to be lingerie draped on it. Balzac’s was awesome, with a huge cross.
I left Gertrude Stein a note on a cigarette and stuck it in the soil by where her face would be.
All in all, a cool trip. Next time I travel I’m taking everything with me in a carry-on.
I’m in Cairo now! The azaan is going in the background and I am off to search for deodorant and toothpaste.