IN NEW YORK there was a large group of mentally challenged people at the gate, and naturally my enthusiasm to get out of the country paled in comparison to theirs. During take off the more verbal ones cheered; "Oh yeah baby now we're movin!", "we're going FAST now!" and they all broke into applause when we landed. I clapped with them. At that point I couldn't help it-- I felt little retarded, too.
Because I don't really know what I'm doing here. I brought a bike, a tent and enough clothing for a day. I'm trying to stay three months. I left New York with a college degree and a broken heart. Whatever I'm searching for here is still a mystery. Maybe I'll find a doctor here who can stitch up this leaky ticker in my chest and the questions in my brain. And maybe she'll have all the answers. Or maybe she'll have all the sweaters. All the sweaters a boy could ever want.
Charles de Gaulle was its usual chaotic self. I waited an hour and a half for my bags to arrive. When the belt started moving a young French man gently woke me up from my slumber at the other end of the baggage claim: "Your bag... Maybe it arrives now?" he said. FRENCH PEOPLE ARE SO RUDE.
Then I had to decide how I was going to get to the center of Paris. IT RAINS. At 9.40 Euro the bus was the least expensive. I met a nice, tan British lady who was sick and tired of waiting for the bus. She had a connection to make to get to Madrid. They shoot buses in Madrid, don't they? The rain started to let up as we drove into Paris, but the traffic we were stuck in squandered any smiles. The man next to me smelled like twenty thrift stores and chewed gum so loud and rythmicly I'm sure everyone else thought it was part of the bus mechanics. I knew better but I didn't have the guts or French vocabulary to tell him to stop. When the bus driver had to break hard to avoid hitting baguette delivery van, the gum chewer slammed his face into the seat in front of him. Instead of knocking the gum out of his mouth like I had hoped, the impact caused the bus cieling to magically crack open and unleash a steady drip of water on Mr. Chewy for the rest of the ride. Then he smelled like a wet thrift store.
The bus let me and my new friends off in Opera, a particularily touristy part of town. I tried to hail a taxi to take me to the 8th district where I was staying at a friend's house. No luck. I walked around the corner with my 20 pound duffel bag haphazardly strapped to my back and my 40-pound bike case in tow. I stopped to rest. A French man bent down in front of me and came back up with a giant, heavy, gold ring in his hand. He placed it in the palm of mine. "Vous avez chance... vous avez chance" he said. I took one look at the ring, then at the man walking away, and suddenly all the warnings of gypsy theft came roaring into my mind. "Hey!" I said to the man. He turned around and looked at me. I flipped the ring at him with a ding and he caught it just barely. He slowly said "fuck you" just as softly as he'd said "you have luck" and walked away. I stopped looking at him and quickly checked my pockets. Nothing gone.
Turns out I did have some luck, though. Do to some freak wi-fi signal at the bottom of a baguette factory I managed to reach my friend, Meredith, and impose myself on her. Then we were off to walk around town, peeking in stores and eating at cafes. Even though I was jet lagged as hell I couldn't wipe the stupid smirk off my face. Paris never fails to impress. Everyone knows this. The children. The laughter. The lights. The smells. The fashion. The people. The cafes. The laughter. The history. The languages. The nightclubs. The children who frequent the nightclubs. Drinking a bottle of wine on the Seine across from the bow of the firefighter ship. Wondering why the firefighters in France have no body hair and only wear tiny shorts. Being a god-damned human being for Christ's sake.
The next day is full of touring and espresso. The next day is now. I am in the next day. What will the day after next bring? I have to put my bike together and begin the real journey A LUKE ALONE.
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