It was our first day off from the van life. We all split up to get some time to ourselves in Paris.
I visited the Pere-Lachaise cemetery. It’s set up like a putt-putt village of death, with little street signs that organize the grandfather clock tombs into wards. Locals come to the cemetery to hang out and read. It’s really quite something. Follow the dirt bags and you will find the grave of Jim Morrison. I heard my first southern accent in months. “71, huh?” It was like Heavy Metal Parking Lot. A few blocks down from Morrison is the grave of Chopin, clustered with blue hairs figuring out their digital cameras. It was like Neil Diamond Parking Lot.
The grave of the journalist Noir depicts the man lying down with a bulge of arousal trying to escape his unzipped pants. It is said to be good luck to rub the bulge, and it remains discolored there from decades of lucky people. A trio of German college girls giggled as one of them rubbed Noir’s eternal hard-on. I miss my girlfriend.
Paris is saturated in romance. On a Wednesday afternoon couples were everywhere: holding hands, kissing, making out. Along the river, women rested their heads and legs on their man’s lap. People made out while they walked. The women wore clothes that flattered and revealed their natural curves. I really miss my girlfriend.
I walked a lot. From the cemetery to Bastille, to Notre Dame, to the Louvre, to the Eiffel Tower, to the Arc de Triumph. I heard lots of American accents. “Where’s the tunnel where Princess Leia was killed? Where’s the Palace of Justice? I wanna get Batman’s autograph. There’s four of us, let’s get our picture taken crossing Jim Morrison’s grave. Who’s gonna take off their shoes?”
You win, Paris. You’re beautiful. You really are. I was here last year for all of four hours on Bastille Day. Everything was closed and it was a cramped, choking experience. I skulked around with a baguette and a bad attitude. To me it seemed like Paris was the hot girl in school who dated all the jocks and wouldn’t give me the time of day. But today I got to sit next to her at a mandatory pep rally. I saw her cheer and laugh. And move. She seemed like fun. I still may not understand her or get invited to her crappy parties, but she is beautiful to look at.
The hotel was just a few blocks down from the Moulin Rouge. Next to Sexorama, The Sexy Shop, and across the street from Pussy’s. I wanted to get a beer somewhere and rest my aching feet. All the bars that looked interesting ended up being brothels. I walked into a bar playing dance music. So I walked out. I thought I would get a helmet and try some virtual reality cybersex. But all the shops were out of this. A woman grabbed my arm and wanted me to come with her. Her tug turned into a pull and I had to use a yank to remove myself from her clutches.
I miss my girlfriend.
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