Monday, June 07, 2004

Mandounette's West Parisian Odyssey 

Uncle Jimmy once told me that I should never choose just one path. That in doing so I would give up on myself, because there are certain people that just don't fit into the "be passionate about your work" model. Some of us are just passionate about living. Work, of course, is a part of living, and therefore merits certain amounts of passion, but gosh, there is so much more!

I was lost for 2 and a half hours on Saturday night, looking for the enigmatic and mystical Bodegas. Legend has it that this temple consecrated to nostalgiac music for French 20-somethings, housed under a magnificently hokey circus tent (think the spaceship in Killer Klowns from Outer Space) that apparently cannot be found without a Parisian-born guide. Confidentally striding the quai, pretending to be Sydney Bristow as Julia Thorne (all about the curls and eyeliner on Saturday), Gauloise in hand (trying to raise my level of Frenchiness), I looked and listened for any sign of life. I arrived at the Pont de Saint-Cloud empty handed, except for the distant strains of hip-hop. The Sirens of French hip-hop lured me toward a houseboat floating on the banks of the Seine with a handful of bohemian young people smoking on the deck. At least maybe they know where this illusive Bodegas can be found. I ask. They don't know. But they do know how to roll a mean joint and invite me to partake. Thirsting for a whisky and coke and hopeless that my quest will end soon (there is nothing but blackness and stars and the reflection of the moon in the water as far as the eye can see), I settle in. But soon, I am getting too comfortable and realize that it is getting late. I must be going. "Thank you." "Good luck."

I call my friends for the 5th time. "Give me a fucking clue!" I say in my most elegant French. "You can't miss it!" Oh, yes, I can. I need a whisky. Standing on the quai, near the Pont de Sèvres I see something that, while not exactly a circus tent, has the look nonetheless of a Fourth of July fried dough stand. It is under the bridge, so 10 minutes later, having crossed the bridge, gone down a musty staircase, climbed over a bunch of train tracks and passed many-a-man peeing against the supporting structures of the bridge, I make another call to my friends. "What kind of music is playing where you are?" "I don't know, Abba?"

Hmmm. Where I am there seems to be a gypsy a cappella group singing while women dance in circles while men clap. And they are not singing a Hungarian version of Dancing Queen. My spirits dashed, I see that at least there is a little make shift self-serve bar. I have a drink. For the most part people ignore me. I leave when they start paying attention to me. I don't have much of a desire to be converted to some strange sect or to be sold into white slavery. One more call. "I am on the Pont de Sèvres. Where are you? If you can't tell me, I'm throwing myself into the Seine." "Oh, putain!"

"Wait, I just saw a shooting star. I wish that I find this damned Bodegas before the end of the night."

I start off again. I pass the world's longest parking lot and finally arrive at my destination (2 and a half hours later). "You going to Bodegas?" demand the guardians of the temple. "Yes!" "It closes at 2." "But it is only 1:20!" "Yes, but they don't let anyone in after 1." "NO, you will let me in! I have been lost for over 2 hours to say goodbye to my friend! I can't be rejected now!" "You have a pretty accent, where do you come from?" "New York!" "And you came all the way here, to our little Bodegas?" "I hate the country." "Ok, we're radioing you in. There is a young woman on her way. She's looking for her friends. Let her in." In such a happy mood, I arrive and chain drink my whisky and cokes, sing along with Frank Sinatra and Grease and The Love Boat theme song. As usual the destination was less interesting than the quest. But then again, you can't have one without the other.



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