“Ambulance Blues, Paris, France” © 2005, 2007 Stu Jenks
[Images: “Instantanes D'un Siecle, Jardin du Luxembourg” © 2005, 2006 Anonymous Postcard,
"Chopin's Grave, Pere Lachaise," © 2005, 2006 Stu Jenks.]
It’s midnight. I’m in bed, wide awake. I went to bed at 9 p.m., still jetlagged like a son of a bitch after four days in Europe. Slept three hours and now I’m awake like it's morning.
I’m horny but with no girlfriend, either near by or far away. Ben and Helen were right. This is a bad town to be alone in. Well, I like being by myself quite a bit, I thought, but there is a sexual current under everything here in Paris, and I’m beginning to wish I had a woman on my arm as I walk these streets. Her, in bed with me now, as well.
Fuck it. Let’s get up. This is my last night in Paris after all, and I haven’t seen the Champs Elysees yet. I take a crisp 50 Euro note out of my wallet and stuff it in my blue jean pocket. Grab my smokes, my Metro pass, my laminated Paris map, my room key and that’s it. If I get mugged, all they’ll get is the cigs, the cash, a ride on the subway and help finding their way home. I exit my room, bound down the stairs, give my key to the night clerk and hit the streets.
I take a left on the Rue de Bourgogne. The street is empty. It’s Monday night plus this is a residential area not a party or touristy part of town. My boots steps echo off the walls of the buildings. It’s a nice cool night.
Within a minute or two, I take a right and I’m walking past the walled compound of the Musee Rodin. A bit disappointing, my visit there this morning. Sure, Balzac, and the Burghers were great to see but no good camera angles that I could find. Too much crap in the background. The Gates of Hells were spectacular but the sunlight was harsh on them. The Three Shades did move me, I grant you that, but the inside of Rodin’s home was somewhat run down. But the most bizarre part of the Musee was that it appeared that they had put out, for all of us to see, every single piece of sculpture that Rodin ever made and in that repertoire, there were some real stinkers. Not that I’m Auguste Rodin, but I can’t help but think that if you had a Musee Jenks after my death, and my executors put out every photographs I ever made, every musical pieces I ever recorded, every essay I ever written, you would find a lot of crap.
I look over now at the Burghers, from across the narrow street, through the Plexiglas panes in the compound’s wall. I smile, thinking how sweet it is to see the boys. They’ll always will be in my mind’s eye. At least I hope so.
A few more feet and I’m on the Boulevard des Invalides. Little car traffic at all. I see the Metro entrance, quickly walk toward it, skip down the stairs, push through a turnstile, walk to my platform and wait for the train. Just me and one other guy. I consult my map. Looks like the next stop on the 13 line is the far east end of the Champ Elysess. It’ll be a hike to the Arc de Triomphe but what else do I have to do tonight? I wait with for the train and think back on today.
After the Musee Rodin this morning, I swung by the Musee D’Orsay, the renowned Impressionist museum, to check out the lines. At 11 a.m., they were at least a hundred yards long. Screw that, I thought. I’ll come by in the late afternoon. I grabbed the Metro and head for Pere Lachaise, the ancient cemetery of Paris. Catherine said I might enjoy it. It was a long subway ride and when I got there, I had a hell of a time finding the graves of those I wished to see. I asked some gravediggers where Chopin’s grave was and they helpfully pointed me in the right direction. I just got turned around and didn’t find his grave for at least a 1/2 hour or more. Frankly, I just stumbled on it. Yes, I did cry and I think I got a good shot, but it was a lot of time and work to find one gravesite, even if it was for a man who’s music got me through high school. (Yes I was a major geek at Sanderson High. Read Ezra Pound during the day. Wrote poetry about Afghan Hounds at night. I needed help. Or maybe I just need to get laid. Probably both.) Wandering around that beautiful cemetery wasn’t bad at all, but I only have two days in Paris and I have a lot to try and cram into just 48 hours. Then again, maybe that’s my problem, trying to do too much in too little time. The dilemma of the traveler on a schedule. Fuck, I wish I were rich sometimes and didn’t have to get back to the day job in Tucson.
Train’s still not here. A lonely platform but I’m fine with that. And the Parisian down the way seems cool.
I think back to my asking the very nice Frenchman if he could help me find the painter Modiglianni’s grave.
I was in the back forty of Pere Lachaise. I’d been looking for Modi’s grave for about a half hour, following the map but with no luck. This sun is getting higher and higher. I got to split soon, I thought.
Then walking toward me was a nice looking man in his sixties. He was short, appeared friendly, dressed to the nines. When it got close, I spoke.
“Bonjour, Monsieur” I say.
“Boujour,” he says, with his voice going up at the end of the word.
“Excusez-moi,” I said. I point at my map. “Si vous plait. Modigliani?” I say, waving my hand around as if to say ’where might he be?’
“Bien, laissez-nous voient,” he says, “Il ressemble à la tombe de Modiglianni est là-bas, selon cette carte.” He points toward an area of the graveyard I was just at.
Uh-Uh, I thought. He thinks I really speak French. I nod.
“Oui,” I say. I’m lying through my teeth. Yes, I say. You have sounds coming out of your mouth, that I can’t understand them.
“Ainsi je pense si vous devez marcher plus d'à la section 23,” he says
“Oui,” I say again as if I understand. I haven’t a clue.
“Oui, bien il y a où sa tombe est. Je pense” he says, pointing at my map with a bit of a flare. He smiles at me, happy that he's been helpful. I smile back at him.
“Merci. Merci beaucoup, Monsieur,” I say.
“Mon plaisir,” he says.
I wave at him as he walks away. He waves back. A nice encounter, I thought.
Too bad that I couldn’t understand 95% of what he said.
And I never found Modigliani’s grave.
I can hear the subway coming. It stops at the platform. The young man and I get on the train, each through our own separate doors, each in our own car. I enter the car. Just me in this car. Wow, it is late. The train starts up and it begins to descend. Bet it’s going under the river. I think about the D’Orsay, also near the River Siene, a quarter mile over that a way.
I got back there a little after 4 p.m today. The lines were gone. I had about 1 1/2 hours to do the D’Orsay. Should be plenty. It was hell.
People were frantically running around, taking pictures of all the famous Monets and Manets they could, pushing and shoving to get to see the beauties. I remember one person asked me to move as I was looking at a Monet. I did. They whizzed by me, popped a shot and sprinted away, not saying “Thank you” or anything. This happened at least four times while I was there. I was having a moment with another great painting and people were impatient with me, wanting me to move so they could take their snapshot, and I’m at least 8, 10 feet back from the painting. After Rude Asshole Number Five asked me to get out of his way, I decided then and there, the next person who asks me to move, I’d simply look them in the eye and say ‘No’.
No one asked me to move for the rest of my stay at the D’Orsay. I must have been putting off a strong Don’t Fuck With Me vibe by that point.
There were one or two special moments for me there though.
One was in the Art Nouveau section, a part of the museum where few patrons were. One room was a re-creation of a Nouveau bedroom, with its wooden wall paneling, floor to ceiling, carved with sweeping curves and seductive lines, deep into the dark wood. A bed was there with a headboard that looked like it was made by elves. Blown glass vases that looked like they were made from living plants and air, instead of from melted sand.
And the other moment was the room with all the famous Monets.
The insanity of snapshot-shooting surrounded me. I gave a cursory look at a haystack but didn’t want to be part of the crazed energy in front of it. More buzzing and buzzed tourists over by that painting of lilies. I’ll pass.
Then I turned around and saw a beautiful tall painting of poplar trees, their leaves blowing in the wind. I look left, then right. No one was wanting to look at this painting. I wondered why. I leaned forward and look at the title tag on the wall. It was a new acquisition. “Wind Effect”, the tag said. From Monet’s Poplar series, but one I hadn’t ever seen. I stare at it, having a silent dialogue with it, created a circle with my intention and its beauty. Things seem to quiet down but they hadn’t really. French Schoolgirls were running around to my left. Hyper-driven Asians were popping away with their cameras to my right, but it seemed quiet in the space where I stood. I stared at the painting, mesmerized by the lines of the tall trees, the blue and yellow of the sky, the brown and greens of the trees. Even quieter now in the gallery. And I swear I could almost hear the wind blow. Almost.
The train slows. This is my stop. The Number 13 rolls to a halt. I get out and bound up the stairs. Out I pop on the street. There, a mile away or more is the Arc de Triomphe. I think about getting another train, to get me closer. Hell with that. I need could use the walk.
One O’Clock in the morning: Avenue George V.
Well, I could have missed that. Not many Parisians on the Champs Elysees tonight. Mostly tourists, Americans and Arabs it seemed. Large stories selling expensive clothes and perfumes. A Virgin megastore. A McDonalds. Am grateful to Mickie D. though, for the bathroom and the cheap soda. The only envy I experienced was standing, looking at the Arc de Triomphe, wishing a) that it was daytime so I could walk to the top of it and b) wishing I had a car so I could drive around it for sport. Ah, but if I hadn’t walked the Champs tonight, I would have thought I was missing something. Now I know I never need to come back again.
What that commotion up ahead?
Out in front of what appears to be a 5 star hotel, are about fifty people excitedly milling around the entrance. Their focus seems to be on someone or something. I walk closer.
Well, I’ll be. It’s Celine Dion. She’s signing autographs. Christ, it’s late. I bet she just flew in. I stand off aways, watching the scene. Time passes. Celine signs one piece of paper, than another. People have their picture taken by friends with small digital cameras, some with their cell phones. Two guys stand behind her on the steps of the hotel. One looks like her manager, the other looks like the muscle. She is very patient, taking care of one person’s needs at a time. After one person or couple gets their picture take, they joyously leave the small mob, exiting onto the sidewalk. Some call friends on the cells, probably waking them up to say “J'ai juste fait prendre ma photo avec Celine Dion!” Everyone seems to be French except for me and maybe one other couple.
I stand there for at least 20 minutes watching Celine and her fans. The crowd begins to slowly thin out, as she talks to each and every person. At one point, a Paris cabbie pulls up and cranks up his stereo, blaring “When I Fall in Love.” This lasts for about a minute and then he drives away with his fare. Both seem excited.
I then think that since she is French Canadian, Celine may have been firmly adopted by the French as their own. I continue standing there, with a huge grin on my face. She finally, after about 30 minutes, signs the last autograph, stands for the last photo. She must me tired from her trip, I think, but she took care of her fans. Every single one.
She waved goodbye to those who are still milling on the sidewalk.
“Au revoir, chacun,” she says as she finally enters the hotel
“Au revoir, Celine! Merci! Merci! Nous vous aimons !” they yell.
Some people are jumping up and down. Some are crying. All are smiling, including me. No one is unhappy on the street. Most are looking at their cell phones to see their picture with Celine.
I’ve never been a fan of Celine Dion. Neither really liked or disliked her. But right now, I’m truly impressed. Tired and jetlagged, she took some time to be with her French fans.
At 2 in the morning.
2:30 a.m.: Back on my side of the River Seine.
I consult my map. Looks like if I stay on Rue Saint Dominique, it’ll hit Rue Du Bourgogne at some point. Cool.
My mind’s empty. Not much thinking. Some images though.
The large photographs on the fence outside the Jardin du Luxembourg I saw at dusk tonight. The cheese section at the amazing grocery store not far from the Jardin. The dark lively street as I walked home with my cumin chesse, my dark chocolates and my salted meat from the store. The image of an elderly couple walking hand in hand as I walk home to the hotel. How we exchanged ‘Bonsoirs” as we passed each other. The grave of Chopin. The poplars of Monet. The prostitutes of Manet. My return to Notre Dame to see the Blue Rosettes one last time before I leave Paris.
Like in a dream, I’m back in my part of town. A sleep walker I am, strolling past the Invalides. And I actually know where I am.
Haven’t seen a person in quite a while. All the cafes are closed. No one is exiting the Metro. No buses. Just a car or two.
Suddenly a lyric from an old song comes to mind, a song I haven’t heard in years, maybe two decades or more, but it was a record I played over and over back in the 70’s. “On the Beach” by Neil Young.
The line I keep hearing in my head is “The subways are empty and so are the cafes.” What’s the rest of the song? I think I know. At least some of the verses.
I begin to sing out aloud. Not loud, but softly, yet I can still hear my voice gently coming off the close walls of the buildings in the 7th.
“The subways are empty and so are the cafes.
Except for the Farmer’s Market and I still can hear him say:
‘You’ll all just pissing in the wind.
You don’t know it but you are.
And there ain’t nothing like a friend,
Who can tell you, you’re just pissing in the wind.'
I hum the harmonica part. Quiet, Stu. Don’t wake anyone, I think, as I sing the harp part.
Next verse.
“I never knew a man, who could tell so many lies.
He had a different story for every set of eyes.
How can he remember who he’s talking to?
I know it ain’t me, and hope it isn’t you.”
I hear Neil’s acoustic guitar in my head. I start to hum that too.
Just up ahead I see a man walking toward me. I continue humming but just a little softer. The vibe is fine. I stop humming all together when he gets close.
“Bonsour,” I say.
“Bonsour,” he says back, with a friendly smile. A young and sober man it appears.
After he’s past, I work on trying to remember all of ‘Ambulance Blues’. It’s a long song with a lot of lyrics and it has been years. I know the Mother Goose section. I’ll just sing that one, and if more verses come, I’ll sing those too. Order doesn’t matter. Now let’s see. How does that go? Oh yea.
“Oh, Mother Goose, she’s on the skids.”
I sing, pretty loud this time.
“Shoe ain’t happy, neither are the kids.
She needs someone that she can scream at.
And I’m such heel for making her feel so bad.
I guess I’ll call it sickness gone,”
I sing quieter now.
“It’s hard to say the meaning of this song.
An ambulance can only go so fast,”
I’m singing through tears now
“It’s easy to get buried in the past.
When you try to make a good thing last."
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http://stujenks.typepad.com/photos/megaliths_and_sodapop_los/chopinsgrave.html
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