An American Artist In Paris

It was a day of travel. It seems that travel days somehow seem to engulf the entire day. It began from my hotel in Berlin, walking a block to the subway station at Wittenbergplatz with my suitcase on its rollers, backpack on, and carrying my camera bag. I go one stop on the subway to the Zoologischer Garten station, then come out of the ground onto the street to find the bus X90 going to Telgar Airport. It is a 20-minute wait for the next bus. The ride is very beautiful along the side streets and we are to the Airport very quickly. There are very long lines at the Airport for Paris and though I have used the automated check in and got my boarding pass, I still have to wait for a long time to check my bag. I still have an hour before boarding so I find a coffee shop and begin to write. The time is suddenly gone and I about miss my boarding call. The check trough at the airports is much simpler for screening than in the US and I am quickly boarding the transport to the airplane. It is a very long ride. We board the plane from the ground and I am near the front. The flight from Berlin to Paris is only 1:25 and in the air, I finish my writing for the day. I try to lay back and sleep, but then we begin the decent. The Paris Airport is very large, one of the largest I have ever seen. It seems we land many miles from the airport and it takes a very long time to taxi before deboarding. Again on the ground to another bus transport into the airport. I get to the baggage, it seems there are three flights using the same conveyer, and it is very crowded. Once I have gathered everything I find a quiet place to sit and finish my writing, cleaning through it and correcting because I know it is morning in the US where I will send to have it posted. The airport gives you 15 minutes of free wifi and I need to get it out because it is getting so late. It is now 4 in the afternoon. I work my way though the airport to the transit system, buy my ticket into Paris, 9.20E and head down to the train. It is a very long wait on the train before it leaves, but I must have time to trace the route of my plan and where I need to go. The train is sweltering hot, Pairs is very humid today, and everyone is drenched in beads of sweat. An older woman across from me dabs her brow with a cloth, looking very uncomfortable. The Paris train has a strange hum to it that is both loud and penetrating. The sound creates a nervous energy; almost like a tone one would hear in a sci-fi movie to heighten suspense. The train is filled with people with blank stares in their eyes and will take 30 minutes to get to Gare du Nord, where I must change to the number 5. The train begins to fill more with each stop. There are so many people with luggage that take up the seating. I move all my luggage to the upper racks to offer an elderly woman a seat, she is grateful and thanks me in French, I tell her she is welcome, the French now rolling naturally from my lips. Gard the Nord is a huge and complex train station and it takes me about 20 minutes to cross through the maze of tunnels, up and down, many stairs to reach the number 5 platform. There are many people with suitcases, with far more than what I carry working to different trains. Once on the 5 and now have to go seven stops to get off at the Bastille station. The heat is overwhelming at times, but occasionally you will get a very cold blast from the open windows on the platform side of the train. Luckily, I have hit a time of the day when it is not too busy, because I have seen the train so full that you are all on top of each other. The French have little regard for personal space like we do in the US. At Bastille I work my way though another maze of those tunnels and come up on the waterfront from where the next train departs. This station is built right over the river. It is cooler here and I find relief. I must now ride the number 1 to the very last stop at the Château de Vincennes. It was the original home of the Royal family and where the city of Paris began. I am staying with a writer who has offered me hospitality for several days and it takes me just a few moments to get to his door. It is a beautiful place, exactly what I expect from Paris, old with lots of charm, at least here I can hear the birds sing outside the window. It is now 18:00 and I try to unwind.

My host is amazing, and offers such gracious hospitality. He fixes dinner and we have many drinks, listening to both English and French singers. Some of the old classics from the seventies and eighties and modern French stuff. He has an affinity for beautiful voices and songs of sadness with lots of sentiment. I begin to look at some of those songs of Dionne Warwick form a different perspective now. My host’s English is good, but he still has trouble understanding as we blend my French with his English, the world of this apartment grows with enchantment as the window billows an old lace curtain at the window. It becomes an extraordinary evening filled with beauty and wonder, food, drink, drink, extraordinary music, looking at photo books, the merging of my cowboy western world with the city of Paris, as we come to an understanding of each other lives. This is the connection I have longed for and I am very thankful.

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