To continue accordingly.
Needless Scribbles: Part Deux.
Still in Paris. Still moving. Still shaking.
|View from Montmartre.|
|Want to take every piece of it with me.|
|Church of Saint-Jean-de-Montmartre.|
|Place des Victoires.|
|Les Cites station construction.|
|Best job ever.|
|Centre Pompidou. Favorite places.|
|Fontaine Saint-Michel. And that guy.|
|Pantheon. Sorbonne. Aspirations.|
|All lit up.|
|One of those days.|
|Chateau de Vincennes. Hey look, a castle.|
|Our new best friends.|
Huge thank you to our hosts Romain et Raphaelle, taking us on a cruise of the Seine for Derek's birthday. With some of the best food/cheese I have ever eaten. We love them.
|Venus de Milo|
|This is an odd painting.|
|This is a familiar painting.|
|A well-known Frenchman. The horse is terrified.|
|A scene from Algerie. I love this.|
|Greece to Mesopotamie.|
|This guy was very relaxed.|
|Napoleon's quaint apartment.|
|Mme. de Vaudey's chambers.|
|Carcass of Beef. Rembrandt. J'adore.|
|Milly-la-Foret, covered market.|
|The Cyclop a la Jean Tinguely.|
I should take a picture of myself in this very instant.
I am a beautiful sight to behold, sweat pants, flannel, used tissues piled up next to me; their quickly wilting successors protrude festively from my nostrils. Soon they will join their soiled brethren in the snotty heap next to me. Sad and crumpled, a growing monument to the virus I will not admit to.
I am a toilet paper mummy.
I am a mucus machine.
I lead an exciting, jetsetty lifestyle, which is so exciting, I defy and actively resist the petty urge and/or petty need to purchase Day and/or Nyquil. Modern medicine is a crock, right? Things had been too easy anyway.
I'd say that was an acceptable intro into this new chapter of blogging infamy...
Apparently there's a memory limit on these things, so I did, in fact, create a new email solely to continue documenting my journey for free...while of course remaining consistent by keeping it on the same website.
Now, what's new...pictured above you see my adventures with Derek around Montmartre, the Pompidou Center, the Louvre, a hike we went on with one of our couchsurfing hosts and some other surfers, organized by the Queer Couchsurfing group.
The night before I attended a party with our host, held by a member of the same group...A bunch of fun, drunk, international gays all thrown into one room. It was a good evening trip. The host of the party was from San Francisco-an interesting coincidence. One Facebook add later proved that he happened to know a previous coworker of mine, also from San Francisco, who I had not seen for a year or so, and then happened to run into while staying for a few days in Aix-en-Provence. That would also be in France. The world is tiny.
Derek and I have had to reevaluate our relationship, a never-ending story for us, and will, for multiple reasons, be spending some time apart while traveling in Italy this upcoming month ahead. I am both excited and sad. Excited to be in charge of myself again, of the navigating and innerworkings of travel, free to make an itinerary up on my own, sad because for a moment there I was worried about being on my own again. Which is silly. I've done it before, I can do it again, and the fact that I was worried just shows how I've been babied traveling with Derek...it will be good for both of us to do our own thing for a time. Ah, but who am I trying to convince now?
Our Italian workaway has cancelled on us, we have no couchsurfing hosts there as of yet, I don't think I'll be making it to Morocco this round due to ticket expense...things, like all life should be, are in constant change and motion. And that can cause some growing pains sometimes. Ah well.
Paris has been a source of some very interesting occurrences.
I have experienced some undeniable beauty and culture here, something completely unique to this place and a time I could not have anywhere else in the world.
The Louvre. Seeing some of the incredible creations of the world all in one building. With my own two eyes, for free, nonetheless!
(Friday 6 pm-9:45 pm, free admission for youth under 26. Dream.)
I see myself as a fairly superstitious man. To think about the spirituality of life, of death, and of the gray area in between the two is a train of thought I am prone to. Going to the Catacombs was extremely intense for me. I'm all for bones, don't get me wrong. And the history of it is so fascinating. You just have to think though--if you're me--each skull, each bone, represents a person who has been dug out of their resting ground, transplanted, delicately arranged, mind you, but still placed into an unmarked, mass tomb, where they can be looked upon by nosy tourists. Like myself. For the price of 4 euros or something. It was an extremely spiritual experience for me, which is so highly contradicted by the unceasing pitter-patter of school group tours, couples laughing, talking about the bar last night, an unending stream of people. Looking. Talking. Snapping away with their cameras. The photos I put up of the bones were taken by Derek, I don't know why but I didn't feel like taking any down there. I debated using them, while heading into the catacomb I was openly joking about the possibility of possession. Once surrounded by the bones, every blank, soulless eye socket staring at me as far as the eye could see down there. It didn't really feel like such a laughing matter. Without explanation, my legs were shaking the entire time I was down there. No ghost stories, I wasn't scared of anything, that's how it was. I highly suggest going to see the Catacombs if you're in Paris, but I may advise not to go if you're feeling a little blue, or especially introspective.
So we return to the present.
While writing this I have swapped the tissues filling my nose, three times, blown my nose perhaps four, and sneezed only twice.
Today is Tuesday. Our last full day in Paris. We were supposed to go Pere Lachaise today, or maybe Versailles, two attractions we've thought we had to see before leaving Paris, and still have yet to do. I think I will writhe in bed and finish up watching Chicago, which Derek and I started last night. I like to make jokes about the film now, but their is something so familiar and comforting about those over-the-top dance numbers. And, of course, Queen Latifah's giant rack.
Everything is always fine in the end.