Stories from the Chair: My One-legged Lover in Paris – Part Nine

What was so deliciously unusual was that this boy bought me a cordovan brown leather jacket, cut in at the waist just like his, before we’d even told each other things like our ages, where we were from, how we grew up, and what our dreams were.  Truth is we spent all afternoon, until dark, casually walking through those narrow Parisian streets, ambling along the Seine, watching people feeding pigeons, and generally saying nothing.  It was like we were in a small bubble stuffed with feelings and sensations and there was no room left for words. 

We finally stopped at an outdoor café and ordered wine, which turned out to be what popped the cork and got us talking.  I know this is cliché, but really, time kind of did stand still, and we were only vaguely aware of other people, sitting at other tables. 

Chris was 27 years old, grew up I don’t remember where, he had always loved his guitar and started singing as a little kid.  He loved his parents, went to college I don’t remember where, moved to France, got an agent, and had been recording demos and gigging for the past two years, some solo jobs and others with established groups.  He believed “making it” in Europe would best lead to “making it” into the toughU.S.music scene. 

At this point in time, he had not yet “made it.”

He listened intently when I talked about myself, asking questions, wanting more details. 

He frequently stroked my black-and-blue jaw.

He put his hand with its long full fingers over mine on the tabletop, a few fine dark hairs of his wrist poking out from the cuff of his jacket sleeve.

And then he told me.

He was born without a tibia or fibula, and had only half of a femur in his left leg.

He said they told him the flesh was there…just no bones from mid-thigh down. 

So they amputated when he was an infant.

What I had seen in his limp, was the forward thrust of the hydraulic prosthetic leg he wore hidden under his jeans. 

Two hours, and a bottle-and-a-half of wine later, we hopped in a taxi, and it was in the back seat of that taxi that he kissed me, ever so gently because quite frankly my face was still sore and I couldn’t move my mouth very well.  The softness and lightness of that kiss moved rhythmic waves of warmth through me like the jets in a hot tub turned on slow pulse.

We pulled up in front of my little hotel, and the driver sat patiently staring ahead as Chris and I stayed seated in the back, grabbing just a few more minutes, again saying nothing, our hands held together between us.

“Can I pick you up in the morning?” he finally said.  “Spend the day?”

“After breakfast okay?  Meeting my friends…we have breakfast together every morning.”

“Noon?”

“I can’t wait.”

Stay Tuned for Part Ten

Stories from the Chair: My One-legged Lover in Paris – Part Eight

The next morning there was a long breakfast with Sarah and Lang and the others, who tossed around a bunch of I-told-you-so’s and chewed our butts for being such idiots.  Not even my bruised and painful jaw and scraped knees and elbows elicited much sympathy from them.  I remember Lang going into the historical details of altercations and relations between the French and the Algerians, at which point I had to admit to these smart young students that I had slept through most of my World History classes in the eleventh grade.  And honestly, all I really cared about at that moment was my afternoon date to meet Chris at Champs-Élysées Park.   

Okay, I lied about the name of the park.  Because I forgot the real name.  Even when I Googled “small parks in Paris,” nothing rang a bell, so Champs-Élysées Park it shall remain.

The March day was overcast and pretty chilly, which was a problem for me because I’d left my only coat behind at the nightclub, and there was no way in hell I was going to go back to that place ever again, so I pretty much shivered my ass off during the six-block walk to the park.  Combine that with the fact that I was nervous and excited, and you come up with a quivering, teeth-chattering female with a swollen, black and blue right jaw who is also turning blue from the cold and isn’t that a fabulous way to present oneself to one’s new date?

I spotted a tall, six-tiered water fountain, and on one of the benches, there he sat, his long legs jutting out into the walking path, crossed at the ankles.  I stood there for a minute before approaching, just so I could get a really good look at him first.  This was the boy who saved me, who was a singer, an American living in Paris who spoke fluent French, and who was so damn cute I almost couldn’t stand it. 

He stared silently at the fountain, seemingly mesmerized, when I appeared before him, which jolted him upright, whereupon he gave me a big smile and a modest hug hello.

Then we sat together on that bench, looked into each other’s faces, and said nothing.  We didn’t need to.  Because so much was said between us without words.  The physical magnetism was so strong it throbbed, and when he reached out and gently touched my mauled jaw, my heart damn near jumped out of my chest.  I mean, here we sat in this beautiful little park filled with big beautiful trees and bright flowers starting to bloom, and rolling grassy knolls, with lots of people strolling around, and yet for us…as virtual strangers who knew nothing about each other…the rest of the world just fell away and all that existed now was him, and me, and the bench we sat on.

Finally, he said, “You’re freezing.”

Yes, of course he took off his brown leather jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders.

“I had to leave my coat behind at the club last night, Chris.”

“Well then let me walk you to this boutique I like, and I’ll get you a new one.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

He wrapped his arm around me tightly as we walked slowly out of the park, and I remember stopping and turning around to take a last look at the bench, which now was a symbol of powerful feelings never before felt.

When we soon stopped at a cross walk, I wondered again about that slight limp I noticed.  Then his tall self looked down at me and asked, “Do you like music?”

“I love music.”

“Let me tell you about this young new artist.  Actually, it is a songwriting team.  From England.  Elton John and Bernie Taupin.  Ever hear of them?”

“No. Never.”

“They’ve not hit the scene in America yet.  But they will soon.  Fantastic talent.  All original stuff.  I just bought their first album.  Norbert, my agent, had to pull strings, the thing sold out so quickly.”

“I need to hear this,” I said. 

“You will,” he said with a smile.  “I’ll play it for you.”

He hugged me close to him as we crossed the narrow street in this enchantingly beautiful and romantic city, and I felt such joy and exhilaration, I remember thinking, could it possibly get any better than this?

The answer was yes. 

And it did.

Stay Tuned for Part Nine

Stories from the Chair: My One-legged Lover in Paris – Part Seven

“Don’t let go of my hand, Sarah,” I whispered as we edged our way through the crowded room.  We’d started out running, but found that impossible because there were just so many people.  I thought it was a miracle we weren’t attacked by Omar and Farouk the second we left the restroom.  But I was sure that meant they were watching for us from somewhere, and I trembled from head to toe I was so fucking scared.

The band had stopped playing, so all that could be heard was the din of clinking glasses and drunk, laughing club goers.  The serpentine route we were taking through the place seemed to last forever, but finally we could see the exit door which led to coat check.  My heart banged so hard I thought I could actually hear it. 

Because I knew those guys weren’t going to just let us go. 

And they could appear at any second.

And just then, they did.

Omar came out of nowhere and grabbed my arm.

Then Farouk tried to separate my hand from Sarah’s.

I screamed, “HELP!”

Sarah just screamed.

But no one seemed to notice.

Because nobody did anything.

I must have been touched by the hand of God, I tell you, because suddenly I was able to jerk my arm away from Omar, and still holding Sarah’s hand tightly, we burst through the exit door, hauled ass to coat check, which was not attended at that moment, and I said, “Fuck the coats,” and pulled Sarah behind me down the hallway to the way out, where “Lucius Malfoy” still stood.

Behind us were Omar and Farouk.

“Sir, please help us!” I begged Lucius.  “These guys are out to kill us!”

Lucius said nothing.

Lucius did nothing.

What happened next is bizarre and insane. 

I remember pulling Sarah behind me, out of the club and into the alley, then we were pulled apart, and we were both screaming, and people stood at the entrance of the club and just watched and did not move, and then Omar backhanded me hard across my face, and I heard Sarah yelling for help, and I was knocked to the ground, and Omar stood over me with rage in his face, and then that hand of God thing happened again, because I was being lifted off the ground by an Unknown Savior who said, “RUN!” and I ran, and Sarah ran, and this Unknown Savior ran with us, and he had a funny limp, but he still ran fast, and after two blocks, when I had the balls to look back, I could see the freaks had stopped chasing us.

The next thing I knew, Unknown Savior was guiding Sarah and me into an indoor café, where we sat in a booth and stared at each other, the three of us, and said nothing until our chests stopped heaving so we could calm down enough to actually speak.

And then I knew who our Unknown Savior was.

“Algerians?” he finally said.  “What are you two, completely nuts?  Let me order some coffees for us.”  He spoke to the waitress in perfect French, and once again resumed our silence.

All I could do was stare at him.  Sarah was still struggling to breathe and stop crying.

“You just saved our lives,” I said, practically in a whisper.  Looking back, I think I was in some kind of shock state at that point.

He said nothing.

“And you,” I continued, “are the singer in the band.  You are the American singer.”

He smiled.

Sarah remained speechless.

“Please tell me, why?” I asked him.

“Why what?” he said.

“Why you, and no one else?  Why were we ignored by people when they saw us in trouble?  Why did that white-haired door man do nothing to help us?  How could they just stand there and watch me get smacked to the ground, and not do anything?”

I was startled by Sarah’s sudden return from silence.  “The French.  They don’t like Americans.”

Unknown Savior said, “And they hate Algerians, but are frightened of them.  And Algerians despise the French, and they especially dislike Americans.”

“So this is what is happening here?  Sarah and I almost got ourselves beaten or killed for the simple reason that everybody hates everybody’s guts?”

“When you put it like that,” said Unknown Savior, “I guess so.”

“Please tell us your name,” I said.

“My name is Chris.”

Sarah grabbed hold of his hand across the table and squeezed it.  “You saved us,” she said.

“Chris,” I said, “I don’t have adequate words to thank you for what you did for us tonight.”

He looked straight into my eyes, he smiled, and he said, “Will you meet me tomorrow afternoon at the large water fountain in Champs-Élysées Park?”

Stay Tuned for Part Eight

Stories from the Chair: My One-legged Lover in Paris – Part Six

I stole a quick glance at Sarah and saw the dawning of fear in her eyes.  And I knew…we both knew that we could be in some serious danger.  I had to think of something quickly.

“What?” I said to Omar with a winning smile.  “Absolutely not!  You guys are fantastic.  I’ve had more fun tonight than I’ve had during my whole time in Paris!”

He smiled back, thank God, touched my cheek and said, “This is good!”

Whew.

“It’s just that you’ve gotten us so stoned,” I continued, “all I want to do now is dance with you!  Right Sarah?  Don’t you feel like dancing with Farouk?”

She nodded her head in agreement, still too rattled to speak.

And to my enormous relief, we left their apartment in another taxi and took off for the club.  I knew we would be safer in a public place.  There was just something in Omar’s eyes that said to me, I am a lunatic filled with menace and hate under this gorgeous exterior of mine.

Relieved also that they hadn’t lied about being members of a private club, the taxi turned down a narrow alley, and behold, we were at the entrance of Le Régine. 

Just so you know, since I can’t remember the name of the real club, or where it was in the city, I Googled ‘private nightclubs in Paris’ and borrowed this one for my story.  And after all, since Le Régine has existed since the 1940’s, it actually could have been where I was!

Omar and Farouk presented their membership cards to a tall, thin young man standing vigil at the door.  His hair was white-blond, parted on the side, and hung perfectly straight down way past his shoulders.  (Think Lucius Malfoy.)  The men said things back and forth in French, and then we were invited inside.

We walked down a rather narrow hallway and checked our coats in.  That was kind of cool.  There was even a coat check girl!  And then we followed Omar and Farouk down another hallway, where there was a young woman who opened a door and we were suddenly in a large, dimly lit room full of loud, drinking, laughing, gorgeous people, who were mostly dancing where they stood, some alone, some with partners.  Almost all the women wore micro-miniskirts and boots.  The guys?  Hip hugging flared jeans, boots, leather vests, all with varying lengths of long hair.

We scanned the room for celebrities, and all we could find was one of the guys from Mungo Jerry, a British group that would soon be famous for “In the Summertime.”  Truth be told, I thought the song sucked, but I guess I was in the minority because it turned out to be a huge hit.

The bar, situated in the very center of the room, was large and square and adorned with long, brightly colored fluorescent tubes under the fiberglass surface.  We headed there right away and “the boys” bought us drinks. 

Then I noticed the band.  Omar said they were American.  I noticed the lead singer.  I couldn’t take my eyes off of him.  They weren’t doing anything original as I recall.  Beatles and Stones, that kind of thing.  But they were really good.  I slid off my bar stool and walked closer to the stage to get a better look. 

There was something about that singer.

Handsome in a boyish way, he wore tight jeans and a long belted tank top, leather tied around his bicep, a leather headband, straight brown hair just past his ears with straight cut bangs, and black leather boots with pointed toes.

We made eye contact.

We held eye contact.

Then to my horror I was jerked around by a strong grip on my wrist, and suddenly face-to-face with an enraged Omar, who demanded to know what the fuck I was doing.  He teetered a bit, visibly drunk.

That jerk of the wrist…jerked me right smack back into reality.

I pulled away from his tight grasp and said something like I needed to pee, and I practically ran back to the bar, grabbed Sarah and dragged her with me to the ladies room, which wasn’t easy because at first I didn’t know where it was, but somehow we managed to find it.

We stood together in front of a large mirror, breathing heavily, and I grabbed her hand.

“We’ve got to get out of here, Sarah,” I said to her reflection. “These guys are fucking crazy.”

“I know,” she said.  “Farouk wouldn’t let me off the bar stool to go check out the band with you.  I’m scared shitless.”

“Okay,” I said.  “The crowd is pretty thick out there, so we should be able to sneak out if we’re careful.  We’ll head straight for the door, left down that hall, remember?  Then to the coat-check, grab the coats, and out the front door.  Got that?”

Sarah started to cry.

“No, Sarah!” I said, holding her shoulders with both hands and forcing her to look at me.  “Not now!  We’ve got to concentrate on getting out of here.”

I took her hand, held it really tight, and feeling like we were Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid in their last scene alive, out of the ladies room we went.

Stay Tuned for Part Seven

Stories from the Chair: My One-legged Lover in Paris – Part Five

They said they were cousins from Algeria. 

They said they were both twenty-eight.

They said they were living temporarily in Paris on “family business.”

And they said American women were the most beautiful women on earth.

We sat at that table in one of the world’s most fabulous settings, with these two incredibly handsome boys, for probably an hour.  They bought us drinks, made us giggle, and damn near charmed our pants off right then and there.

They said they were members of one of the most exclusive private nightclubs in the city.  When they asked us if we’d like to go there with them, we thought we’d died and gone straight into the arms of God.  They said there’d be live entertainment and that there was always an American celebrity or two wandering around.  Are you kidding?  We jumped at it!

Then they said, “Let us first get taxi and drive to apartment for smoke pot!”

Please remember, I was supposed to be in charge, a protector for sweet young Sarah. 

But Sarah was game as hell, raring to go, and really, so was I. 

So we grabbed a cab and off we went, on a ten minute drive to their apartment “for smoke pot!”  During that ride I have to say I had a place deep in my gut telling me this might not be such a great thing to be doing.  The feeling grew more intense as we were about to walk through their front door.  But they lived in a gorgeous place, in an extremely high rent area, and for whatever reason, that made me feel a little better. 

They served us a drink.  I honestly don’t remember what.  I was into Scotch back then.  Probably that.  Then they pulled a joint out of a drawer and we all proceeded to get very stoned.  It was nobody’s first time, and we all agreed that the shit was extremely potent, and if I remember correctly, they said it was from Afghanistan.

Although subtly, we seemed to be pairing up.  The taller guy, we’ll call him “Omar,” hung close to me, and “Farouk” was pretty into Sarah.  Plus we were blitzed and having a good time, listening to some music and all, so we just went with the flow.

But all of a sudden I started wanting to move on to that nightclub part of the evening.  I had a strong feeling that it was time leave.

So I said out loud, “Hey!  Let’s go to the nightclub!”

Omar slowly turned his head, stared at me with his dark eyes and said, “Ah.  This is why you choose to be with us.  You use us for nightclub?”

And my heart thudded to the bottom of my stomach.

Stay Tuned for Part Six

Stories from the Chair: My One-legged Lover in Paris – Part Four

There have been a few complaints from my readers, all of whom of course I adore, because they actually care about what I write, which I feel is a gift from God. 

But they want me to get to the “one-legged lover” part.  Right now.

I ask, however, for their indulgence, because my gut tells me the back story is pretty important.

So anyway, moving right along…

After my twenty-six-hour restorative hibernation, my new best friends and I stayed joined at the hip for like the next five days.  I think they were on some kind of spring break from classes.  It was, after all, in late March.  Although I’m sure I enjoyed all of them, the two who remain steadfast in my memory are Lang, and the seventeen-year-old darling “Sarah” whose American diplomat parents scooted her out of the nest really early to attend the Sorbonne, all on her own.  She was so young and sweet, that both Lang and I kind of watched out for her.

How did we spend all those days together?  Frolicking around Paris and surrounding areas like the children we were, gleeful and excited and immensely happy. 

I recall a time spent in the Meat Packing District, meandering in and around hanging cow carcasses inside a freezing warehouse;

I recall darting through Place Pigalle near Montmartre, the official Parisian Red Light District, giggling at the real life whores, the sex shops and peep-show store fronts. 

I recall Montparnasse, where we imagined the ghosts of brilliant artists-past who gathered there;

I recall Lang insisting we attend the Friday twilight service at Notre Dame, where a choir sang

A Capella, and how the acoustics of that ancient cathedral affected their voices in such a way you thought you’d gone straight to Heaven and heard the angels sing;

But most of all, I remember the day we all got on a bus and headed out to the Palace at Versailles.  We spent the entire day there.  We danced through the gardens, not yet in full bloom, and we wandered through the enormously vast rooms and halls of the palace, content to be without a formal guide because Lang knew everything about the place.

Except when we hopped in with a group of American tourists just for fun, just for a minute, just in time to hear the guide speak with authority on the fact that King Louis XVI required all his women to abstain from bathing for one month before he would have sex with them.  Seriously, I am not making this up.  I may be wrong on which King Louis this pertains to, but it’s true, nonetheless. The older ladies on the tour gasped, hands over mouths in horror!  We were completely grossed out and laughed our asses off about it for days.

Finally, I decided it was time for Sarah and me to have a “girls’ night out.”  We’d been hanging with the “boys” almost constantly, and when Sarah complained of wanting a real date, I told her the “boys” were clearly cramping her style.  Who was going to hit on her with four guys getting in the way? 

While Sarah was mature beyond her years, she was still so young.  But I was confident that since I was a “much older” twenty-two, I could protect her from evil.  Lang and the guys felt differently though, worried we wouldn’t be safe without them, two girls running around Paris and all.  Especially at night.  But we both assured them we’d be totally fine.

So we hugged them goodbye on Saturday night and ran off, just the two of us, to see what the night would hold.

We started out doing things right by picking an upscale outdoor bar/café on the Champs Elysees where we could actually see the Arc de Triomphe from our table on the sidewalk.

We started out doing things right by sipping our drinks slowly, and savoring the very fact of where we were, like in the middle of a postcard or something.

We started out doing things right by just enjoying each others’ company, telling stories and making each other laugh.

And then I had to go and fuck it all up.

Because when we were suddenly approached by two amazingly gorgeous, tall and swarthy young men asking in heavily accented English if they could join us…

…I, with all my vast wisdom and maturity, said yes.

Stay Tuned for Part Five

Stories from the Chair: My One-legged Lover in Paris – Part Three

I won’t get into listing the thousand things I saw and did that second day in Paris.  Mostly because I just don’t remember shit anymore, it seems.  If only I could find that elusive journal. 

Here are a few of the things I’ve managed to retain, just in case you really want to know:

I learned that Notre Dame sits on a tiny island in the middle of the Seine, called Île Saint-Louis. 

I learned that the French eat very bizarre things, like brains, pancreas and blood sausage, and are known to drink wine with every meal, including breakfast!

I learned how cozy it felt to walk those ancient streets, winding and narrow, with dwellings and shops very close to the traffic, the sidewalks no wider than like a foot or so.

I spent hours among the many little Les Bouquinestes (book stalls) lining both banks of the Seine.  And yes, I had to look up that spelling.  You bet. 

I wandered spellbound through the Louvre in such awestruck wonder; my jaw was practically dragging across the polished marble floors.

And yes, I do remember the Mona Lisa.

I also remember that language was a real barrier.  I was picking up a few words here and there, but the French were often not eager to pander to my need for the use of English.  I got the feeling that as an American, I wasn’t well liked.  This was probably due to the many groupings of loud, stupid, rude and demanding American tourists who had preceded me, the likes of which I had witnessed myself in great embarrassment.     

Finally, fatigued and aching, twilight found me at that same outdoor café I had been to the day before.  Only this time, I sat at a tiny table inside, and while drinking my café au lait, I must have put my head down on the table for just a quick rest, because the next thing I knew, I was awakened by laughter coming from the next table over.

“She’s drooling!” a man shouted.

“Passed out drunk?” said a young girl.

I jerked up straight in my chair and this group of people, all laughing and staring, exploded into applause.

I ended up joining them that night, after finally convincing them I wasn’t drunk, just really tired.  There were four guys, all from other countries, and one lone American girl, who I learned was just seventeen years old.  They were students at the Sorbonne, and spoke fluently in English. 

“Lang,” who was from China and spoke fluent English, folded me into their group with such gusto, that two hours later, they walked me to my “upscale” hotel, helped me gather my things, got me checked out, and in no time I was checked in at a decidedly “un” upscale place, but one where Lang worked part-time as a manager, and where the rest of them had rooms.

Quaint and shoddy, I thought my new home was fantastic.  Even the part where you had to share a bathroom down the hall.

Because these five young people felt so right to me. 

Because they felt safe.

And although these five young people would become my soul mates for the rest of my days in Paris, it turns out that even they could not, as no one ever could, protect me from myself.

I then fell fully clothed on top of old and tattered bed covers and slept for the next twenty-six hours.

Stay Tuned for Part Four

Stories from the Chair: My One-legged Lover in Paris – Part Two

I didn’t initially intend to even talk about the achievement of my number one objective in Paris: to have sex with a French boy.  But my fingers got away from me on the keyboard last week in Part One, so now I have to talk about it.

Plus, I’m here to tell the truth anyway, when all is said and done.

I mean, what could be more delicious and intoxicating than feeling free enough to do absolutely anything one wants to do, without the debilitating fear of repercussion; of judgment; of criticism?

And another thing:  I had absolutely no fear.  No fear at all.  I attribute that to being only twenty-two, and being youthfully and unfathomably ignorant.

Anyway, On that first night, I ducked into a place a few blocks from my hotel, which did not turn out to be “the hottest nightclub in Paris,” but did turn out to be the perfect spot for me; a smallish establishment with low pink lighting, with a long bar, a dance floor, and lots of tiny round tables for two.  The room was pretty packed, but I found an empty stool at the bar, ordered a Cutty and water with ice (thankfully, bartenders worldwide understand “alcohol” as a universal language) and watched a mop-topped, Beatles wannabe foursome as they set up their equipment in a corner.

“Pierre” sat on the next stool over, his back turned toward me, in deep French conversation with a fellow to his right.  When he heard me order, he swung around to face me, and with a big smile said, “Américaine?”

He knew about three words in English, and at that point, I knew about two words in French. 

He was young, lean and blonde, with big brown eyes, a rather large nose, full lips and a dimple in his chin.  His hair fell to his shoulders in large waves.  He wore bangs. 

The attraction was instantaneous. 

We laughed a lot because we didn’t understand each other most of the time.  We drank, we danced, we drank some more, and then he walked me back to my hotel room, where I pulled him through the door and rushed him directly to my bed.

Maybe it was the way he whispered in my ear, in French.

Maybe it was his slow, sensuous approach; his soft touch.

I certainly came to a new and deep understanding of that thing somebody said, “Sex is a universal language.”

As dawn cracked on the morning of my second day in Paris, I politely sent him on his way, having to use hand signals, gesticulations and even some grunts.  I somehow got that he wanted to share the day with me, but I really needed to be on my own. 

It wasn’t easy letting Pierre go, mainly because I really liked him.  I think. 

But I had new things to see, new people to meet, new places to go.  

The sun was up in Paris!  I couldn’t sleep at a time like that!  So forgoing any real shut-eye for going on three days, I showered and threw on some clothes…probably my hippie jeans, a tie-dyed poncho, sandals, and a floppy wide-brimmed hat, if I remember correctly.  Pretty cliché for 1970.

And then I shot out of my hotel like a cannonball and hit the ground running, having no idea how different life would become for me in Paris, by the end of that second day.

Stay Tuned for Part Three

Stories from the Chair: My One-legged Lover in Paris – Part One

[Author’s Note:  If you haven’t read the Foreword on this series, posted on 3/20/12, you may want to do so before reading Part One.]

Let me begin by saying I am extremely pissed off, as I have been for like, two years because that’s how long I’ve been looking for my journal, and have failed to find it.  I’m speaking of the journal I kept on my first two weeks in Paris, back in March of 1970.  The reason I’m telling you this, is that I have forgotten lots of details, like the names of places where I stayed or where I went shopping or ate, and the names of the people I met, street names and other such things.  I’ve still retained the obvious:  the Champs Elysees, the Arc de Triomphe, the Louvre, the Palace at Versailles, the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame and other such things.

What’s important, though, is that I remember living the story.

And also, it occurred to me that I should tell it now, while I still have any memory left at all.

I don’t want to brag or anything, but I flew first class on a Pan Am Stretch DC-8.  First Class, I tell you!  And that was back in the days of linen napkins and crystal stemware!  Why?  Because there was space available for an upgrade.  The round trip air fare from SFO to LAX and then thirteen hours nonstop to Paris cost me $68.15.  I don’t have any trouble remembering that.

I didn’t sleep for the first three days I was there, unless you count a couple of hours of fitful dozing in the arms of a total stranger who was gorgeous and spoke only French.

At 6:30 a.m. Paris time I checked in at a tiny, upscale hotel across from La Seine, in a tiny, upscale district which shall remain nameless.  Too excited to even breathe, I hadn’t slept at all on the flight over.  I threw my bags into my tiny cute room and went out to tear up and streets, which I did all day long.  The feel of the air, the vibe, the sights, the sounds, the smells and the people all quite frankly just blew away my senses.  I topped off the late afternoon with about four café au lait and a crust less cucumber sandwich at a busy outdoor café, where I watched people, rested my throbbing feet, and anticipated how amazing my first night in Paris was going to be.

And so it was.

Because after returning to my room, writing some post cards and showering, I put on my newly purchased and very trendy hip-hugging, thick-belted mini-skirt, my knee-high boots, my scoop-necked leotard top, and literally burst out of that hotel, on a mission to hit a hot nightclub, find the hottest French boy in the room, dance my ass off with him for hours, and then take him back to my hotel and have my way with him.

And so I did.

Stay Tuned for Part Two

Stories from the Chair: My One-legged Lover in Paris – Foreword

I swear to God, we think we know everything when we’re in our twenties.  And believe me, I was no exception.  In fact, I had to be omnipotent and arrogant with a much bigger splash than most idiots who graduate from their teens.

One illustration of all that folly was the fact that I chose to do most of my foreign travel by myself. 

This is not to diminish the value of a healthy independent streak, which I developed as a thirteen-year-old in Japan while living off-base in the rice paddies.  Fearless and confident in my total ignorance, I used to wander off on foot alone many times to explore, and sometimes I hopped the train to Fukuoka, a gorgeous and splashy big city not too far away.  I did this mostly, though, not as much out of bold curiosity, but more to escape the tiny house where there were two constantly fighting, heavily drinking parents.

The good thing about traveling alone is you’re forced to be really spontaneous and resourceful in about a million ways.  Plus, you’re more gregarious and open to new people and things, because when you travel in groups or pairs, you can be easily inhibited and sheltered by the confines of the familiar security you feel with your friends.

But bad things can happen when you choose to go solo.

For instance, every time I visited a foreign country, I caught the raging shits and the projectile pukes.  Who knew that innocent looking salad I ate in an “upscale” restaurant in Mexico City would give me a virulent amoeba that lived on and on, and grounded me for more than a month.  And that time in Tahiti, when I had to spend a full twenty-four hours in bed suffering from some unknown bacteria ingested while eating stuff I couldn’t even identify.  Being alone at times like that is pretty awful, given there’s nobody to hold your head with a cool clean washcloth, or offer moral support.

But then there was Paris…

where I met fantastic young people from all over the globe;

where I saw things never before seen;

where I did things never before done;

where I fell in love;

where I discovered this great newly emerging English artist named Elton John;

where I, once again, spent two days exclusively with a toilet, a bathtub and a sink;

and…

where I was so fucking stupid I almost got myself murdered.

Stay Tuned for Part One