My wife and I were in Paris.  Paris France, not Texas or California, in California it is spelled Perris.  Makes you wonder about the founders of that city.  Paris, the city of romance, the city of food, and artists, and rude French people who hate Americans.  We had walked up the hill, to the Sacre Cour (sacred heart), and were very out of breath.  Our hotel was on this little street behind the Cathedral, so this would be our first stop.  We sat upon a cement curb looking at the Church while inhaling some grapes we had bought at an outdoor fruit stand.  We had seen the Church at night while on the bus from the airport.  It was much more impressive at night, all glowing white, watching over the city from its earthly throne.  Almost like an architectural guardian angel. 

 After we began to breath at a normal rate again, we stepped up from the curb and turned to look over Paris.  We could see the city all around us.  The Arch d’ Triumph, and the other Arch d’ something.  The Eiffel Tower, old buildings everywhere.  It seemed dirty.  It smelled dirty.  I held my wife from behind, her squeezing my arms, me squeezing her stomach.  I let my face fall against hers.  I was going to bring the romance, damn it.  It was Paris there needed to be some romance.  The romance, and excitement of France had not grabbed our souls.  It hadn’t transformed us into something we were not.  I wondered if my bride felt as disappointed as I did.  If I wasn’t able to be Fabio in Paris then there was just no hope for me.  We just looked out on a dirty city, and tried to feel romantic.

 The Sacre Cour was still, even in it’s diminished role as noon playground monitor, breathtaking.  In California, we don’t have stuff like this.  And I like stuff like this.  We walked up the steps, and as we got closer to the doors of the sanctuary we heard what seemed like German industrial music.  Clank bang crash.  Louder and louder.  We pulled open the giant doors and were standing in the midst of a construction site.  Scaffolding everywhere, workmen hollering in French vulgarities, or maybe not considering the holiness of the job sight, but hollering none the less.  Power tools and hammers and trowels.  I felt horribly cheated.  These inconsiderate bastards are ruining what may be my only trip to France.  “Oh, this is friggen brilliant,” I whispered in a tone of reverence and worship, after all this was a church.

 “It’s okay, let’s just look around,” my wife said a little louder than was appropriate.  I forgave her for her little indiscretion, having not been raised Catholic she didn’t know how to behave properly. 

 I led her to the font, and showed her how to bless herself.  “This is holy water, you take just the tip of...”

 “What?” she interrupted.  I began again in the hushed tones of a good former alter boy.  “I can’t hear you.”  She shouted pointing to the clanging banging construction workers.  I shushed her and mimed the appropriate actions.  She mimed back her middle finger, discreetly and reverently.  I was now starting to feel a little romantic. 

 The never-ending walk up the narrow spiral staircase to the top of the towers was a sure cure for any romantic stirrings.  My legs burned, my lungs burned, my heart pounded.  We were on top of the world.  Standing on a balcony high above the cathedral, looking down on spires, and artisans, and smog.  There was graffiti everywhere.  Names within hearts, names alone, names joined together by signs of love.  Desecrating an international monument is, I’m afraid, an undeniable temptation when deep in the spell of Paris.  So we admired the view, urinated on a gargoyle, and started the long trek down.   When we reached the bottom, we stumbled dizzy and exhausted, onto the steps in front of the church.  We tried to gather our strength, and our resolve.

 Our legs were shaking, our shirts were wet, and our breath was short and desperate.  Only seven million steps to the bottom.  We started, and stopped to admire the living statue, just a woman painted white.  This was more from tiredness than interest.  We stopped to sit on the bench half way down, and again to admire the merry go round.  And once just cause we couldn’t keep walking anymore.

 Finally we reached the Paris streets.  We were searching for an inexpensive restaurant to sit and eat lunch at.  The sitting part was, to us, much more important than the eating part at that moment.  We couldn’t find anyplace with an empty seat.  We walked down a crowded street, looking at every eatery.  No seats, it was around one, lunchtime but you would expect at least one empty seat on a half a miles worth of cafes.  Finally, about to collapse we spied a park across the road.

 “Let’s get a few slices of pizza at the sidewalk window, and just go sit in the park and eat,” I managed to gasp.

 “Fine”

 She was really feeling the romance I’ll tell you.  So we paid about forty bucks for three pieces of pretty decent pizza, and two cokes, and made our way to the park.  The crossing of the street was very traumatic.  We almost orphaned our children right there.  Not being from Southern California beach communities, the cars were not aware of pedestrian’s right of way.  And our cramping legs would not cooperate with our need for speed and agility.  When we stumbled into the park amidst horns and gestures, we were shocked immediately, by the fenced off grass.  There were dirt paths that led throughout the park, but all of the green, was fenced off.  No sitting, no lying, no frolicking allowed.  Then we were shocked again to find no seats.  Every damn seat in the whole damn park was filled by some fat French ass.  I was really coming unglued now.  What the hell kind of a country has a park with no grass access, and inadequate seating.  We found ourselves sitting on a six-inch cement curb in direct sunlight.  Eating lukewarm pizza and semi cold coke.  And then a pigeon shit on my back. 

 After about twenty minutes one of the fat French asses moved and I raced the four or five seat vultures that had gathered at the first signs of movement.  I clothes lined one, tripped another and glared the rest away.  I rested my weary and triumphant ass onto what had to be the most comfortable bench in the history of benches.  My wife slid in next to me and laid her head on my sweaty shoulder and we fell fast asleep.  After refreshing forty-five minute snoozes we were on our way to Notre Dame.  We laughed as a crowd of weary tourist fought over our one and a half empty seats. Laughed all the way into the Paris subway. 

 The Paris subway wasn’t as nice or as understandable as the London subway, maybe it was the language thing but we figured it out.  It took a mere twenty minutes for us to get to our stop; it took only a mere twenty seconds for us to get nauseated.  We, in the new country seem to be a little more anal about our body odor than those in the old world.  Deodorant companies don’t do quite as well it would seem.  So there we were, locked inside an under ground train with very little ventilation and less anti perspirant, on a hot humid September day.  I grabbed Raquel, pulled her close to me and nuzzled my face deep into her shoulder, hoping for just a bit of perfume, or even the sweet smell of Victoria Secret body lotion to stem the tide.  She pushed me away, “it’s too friggen hot!”

 So much for l’amore.  Well we were off the train in what seemed like a brief history of time.  And back on the streets of Paris.  We walked leisurely down to the River Seine and took a left.  It was pretty cool.  The buildings most of which were as old as our country if not older seemed so grand and personable, if buildings can be personable.  The artists painting and selling their wares along the river.  It was all very pleasant.

 Then two huge towers caught our attention from afar.  After a brief, brisk walk we found ourselves in front of Notre Dame.  The statue of Charlemagne in the courtyard was amazing; even completely cover in bird shit.  We stopped and stared at that for a while.  Then made our way to the huge front doors of the cathedral.  There were too many people for my liking, and mostly tourists.  I hate tourists.  I am a tourist, I am filled with self-loathing, but really I am much different.  I am not a touristy tourist; I am a cool tourist, not like the others.  There were a lot of those others.  It was like the mall only with better architecture.

 As we walked through the door there was a sign that instructed the women to cover their shoulders, the men to take off their hats, and all to be reverent and respectful as this was a house of worship.  No flash photos!   My wife asked if she was okay, and I nodded affirmatively.  The truth is she may have been the only person that read the sign.  If not she was the only one who cared to respect it.

 Now I like churches, at least old ones.  Especially Catholic churches.  Churches that were made when people thought God deserved our best.  Our best architects, our best materials, our best workmen and artisans.  If you want to see this kind of devotion, and architectural genius now you must go to the hotels.  The hotel is the cathedral of our time.  How fitting, a place of worship where you take your whore.  Opulence, lust, recreation, the holy trinity of modern worship.  But in the old days only God and royalty deserved this treatment.  So here I was standing in the Notre Dame cathedral.  Being swept up in the grandeur of it all.  Feeling small and insignificant, like you should feel in the presence of the big guy.  Feeling the presence of hundreds of years of prayers, and pray ers.  The buttresses and columns, (at least I think that’s what you call them), reached up towards heaven, pulling me along with them.  Reaching towards heaven.  The art, the mood, the great crucifix hanging above the ornate altar.  Saints and angels, I was beginning to feel very religious now.  I started to cry.  It felt good.  The warm salty symbol of overwhelmed, on my cheeks and lips.  My bride was experiencing this as well.  We sat in a section of pews reserved for prayer and began to worship.  I felt like I was going to begin weeping in loud sobs and fought the emotions welling up inside.  My wife said later she felt she would pass out.  This shared moment of spiritual ecstasy, didn’t last long enough.

 As we began to acclimate ourselves to the heavy presence of God, or the heavy cultural preconditioning of the church depending on your level of cynicism, we noticed those around us taking flash pictures, talking, laughing, pointing.  I witnessed people touching artifacts for the sheer curiosity of it, not looking for a miracle or help and prayers from an ancient saint.  My head was spinning between the two worlds.  Worship and wonder and museum curiosity.  I was appalled, outraged; they were trampling through the holy place with shoes on.  With their heads held high.  They were somehow immune to the power of Gods presence.  I wanted to scream, I wanted to grab and shake and rebuke.  And slowly the holy went away.  Wife and I joined the herd of passive removed, lookers.  We trudged along with those who were content to see, and not experience.  We were sad.

 We walked out, changed.  We circled the giant church, enjoyed the beauty, wondered about the gargoyles, and laughed at the scaffolding.  We sat on a bench surrounded by pigeons and took another short nap.  We awoke not all that refreshed, whipped out our tour book and decided to go look at Picasso’s sculpture exhibit at the museum of modern art.  We walked through the streets still sad, and dazed we felt somehow alone and different.

 We happened upon an outdoor cafe called, Cafe Americano.  This made us feel at home, we say down, ordered a dessert, and some coffee.  It took forever to arrive but was really very good.  I was sorry we decided to share a piece, I wanted more.  At like eight bucks I wasn’t going to get another piece. 

 It seemed like in France everything was expensive, except wine.  I bet if they put a big tax on wine and increased the price dramatically there would be a Paris wine party.  The river Seine would run purple, people would be beheaded, revolution. 

 I went to the bathroom.  I had asked as to it’s location in what I’m sure was very bad Francais.  But, I had heard that the French liked you more if you at least tried to speak their language, so try I did.  He pointed and I went.  And I went.  And when I came out there was a woman who took my toilet toll of twenty-five francs.  I did wonder if she was actually collecting for the cafe or just for herself but, what you gonna do.  I arrived back at the table and gave my wife twenty five francs.  “If you need to use the toilet your gonna need it,” I explained.  She did need it.

 We were back on the streets of gay Paris.  I was walking fast.  Wife doesn’t like the pace and protests, I slow for a bit and then speed up again, she complains again, this becomes a pattern.  I am anxious to see as much as possible.  One day in France, we may never make it back, let’s boogey.  She wants to enjoy our time and not worry about what we get to see.  Women aren’t as goal centered as men, that’s why they like foreplay so much.  I tried to slow down, but it wasn’t easy.

 We arrived at the museum.  Bums, artists, whatever asked us for money politely.   We declined, politely, and walked politely away.  The museum was very arty.  Like a hamster cage actually, which I assume is very arty.  We paid a bunch of francs, which thankfully for us isn’t a bunch of dollars, and were free to roam the cage.  Two happy little rodents we were.

 First stop, the Picasso exhibit.  Picasso is the most important artist of the last one hundred years, I am told.  So I simply must see the Picasso sculpture exhibit.  I guess it was some kind of postmodern statement on our part to miss the Louvre and not miss the Picasso show, but really we just didn’t have enough time.  But we were going to be cultured, art patrons.

 First of all let me say I was very impressed with the sheer volume of work.  This guy really made a bunch of sculptures.  But that was where my impressed ness ended.  His shit sucked.  I think I could do way better.  That is correct sir, I said Picasso sucked and I could do better.  I heard he was a pretty good painter.  He should have stuck to that.  The only pieces I liked were the ones that he used for canvases.  If he painted on top of the sculpture then is became some cool multi-media thing, but without paint, utter shit.  Come on, you take a bike seat and put bike handlebars on top so it looks like a bulls head and that is supposed to be some great art.  Well I put a baseball bat inside of first baseman’s glove, and sowed two catchers mitts to the side and it looked like a fuckin elephant, isn’t that crazy, give me some money.  We stopped and sat, resting our tired legs.  Listened to people who tried to sound arty, talking about what they saw in this or that piece.  I think most people, are mostly full of shit.  We tried not to laugh out loud.  This may have been the second best part of our trip to Paris, making fun of hip tourists. 

 We went down stairs and looked at a bunch of other “art”.  Some of it was good, most just disturbing.  There was this one installation piece, a whole room painted red and white, with cloned doctors in full surgical get up, but they were all different sizes, large medium, small, some were dwarves but they all looked exactly the same and they all had this real scary look on their faces.  It gave me the willies.

 We watched a movie made by the guy who did the bank heist that Dog Day Afternoon was based on.  He was really funny, talking all tough and hard, even though he is a sissy.  I guess the studio screwed him out of all the money for the story.  Cause he was in jail and shit.  That doesn’t bother me, if you do some messed up shit like taking hostages and shooting people and shit you shouldn’t get a big pay off for it.  Unless you pull it off.  If you are just some big failure loser than go to jail and don’t collect shit.  It was funny listening to this big sissy loser, whining about how the studio was screwing him and then talking all tough, “then I said on the ground mother fucker, I wasn’t fuckin around, I meant business and I wanted everyone to know.”  And then, “they took my money, those bastards” Waaa fuckin waaa.

 We left.  It was dark.  We were hungry.  We had saved enough money for one good French dinner.  We walked down past the river Seine over by the cathedral.  One nice meal and then off to the Eiffel tower.

 There was this alley full of restaurants, definitely catering to tourists.  We were tourists, so we went there.  There were more Greek restaurants then French restaurants.  And they have people outside trying to get you to come into their restaurant.  I think they got a commission or something.  If one of your eyes just happened to get to close to them or their restaurant, you were in for it.  “Hey mister, good food, the best food here, cheap no body makes better food, no body makes better prices, what do you like to eat?  What do you like to eat?  You like seafood?  Beef? Gooooood steaks mister.  What do you like?  I have a chair for you right here, mister good chair, nice for you.”  We tried telling one guy that the wife was vegetarian.  That didn’t work to well.  The window was wall-to-wall kabobs with fish, and steak and lobster.  Big huge meat sticks, but he made it sound like vegetarian was their specialty.  “OH, YES WE HAVE LOTS OF VEGETARIAN, YOU REALLY LIKE IT, ZUCCHINI AND PINEAPPLE AND CARROTS, COME SIT RIGHT HERE RIGHT IN FRONT, GOOD FOOD FOR YOU, YOU EAT FISH WE HAVE FISH, MAKE YOU WHAT EVER, VEGETARIAN SPECIAL, GOOOOOD PRICE COME AND SIT DOWN, YOU WANT STEAK MISTER, WE HAVE BEST FOOD HERE COME SIT, WHAT YOU LIKE? WINE WE HAVE GOOD WINE, COME SIT HERE.”  We tried to avoid everyone’s eyes, which isn’t easy when you are looking for the menu and trying to catch the prices.  If someone saw us we just started running, and screaming.  Finally we just closed our eyes and walked down the alley bumping into people and hoping maybe we would just wander into the perfect little place.

 Well I finally saw a place that had a vegetarian special and some real French food.  And it wasn’t unreasonably expensive.  I ordered the frog legs as an appetizer, didn’t really like them much.  They were bland and rubbery, and didn’t have much meat.  I had a steak, with soup, potatoes and a nice red wine.  The wife had some vegetarian, dish.  Ratatouille, I think it was called.  We enjoyed our meals, but not really the atmosphere.  It was hot, and very muggy.  Sweat ran down our faces as we ate.  It made her look kinda sexy.  It made me look like a hot, sweaty pig, I’m sure. The dessert sounded good, but tasted even better.  I’m partial to sweets.  I finished my bottle of wine and was feeling a bit happy.  Had my swerve on.

 We waddled away, full.  Full and wet, back down the alley.  We looked for some cheap souvenir shit to give our friends so they knew we were missing them, when we really weren’t at all.  The wife had to get the just right, special little knick-knack, for each person.  I began to hate those friends, and those stores and eventually my wife herself.  I was full of wine, and hatred, in the city of romance.  “Just pick something, and let’s go”, I knew I was cutting down on my chances for some late night, mattress wrestling, but you know wine has this strange effect on you.  It makes you more horny and less able to score.  It is one of those tragically ironic truths that make agnostics wonder if there is this twisted master of the universe laughing his ass off as we scurry around for his amusement.  Well we finally left the souvenir shop, after about twelve hours of, “how much is this?  How much is this?” 

 We walked back along the river.  With Notre Dame all lit up and majestic in the background, I tried to make some moves.  Holding hands, walking, looking up at the moon.  I backed her against the cement wall, looked deep into her eyes, and hugged her tight.  I said the three big magic words.  We kissed.  Tried to make it work, but it wasn’t working.  I don’t know if I ruined everything with my Dr. Jekyll Mr. asshole routine, or if Paris just let us down again.  We were maybe just content to be together, like friends.  Maybe it was just too hot.

 “Let’s go look at the tower,” we whipped out our subway map.  Plotted our plan, took note of the times and the last trains.  We didn’t have much time, we needed to boogie.  So we hustled down into the smelly underground, jumped on our train that was mostly empty, and were on our way to the tower.  It was kinda reminding me of London now, no one said anything, no one looked at anyone, and everyone pretended they were alone.  At one stop a beggar boarded the train, he began to speak in French, very dull and monotone.  He seemed not to really care about what he was saying.  He looked dirty and had those sad heroin eyes, long sleeved shirt.  He made eye contact with no one, just kept his speech.  It seemed as if he rehearsed the speech everyday, over and over.  Boredom crept over me, but his boredom seemed more real, more complete.  Eternal boredom.  When he finished he walked around with an overturned hat.  No one that I saw gave him anything.  I wasn’t against giving a guy a break but at least make me feel a little, let me doubt myself a bit, speak my language.  He jumped off at the next stop, and moved back a car or two.

 We got off at our first transfer and now had to wait outside.  There was a man there, watching us look at our map, look at the times on the chart, back at the map.  He was wearing a tie, with some sharp trousers, and a nice dress shirt.  He said in pretty good English, “do you need some help?”

 We explained that we were worried about the exact time the trains stopped running, needing them to get back to our hotel.  He tried to help us, but then added if we got stuck it would be easy and not really all that expensive to take a cab back to our hotel.  This made us feel better.  Funny we didn’t really find the French that rude, or anti American.  We actually had more friendly conversation in Paris than in London. 

 We grabbed the next train and rode a few exits, then got off at the Eiffel station stop.  We started walking hoping to get there and still have time to find our train back.  I walked really fast half dragging my bride.  We were going to see the tower and be romantic damn it, after all this was Paris.  We could see it in the distance, not really easy to miss.  We took a wrong turn and had to jump a little fence and walk through some flowers but no problem, we were face to face with the Eiffel tower.  It is really big.  Big and lit up.  Like a giant Christmas tree.  The trams were still going up but we weren’t really interested.  We were content to stand underneath and look up.  From the side, from directly underneath, lights and girders and just awe, just awe.  We stepped over people lying on their backs looking up.  We held each other.  No sparks, no thickening, no moistening, no unbridled passion, just a wow, and a cool, and an “I really got to take a piss.”  We took off, bought a drink, and were chased by people selling mechanical birds that really fly and other cheap Eiffel tower shit.  I found a nice park with fenced off grass, and I just climbed over that fence, hid halfway behind a tree and took myself a leak.  With the tower’s sparkling lights pointing a perfect triangle to heaven, and the full moon looking gently down on me, I released my bladder from its bonds and sighed.  Now this was romance, pissing under the Eiffel tower in a full moon, yes!  My wife waited patiently, jealously, we all know women wish they could piss standing up, for me to finish.  Then off to the races again.

 We made it in time to catch the train back to the hotel.  We got off at our stop in what now seemed a not so nice neighborhood.  We took a short cut back to our hotel and got lost.  At one in the morning, lost.  We walked back and forth, up and down.  We simply couldn’t find our place.  Finally we saw a police station with three officers standing out front.  It was now one thirty and they were a little surprised to see us.  We asked if they could help us find our hotel, figuring they would know the streets.  We gave them the map that got us there in the morning, but made no sense now that we were good and turned around, and in the dark.  They all talked about it, in French, of course.  I think what they were saying is, “hey these dumb shit Americans are lost, point, make them think we are trying to figure out where they are.  Hey lets see how long they will stay while we point and argue and make fun of them.  Hey let’s go into the station and tell them to wait and get a few more of the guys to come out and see these stupid Americans.  Hey let’s give them wrong directions and maybe they’ll get mugged or something.”  Yeah, cops are pretty much the same anywhere.  About as helpful as the cardboard tube that used to have toilet paper on it.  We were still lost.

 I said, “Lets go back to the train and start over.”  After we walked the streets for another mile or so, through packs of mass murderers, muggers, whores and drug dealers, we got a little start when what sounded like a gun, but was probably a car back firing, sent us jumping for cover.  We got back to our feet, wiped the dust from our clothes and became very religious.  I guess there is a God, cause we made it back to our hotel.  We climbed up the three flights of stairs, and straight into bed at two forty five.  It was still hot, and humid.  No air conditioner, so we opened the windows.  To be honest the wife did it, I was too tired and pulled the, well I don’t want to climb over you, and you’re closer, game.  She opened the window just in time for us to hear the party animal upstairs retching, unghhh ohhhhungh awahhhh and then about a second or two splat splat on the ground below.  We lie in bed after seventeen hours of the city of love, being serenaded by vomit gently falling on cobblestone four stories down.  I could hardly keep her hands off me, but I was too tired.  So there in the sweaty Paris night, under the full moon, with half digested beer and wine raining outside our window we slept.

 Till our six thirty alarm rang to send us scurrying for our plane back home, or London and then home.

 After twenty-four hours in Paris, my advice is, bring deodorant, enough to share.  Bring lots of money.  Have more than a day to spend.  Bring a good map.  Bring a wallet with a chain.  Bring fresh legs.  Bring some doughnuts to bribe the police officers.  And bring some one you really like; cause romance can’t be found in a city, it has to be found in a partner.

 Oh and one more thing, go to the cathedral, and visit God, he is a lot cooler than Picasso.