Stu Jenks: Fezziwig Photography, Music, and Writing

"Double Shot. Like Bang Bang" (c) 2005, 2007

“Double Shot. Like Bang Bang” (c) Stu Jenks
    (Image: "L'Air Bleu de Rodin")

           My plane leaves at 2 for London. Need to be at Charles DeGaulle by 12. Get to Gard du Nord by 10:30 to catch the train. Go to the nearby Metro station at 10 to grab a subway. It's 9 now.
    Shit! Merde! Whatever.
           I've fallen in love with Paris and I don't want to leave.
           No time to do much but walk around Rue de Bourgogne and maybe get an espresso or a pastry. Michel, the day deskman at the Hotel du Palais Bourbon, said I can leave my bags behind the desk before I head out for the airport. Great guy. We got along great once I realized that he speaks better English than I do. Well, not entirely. He's a little short on idioms but as we talked I could tell he wanted me to use American turns-of-phrase. I obliged. I also educated him on the differences between Texans and Arizonans. (Texans tend to lean toward being arrogant and many have entitlement issues, while Arizonans are more laconic, humbler. Then again, Phoenix is just Southern California without the beach these days.) I mentioned to Michel, too, that in Arizona, it's legal to wear a piston on your hip, just like in the movies. I also told him that most people don't wear a piece, for it's pretty easy to just get a Concealed Weapons Permit. Most who own handguns just do that. His eyes got as big as saucers. (I neglected to say that most Tucsonans don't even own a gun much less wear one, but that would spoil the fun)
    "I'll be back in a half hour or so, Michel," I say.
    "Okay," he says
    "And thanks so much for letting me leave my bags. It's a big help."
    "No problem. My pleasure."
    "Au revoir," I say.
    "Au revoir," say Michel.
    I exit the hotel and take a right on Rue de Bourgogne. There's a little café just a couple of blocks down where I got an espresso yesterday at dawn. I think I need one to go. The café is tiny, perhaps 50 feet by 20 feet, with the bar running the length of the place. A couple of small tables inside, a few more outside under an awning. That's it. Maybe food is served but I don't remember any. Lots of different choices of coffees, wines and cigarettes.
    My kind of place.
    Yesterday, when I was at this cafe, I spoke French, or something like it. I ordered a cup of espresso and a pack of Gitanes. We muddles through and I got my coffee and smokes. Talking with Michel today he has informed me that truly most Parisians speak English, so go ahead.
    Today, I'll do just that.
    I walk off the street and up to the bar and begin:
    "Bonjour," I say.
    "Bonjour," says the bar keep. A tall man in his fifties, salt and pepper hair, no smile but polite.
    "Excusez-moi. I would like an espresso, double shot, to go," I say.
    He looks puzzled.
    "Double shot, Double shot," he says.
    "MARIA!" he yells.
    This isn't going so well.
    "Maria will come and find out what you want," he says, in halting English and then walks to the other end of the bar.
    Not good at all.
    Suddenly, like a rabbit out of hat, appears Maria, a black woman, maybe twenty years old.
    "Hi. I'm Maria. What can we get for you," she says, in perfect English, with a beautiful African accent. In love again.
    "Yes, " I say, "Hi. I would like an espresso, double shot, to go, take away," I add, thinking using the British slang for 'to go' might help.
    "Double shot?" she says.
    Oh boy.
    "Double shot, like twice as much.Two," I say.
    "Ah," she says.
    She rapidly speak some French to the barkeep, none of it that I understand.
    "Ah, Oui," he says.
    "There you go," she says to me.
    "Thank you very much," I say. "Merci"
    "It's OK," she says, smiling a little smile, and then she disappears.
    I get my double espresso in the cutest little to-go container you’ve ever seen. I walk outside to one of the empty two-tops and take a seat. I put a cube of sugar into my mini-cup of coffee and sip the espresso. Ah. I take out the 35 mm and take a few shots, then return in earnest to my caffeine. I finish it off and look for a waiter. One arrives and I order another coffee, this time, for here. I settle in. I take it all in. Well dressed government workers walk by. School kids in uniforms. A woman in her fifties, dressed casually but impeccably, walks in front of me. I notice her silk stockings and her amazing legs. Small Renaults and large mopeds speed through the narrow intersection to my right. An older man and a younger woman flirt with each other at the table next to mine.
    I sip my expresso.
    I so don't want to leave Paris.

           I retrieve my luggage from the hotel and begin my goodbyes to Michel but first I tell him about my adventure in English at the café down the way. I tell him the phrase I used to order my drink.
           "Espresso, double-shot, to go"
           He smiles broadly, raises his two hands like six shooters and says,
           "Double shot! Like Bang-Bang!"

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“Ambulance Blues, Paris, France” © 2005, 2007

“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

"The Three Eclairs" © 2005, 2007

“The Three Eclairs” © 2005, 2007 Stu Jenks
    [Image: Notre Dame, Paris, France]

    “Bonjour, Madam,” I say.
    “Bonjour,” she says quickly. There’s a line behind me at this boulangerie.
    “S’il vous plait, trois éclairs au chocolat?” I say, roughly pointed toward the beautiful pastries to my left.
    “Pardon?” she says, a bit annoyed. Is my high school French really that bad? [Answer: Yes. I should have said “S’il vois plait, peux j'avoir trois eclairs de chocolat?” Instead I just said “Please, three éclairs with chocolate?” A bit bossy and confusing. Or maybe I've just said "Please, three chocolate lights?]
    “Excusez-moi.” I say. I’m flustered now. Damn.
    “I’m sorry,” I say in English. “I’d like three of these éclairs please. S’il vous plait,” pointing toward them in the glass case.
    The woman gives me this look like ‘Why didn’t you just say so?’ I don’t blame her for being irritated with my French. As the humorist David Sederis said about his efforts to learn French, after a year of classes, he could now speak like a retarded French child. I'm speaking like an embryo.
    The bakery woman speaks loudly to who appears to be her daughter. They look alike. They're speaking fast and I don’t have a clue what she's saying but I hear something about éclairs in there. The young daughter walks to where the éclairs are. I follow on the outside of the case, pointing toward them as well. She smiles a bit and picks up three chocolate éclairs. She places them on a little work bench and with dark green paper makes a little tent-like sack, for me to carry them in. Ingenious. We walk back to the cash register.
    “Et un baguette, s’il vous plait.” I say.
    Luckily, I pointed toward the long bread in a basket on the wall behind them. The mom grabbed a baguette, quickly wrapped the bottom of it in white paper and handed both the éclairs and the bread to me.
    “Ce sera de trois euros et vingt, monsieur,” says the older woman.
    I have no idea what she just said, but I know it has to do with money.
    I pull out a Ten Euro note and pray it’s enough. She takes it and I get back six euros and change.
    “Merci,” I say, grabbing my bread and desserts.
    “Merci,” she says.
    I leave the bakery as quickly as I can and stand on the sidewalk. I’m a nervous wreck. My French sucks. I know it. Well, hopefully if I say please and thank you and hello a lot in French, they’ll cut me some slack (They do.)
    I’m really trying. (They know.)

    [The next day, talking with Michel, the deskman at my tiny hotel, I find out that most Parisians speak English and that they want Americans to speak English too. It’s how they learn our slang. And yes, he said, we do appreciate your attempts at politeness with the Bonjours, Mercis, and Si Vous Plaits.]

   
    It’s around 4 p.m. Meeting Catherine at Notre Dame at 6 and it’s off to dinner with her and her mom. Catherine is a friend from Tucson. Just so happened that my London/Scotland/Paris trip overlapped her two weeks in Paris and we planned dinner on this night before either of us left the States. Catherine is one of the best psychotherapists I know. I’ve referred many a friend her way. She also has some of the best taste in music of any one I know. Usually guys are major audiophiles. Catherine is the exception. She's a woman that knows the difference between a Bruce Hornsby piano solo and a Peter Gabriel one.
    I leave my little room on the fourth floor of the Hotel du Palais Bourbon and skip down the stairs. I reach the lobby and give my key to Michel.
    “Merci, Michel. Au revoir. See ya soon.”
    “Au revoir. Good bye.” He says.
    I hit the Rue de Bourgogne and look around. What an amazing street it is, a small canyon made by the old six story buildings on either side of the one lane street. To my right, north of the hotel is a sweet little French restaurant. South of the hotel are a couple fine art shops with real live fine art in them. Not Post-Modern crap but well made well designed beautiful things. Little farther to the north is a little bodega where I get my Diet Cokes. Across the street is that amazing boulangerie with its soft éclairs and its hard breads. On one side of the bakery is an old used bookstore with its antique postcards on a rack on the sidewalk. On the other side of the boulangerie is a fresh produce stand with the largest white grapes I have ever seen. Red doors that lead to where Parisians live, pop up here and there among the stores. And this is just one small city block.
    Rodin first, then Norte Dame.
    I take a left and walk a half a block to Auguste Rodin’s home, now the Musee Rodin. I know it’s closed but I still want to see it, if only from the outside. His house is why I pick this hotel on this street to begin with.
    Rodin is the reason I became an artist.
    When I was at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill in the 70’s, I initially was in the Drama Department. I got some good notices as Lord Dorset in Richard III in the summer after high school, and decided to be an actor. Two problems. I mumbled and I smoked a shit load of dope. [It’s hard to remember your lines when you’re stoned all the time, and I was a member of the Stay High Society]. After failing as an actor, I went into Scenery Design but I was too fucked up for that too, even when I was just a prop man. I flunked out, due primarily to not dropping classes that I hadn’t gone to in a month [Incompletes becomes ‘F’s after a year. Who knew?] I took some summer school and got back in, in the fall of 1976. One night, that Fall, Brent, a writer friend who frankly, at the time, I pitied as being more of a loser than me, and I, decided to get in my 1964 Karmin Ghia at midnight, after having smoking large amounts of Columbian, and drive all night to go to the Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden in Washington, D.C. I heard there were Rodins up there, particularly the Burghers of Calais, and I wanted to make the pilgrimage. Brett, who later I found out saw me as much of a ne’er-do-well as I him, was game for just about anything, as long as the conversation was good and the Marijuana was plentiful. I had both in spades. This was the first of many moonlight trips to D.C., which was only 5 hours away from Chapel Hill. Each time, I may have gone to the Smithsonian or the National Gallery but I always went and saw the Burghers at some point during the visit.
    [The Burghers of Calais was a grouping of bronze sculptures of depicting six town officials who, in 1347, were willing to give their lives to save their town from a killing siege. They ended up not dying but their willingness to sacrifice their lives was very moving to the French.]
    Seeing Rodin’s work, live in Washington, on that day in October of 1976 was life-changing for me, even through my ever-present Marijuana haze of those days. I didn’t want to make bronze sculptures [I ended up doing large ceramics and odd conceptual work instead.] But seeing the emotional power of The Burghers, and Balzac, and The Gates of Hell, and The Age of Reason, and The Three Shades, and I hoped that perhaps I could make something that had just a bit of that energy, a bit of that beauty. And Rodin opened the door to me to exploring other artists like Brancusi, Modigliani, Matisse, Joseph Beuys, Robert Arneson and many more.
    But Rodin was the starting place and I am grateful to this day.
    So, it’s left and a half block and there I’ll be, at Rodin's house.
    I get to a ‘T’ where my rue hits another rue just south of my hotel and I see what appears to be a large wooden gate to the grounds of the Musee Rodin but I’m not sure. I cross the street. Yep, sure is. Open tomorrow at 9:30 says the sign. I walk down the sidewalk, aways from the sign. A ten-foot tall white washed wall seems to surround the entire grounds. I continue walking and then stop abruptly, like I’ve been stuck down. There, on the other side of the wall, made here from nine tall panes of Plexiglas are the Burghers of Calais.
    I take out my Brownie and try and find a shot but I find none. The wall looks funky or the light seems bad or the glass is scratched or all the above. I put down the camera and realize this ain’t the time or the place to take the shot. Maybe tomorrow when I’m inside. [Tomorrow was about The Three Shades, and The Gates of Hell, not The Burghers, it turned out]. Right now is about seeing The Burghers with my own eyes, not the camera’s lens. Seeing them on their home turf.
    I smile and put my hand on a part of the Plexiglas wall.
    I’m in Fucking Paris.
______________________________________________________________________________

    An hour and a half later, I’m inside of Notre Dame, tears flowing down my faces, wiping them away as fast as they come. I didn’t expect this reaction in myself. I really didn’t. I just expected to see the church, be impressed with its form and architecture, and then go outside and wait for Catherine. Instead I’m inside the cathedral, staring at one of its famous blue Rosette windows for the fifth time, with the sounds and scents of 6 o'clock Mass swirling around my head. The incense is strong, the chanting is resonate, the pipe organ music is angelic.
    I find a chair near the front where I can listen to the Mass and see the northern Rosette window at the same time. A French African priest continues to chant The High Mass.
    Dinner will have to wait.

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"The Taxi Goddess" (c) 2005, 2007

“The Taxi Goddess” (c) 2005, 2007 Stu Jenks
    [Image: “Gard du Nord Train Station, Paris, France” © 2005 ]

    Got some Euros out of the ATM. Time for a smoke.
    I step outside of the Gard du Nord train station and light a Camel. I wander over to the cab stand, dragging deep on the cigarette. First smoke since Heathrow.
    I’m not going to make the same mistake I made when I flew into London two days ago, dragging my luggage up and down the stairs of The Tube on my way to Helen’s house. Bout killed me and I’m in shape too. Nope. I'm getting a cab and I don’t care how much it costs. Granted, I only have two pieces of luggage with me now, leaving my large suitcase at Helen’s, but I want a pleasant journey to my hotel, not a workout at the gym.
    I see a cab, the first one in line. Old guy, looks friendly, but I think I’ll finish my smoke. Let someone else have that cab. It’s around 2 p.m. and I’m pretty much the only one hanging around the stand. The old man gets a fare. I’m about half done with my smoke.
    Then another cab rolls to the head of the line. The driver gets out. A woman. Not just any woman. Possibly the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life, and I know pretty women. This one is a pleasant freak of nature. Thin, above average height, curvy in the right spots but what sets her apart from American women is her face. Perfect skin. A slight oval shape to her face. Eyes set wide apart. Raven black hair with a slight curl in it. And a light in her eye.
I field dress my half smoked cig and make a beeline for her.
    “Bonjour,” I say.
    “Bonjour,” she says. Christ, her voice is melodic and sexy as well.
    “Hi, I need to go to here, the Hotel du Palais Bourbon,” I say, handing her my Internet printout of the hotel’s address and such. She’s studies it carefully. Seems like it's a bit off the beaten track. She nods.
    “Yes, I can take you there,” she says.
    “Great.”
    She goes around and opens the trunk. I throw in my bags and hop in the back.
    “Thanks so much for this,” I say.
    She gives me a puzzled look, the nonverbal equivalent of ‘But of course!’
    I’m in love.
    She puts the cab in gear and we explode away from the train station. She’s not just drive with speed but with grace. Should I expect anything less?
    We are flying down what I’m guessing is the Rue La Fayette but then she takes a wild left and we are on a tiny one lane street. I’m trying to follow along on my Paris map just because I want to know where I am but fat chance. This is a carnival ride and I’m having the time of my life.
    We stop at a stop light, when a man her age, in his twenties, pulls up along side of us on his Moped. He speaks French through the front seat passenger window. I don’t understand him, but it appears he’s asking for directions. My goddess driver gives him an answer, he thanks her and off he goes. I wonder. Did he really need directions or did he just want to speak to a pretty girl?
    The light changes and we accelerate out of this side street and back on the main drag, or one of many main drags I suppose. I haven’t a clue of where we are but I’m trying to keep up. But then I just roll down my window and put down the map. This is just too much fun to spend this trip looking at a map.
    She weaves in and out of traffic like a NASCAR driver passing slower lapped cars. I see her eyes in her rear view mirror, focused and clear. Did I mention I’m in love? She passes slower cars everywhere, in traffic, in intersection, wherever there is space for us and 3 inches on either side. Wowwy wowwy wow.
    Then a wonderful thing happens.
    She hits another car.
    Not hard. She just overly anticipated the green light at an intersection, and accelerated into the car in front of her who was still waiting for the light to change. Not a hard hit but a solid hit.
    “Shit!” she says, getting out of the car. Not merde. Shit. As good as any Soho puck. I have a huge grin on my face now. She jumps out of her cab and runs to the car she hit. They have a 15 second conversation. She runs back and get back behind the wheel and accelerates through the intersection.
    “We have a saying for that where I’m from,” I say. “It’s called No Harm No Foul.”
    The Taxi Goddess looks at me in her rearview mirror with a irritated look like ‘What is the American saying to me now. I’m busy.’ I stop talking.
    We continue flying through the streets of Paris, pass cafes and shops, through canyons made by centuries old eight story buildings. I pick up my Paris map and try to figure out where I am but I’m hopelessly lost.
    Suddenly, I look up and it appears that we are driving at a high rate of speed directly into the side of one of these old buildings. Oh-Oh, I think.
    But no. The building has a small archway, just the width of our car and out we pop on the other side into an enormous courtyard. Of to my right is a tall obelisk. I consult my map.
    “Are we at the Place de la Concorde?” I ask.
    “Non,” she say, “This is the Louvre.”
    Whizzing by my left, just a short distance away, is the Glass Pyramid of the Louvre. I silently mouth the word ‘Wow’.
    Whoosh and we are on a bridge and crossing the River Seine. And then we finally hit traffic. Slow going with posh restaurants on my left and the Seine on my right. I take a deep breath, smile and relax. I peak over the back of the front seat to see how much this ride is costly me. We’ve been driving at least 15 minutes, maybe more. The meter reads 5 euros. Christ, that’s only 7 bucks.
    The Goddess consults her own Paris roadmap. I must be going to some place out of the way. Sounds Great. I check my map. I actually know where I am now. The old train station that is now the Musee D’Orsay comes and goes on my left. She swings a hard left and we are flying again on the one way one lane canyons of Paris. I think we are close now. We are on Rue De Bourgogne, the street my hotel is on.
    One block, two block, three and she stops.
    “Your hotel is there,” she says pointing to her left at a small hotel sign.
    “How much?” I ask.
    She looks at her meter as I do as well.
    “Eight Euro,” she says matter of factly.
    I open my wallet and pull out a crisp new 20 Euro note.
    “Here’s 20. Keep the change. That was a wonderful ride. Thanks you so much. Merci         Beaucoup,” I say.
    “Merci,” she says. “Merci.”
    She smiles and her face lights up like the stars.

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