Whether you're in Paris, London, New York, Los Angeles, there's
one sound that every city in the world has in common. It's a sound usually heard
while you're still in mid-dream, just a little before the birds chime in; an
improvisational opera of swearing, flicking lighters, smashing glass and the
rending of tin. And if you stay in the same place for more than a week, you're
guaranteed at least one command performance of this tone poem outside your window
at 5am, compliments of your friendly neighborhood garbagemen.
In Paris the garbagemen wear neon-green vests (the guys in the safety-orange
vests are delivering croissants). Parisian garbagemen are mostly Tunisians and,
quelle surprise, they're hot, so if you like this sort of scenery,
it's worth it to get out of bed and step out onto the balcony topless to smoke
a cigarette and watch the sun rise.
They are hard workers, the Tunisian garbagemen of Paris. They sell hashish
on their lunch breaks in the Place St. Michele. Actually, they get their 12-year-old
cousins to hustle it for them, but they watch from the sidelines to make sure
things operate smoothly.
The Place St. Michele, incidentally, stands on the Place St. Michele and is
recognizable by the statue of St. Michele; you can't miss it. I have privately
titled this particular work "Decapitation, Followed By A Swift Kick In
The Ass Straight Into The Pits Of Hell." It is my favorite statue in Paris
and you should really go check it out. There are two ram-horned lion-gargoyles
that spit venom into the pool of the fountain. They have thorns sprouting out
off their bodies, and if you sit there long enough you will start to hear them
growling. Don't be embarrassed, take a seat in the sun and write a poem about
it, you're in Paris. Look around. Look over your shoulder once in a while. Do
you see those church spires over there in the distance that look like pterodactyl
vertebrae? That is the Notre Dame. There, now you've seen it.
Now, you see the kid standing directly behind you? He's working, too-- and
he is not calling you a piece of "shit," he is asking if you want
to buy some "shit," some pot. If you still seem dense, he'll clarify:
"Hashish?" But wait, not so fast; see those people who look like meter
maids? They're the cops. For some reason, cops are crawling all over the Place
St Michele.
There are much safer places to score. Le Place de Châtelet, for example,
hosts a basically open drug market with a multicultural cross-section of vendors
hawking a wide variety of wares of both local and imported product. Market days
are Saturday through Monday, from around 4pm to 1 am, and if you show up during
these hours, even a clueless square like you can score. Look there: bingo! The
guy in the Rasta cap, check his eyes. If they look like two pools of blood with
tadpoles swimming around in them, the guy is a dealer. You've seen the movie,
act like you know what you're doing. A quick sit-down on a bench, a few words,
a handshake, done deal.
Now that you're holding, for God's sake, don't screw things up by asking how
to smoke the hash. Your Rasta pal will laugh at you hysterically (he is stoned,
after all), and his guffaws, coupled with your obvious discomfiture, will draw
much unwanted attention. So show a little backbone. You're an adult; get a cork
(the world's easiest thing to come by in Paris), a glass and a safety pin (the
worlds most difficult thing to come by in a city filled with tailors) and figure
it out.
What could be more fun than sitting outside a bistro sapped out of your gourd
while sipping a Kir Royale? SHOPPING!! Men, I'm talking to you here. I hate
to shop, but there is nothing I love to see more than a man in a beautiful suit,
unless it happens to be a man in a beautiful suit eating lunch. I assure you,
gentlemen, the suit of your dreams can be found on the Rue Cannettes right off
the Place St. Sulpice. If you can't find it on your map, just ask someone where
Catherine Deneuve lives and they'll point you in the right direction. It won't
come cheap but ooh la la; that orange tie looks beautiful.
Once you're dressed like a cross between a Jewish literary agent and Willy
Wonka, head towards the nearest bar, because about halfway down the block it
is going to dawn on you that you just spent a month's rent on a smoking jacket.
What the hell?
I suggest you head to Madame George's. It is one of the last real bars left
in Paris. it is small, plain, dark and filled with smoke. When you enter, you'll
see some more of Paris' working men, a gang of plasterers just off shift are
looking you up and down. But not with scorn-- one of the men standing with them
standing with them is himself wearing a crème-colored three-piece with
a gold silk tie and vest. This man will raise his glass to you and say, "Nice
suit." Buy yourself a beer, buy the bar a beer and notice how, from one
angle, the velvet looks like purple paisley, while from another, the jacket
is as green and shiny as a beetle's shell. I love Paris.
In general, I counsel the dimwitted tourist in Europe to stay out of parks
altogether. Parks in Europe are for other kinds of working men-- specifically
drug-lords, pickpockets and muggers. You won't see any children or dogs frolicking
in the grass, as there is no grass, only dirt, and unless you have particular
business to attend to in a Parisian park, I advise you to sun yourself somewhere
else. But, since you won't listen, at least score your shit and get out fast,
or you will no doubt find yourself surrounded by a band of greedy Bosnian refugees
who will demand money and clothing from you. For Christ's sake, give up the
coat-- you bought it at the Gap anyway (yes, there is a Gap in Paris), so RUN!!
When you're finally sober enough to eat, head to the nearest
bistro that doesn't have English translations on the menu and order mollusks,
be they from sea or land. When your plate arrives, inspect it closely. This
is a Parisian thing. Look at the food, poke at it a little to make sure the
mollusks aren't moving. Even people who order something as simple as a sandwich
will inspect it first by lifting the top piece of bread and taking a peek inside
their sandwich. Is it what you ordered? No spit? Everything dead? Bon appetit.
The food is Paris is some of the best in the world if you know where to go.
Since you don't, ever had a grilled, canned-chili sandwich? They're actually
pretty damn good. Even the bad street-vendor food in Paris is better than the
best thing on the menu at Applebee's or Denny's.
Because the streets are smeared with dog shit and the gutters
are filled with dead birds, there are armies of street cleaners in Paris. All
day, every day, these hard-working men sweep and scrub and drive around in little
carts cleaning the city. A city as beautiful as Paris cannot tarnish its reputation
with trash, like, say, New York, which has a reputation for being filthy and
dangerous. Paris has always been seen as civilized, so they clean constantly.
Between the garbagemen, bakery drivers and street cleaners you won't get a
wink of sleep. However, you will be so well-fed, drunk and stoned you'll be
able to pass out in your new velvet coat (assuming you listened to me and stayed
out of the goddamned park) with no problem. Of course, you'll be awakened by
the hotel staff vacuuming your room while you're still in bed-- these are busy
people with work to do, hard work, and if you have nothing better to do than
lounge around a hotel all day long, you can take a nap later. The room still
needs to be cleaned, whether you're in it or not.
Even the pan-handlers are industrious. They don't just sit there
begging for change. They carve sculptures out of root vegetables, they create
intricate, beautiful roses and fish out of turnips and beets and they ask, not
for payment, but for a donation in appreciation of their artistic talents. But
be careful, the guy on the corner in front of the Opera house is actually blind
and deaf, he isn't a mime-- even though his roommate dressed him up like one
as a practical joke that morning.
Put a few Euros in his tin cup and keep walking. Walk until your legs feel
like they're about to fall off, and know that it doesn't matter how far you
walk; you're never going to get your fat American ass to look like a Frenchwoman's.
Why? It doesn't matter, eat the cheese, buy a girdle, and call it a day.
Alena Nahabedian is a Senior Contributing Editor to Lime Tea.
Every time she turns in her copy on time, she will get another word added to her title, so that by September 2012, her business card will be more impressive-looking than that of the Pope.
