Saturday, September 17, 2005
Get Lost
Here I am in Paris. Due to the hijacking of my flight by a bunch of obnoxious kids who decided to scream and cry their way to France I arrived tired and frustrated. As I admired my bloodshot eyes in the tiny W.C. strewn with paper towels and weird smelling things on the floor, I wondered if the children believed that the plane would arrive there sooner by using this tactic. Let me reassure all the children in the world that it does not work and they should just sit there and sleep like all the other grown ups. God knows why these children have to be so annoying. The airlines already provide movies and games and toys for them. What else do they want; Disneyland? I think I scared the couple sitting next to me when I ‘tsk tsk’ed and looked like I was about to murder the screeching banshees.
The flight was a mediocre experience – minus the children- because it was an Emirates Airlines flight. The stewardesses were, as expected, lazy cows who only pretended to touch the overhead baggage bin when you needed help or else looked away praying to Jesus that you would not catch their eye. Simply put, they tried hard to make one’s flight as unpleasant as possible without lifting a finger. As the stewardess threw my bread at me I wished that I had taken Air France or Singapore Airlines but alas, although expensive, it was a cheaper flight than the latter two. I made a mental note that in the future I should have such a great job that I will not ever experience food spewed at me again.
As I stepped out of Baggage Claim Stephanie received me. I had been worried that we would miss each other because she had not sent her picture and I had not asked for one. Luckily, she recognized me from the photo I had attached earlier through email. I usually think I look very different from pictures but I guess that is not true and I look just as bad. So, with an acne ridden dehydrated face and stinking body, Stephanie and I left Charles de Gaulle Airport and went into the heart of Paris to...
...Moulin Rouge.
I live next to the world’s most sex-filled streets. Could I be happier? I do not think so. The next day, in my three hour search to buy a SIM card, I got lost in a prostitute zone. I do not think I have ever heard anyone else say they had involuntarily got lost among prostitutes. Pictures, out in the open, of women naked and spread-eagled is somewhat new to me. Tits and dicks everywhere poking you in the eye; Peepshows, Live shows, Private shows welcoming you into dark theatres. I could not help grinning but some pictures and displays were so odd that my face involuntarily twisted in horror (I know because other people started to look at me strangely). It is sex heaven, although one might be inclined to say it is more like hell if you are thinking about it from a religious point of view. Pictures of women and mannequins, leather strapped, chained and contorted reminded me of Botticelli's illustrations of Dante's Inferno. Many funny characters line the street of Pigalle and tourists from every nation (Arabs included) elbow their way to take the best photo of the Moulin Rouge. I am definitely in a good place, with sex knocking at my door; somewhere my parents would definitely disapprove.
The family with whom I live are not sadomasichistic but are, actually, very sweet. I am not starving as I had previously expected I would be since Stephanie insists on feeding me, although I have been eating considerably less. So starts the weight-loss. Hurrah! Also, as anticipated, almost everyone puffs their way to work or play; rain or shine. The urge to buy a pack haunts me but thankfully, the government has imposed such high taxes on tobacco that I really have not any money to spend on things like that so I just end up cursing myself for not buying two cartons of Malboro Reds from Dubai’s Duty Free which would have cost me $20 and lasted me about 3 weeks or more.
On my first day out, in my excursion to get a SIM card, it rained like cats and dogs. It was cold and I had not worn a jacket. Cursing myself, again, I walked through the rain while I muttered under my breath. I suppose people did think I was nuts, but that does not matter, lots of people mutter under their breath here. I am not sure if it is because they are all suffering from withdrawal symptoms or are just as unhappy as I am in this cold weather. It certainly is different from Dubai. I did get hit on by a sweeper. It was funny because he did it in French and at first I did not understand why he was talking to me ( I kept thinking , "Did I litter?") He was cute, though. I notice a lot of people are pleasant and when they flirt it is not horrid at all. Quite unlike those damn 70 year olds in Dubai who are so obviously disgusting when they coo, “How are you?”, that they might as well ask “Suck me?” Fuckers.
It took me two hours to find a “Tabac”. That is where one gets telecartes which are credit phone cards. I had asked 3 people for directions and when I got to the “Tabac” the lady says that she does not sell SIM cards. Apparently, telecartes are not the same as SIM cards. Typical stupid me. I should have realized that something was up when I was told that one can purchase a SIM card from a tobacco shop.
After asking another bunch of people I got to an ORANGE outlet and got my SIM card. Yay! I was so happy because I did not speak in English even once (except when I got to the telecom outlet and said “yes” to one of the attendants). A word of advice, never ask directions from old men. They are grumpy and rude and make you want to beseech them to tell you how you had made their lives miserable. Stupid old men. They are the same everywhere.
After that escapade I decided to go home the same way I had traveled to the ORANGE outlet. Then surprise, surprise, I got lost. I have no idea how one can get lost going back the ‘same’ way one used to get somewhere. In any case, by getting lost I found a Laundromat, a Chinese shop, an Indian shop and many, many sex shops. Incidentally, I live next to a shawarma shop. While I spent three months in Dubai and never had the opportunity to eat a shawarma, no matter how much I wanted to, now, half way across the world, I live next to a shawarma restaurant (which is also an Indian restaurant called Samsara; I laugh because it reminds me of my religious studies 104 class at UIUC) where I can have those sandwiches day and night if I so wished. Talk about irony.
Thankfully, I found my way home. Apparently, I had missed my building. Having realized that, I mentally slapped my forehead. Most buildings look alike in this part of Paris ( I haven't seen the other parts yet); small and cramped. However, I am glad that I found all those wonderful nooks and crannies. I now know where the supermarket is, where the pharmacies and bookstores are situated, other groceries, bakeries and the best place to buy a good dildo. So, my advice to present and future travelers; although arriving at one's destination in the least amount of time is often ideal, don't do it. Get lost, it's a helluva lot more fun.
Here I am in Paris. Due to the hijacking of my flight by a bunch of obnoxious kids who decided to scream and cry their way to France I arrived tired and frustrated. As I admired my bloodshot eyes in the tiny W.C. strewn with paper towels and weird smelling things on the floor, I wondered if the children believed that the plane would arrive there sooner by using this tactic. Let me reassure all the children in the world that it does not work and they should just sit there and sleep like all the other grown ups. God knows why these children have to be so annoying. The airlines already provide movies and games and toys for them. What else do they want; Disneyland? I think I scared the couple sitting next to me when I ‘tsk tsk’ed and looked like I was about to murder the screeching banshees.
The flight was a mediocre experience – minus the children- because it was an Emirates Airlines flight. The stewardesses were, as expected, lazy cows who only pretended to touch the overhead baggage bin when you needed help or else looked away praying to Jesus that you would not catch their eye. Simply put, they tried hard to make one’s flight as unpleasant as possible without lifting a finger. As the stewardess threw my bread at me I wished that I had taken Air France or Singapore Airlines but alas, although expensive, it was a cheaper flight than the latter two. I made a mental note that in the future I should have such a great job that I will not ever experience food spewed at me again.
As I stepped out of Baggage Claim Stephanie received me. I had been worried that we would miss each other because she had not sent her picture and I had not asked for one. Luckily, she recognized me from the photo I had attached earlier through email. I usually think I look very different from pictures but I guess that is not true and I look just as bad. So, with an acne ridden dehydrated face and stinking body, Stephanie and I left Charles de Gaulle Airport and went into the heart of Paris to...
...Moulin Rouge.
I live next to the world’s most sex-filled streets. Could I be happier? I do not think so. The next day, in my three hour search to buy a SIM card, I got lost in a prostitute zone. I do not think I have ever heard anyone else say they had involuntarily got lost among prostitutes. Pictures, out in the open, of women naked and spread-eagled is somewhat new to me. Tits and dicks everywhere poking you in the eye; Peepshows, Live shows, Private shows welcoming you into dark theatres. I could not help grinning but some pictures and displays were so odd that my face involuntarily twisted in horror (I know because other people started to look at me strangely). It is sex heaven, although one might be inclined to say it is more like hell if you are thinking about it from a religious point of view. Pictures of women and mannequins, leather strapped, chained and contorted reminded me of Botticelli's illustrations of Dante's Inferno. Many funny characters line the street of Pigalle and tourists from every nation (Arabs included) elbow their way to take the best photo of the Moulin Rouge. I am definitely in a good place, with sex knocking at my door; somewhere my parents would definitely disapprove.
The family with whom I live are not sadomasichistic but are, actually, very sweet. I am not starving as I had previously expected I would be since Stephanie insists on feeding me, although I have been eating considerably less. So starts the weight-loss. Hurrah! Also, as anticipated, almost everyone puffs their way to work or play; rain or shine. The urge to buy a pack haunts me but thankfully, the government has imposed such high taxes on tobacco that I really have not any money to spend on things like that so I just end up cursing myself for not buying two cartons of Malboro Reds from Dubai’s Duty Free which would have cost me $20 and lasted me about 3 weeks or more.
On my first day out, in my excursion to get a SIM card, it rained like cats and dogs. It was cold and I had not worn a jacket. Cursing myself, again, I walked through the rain while I muttered under my breath. I suppose people did think I was nuts, but that does not matter, lots of people mutter under their breath here. I am not sure if it is because they are all suffering from withdrawal symptoms or are just as unhappy as I am in this cold weather. It certainly is different from Dubai. I did get hit on by a sweeper. It was funny because he did it in French and at first I did not understand why he was talking to me ( I kept thinking , "Did I litter?") He was cute, though. I notice a lot of people are pleasant and when they flirt it is not horrid at all. Quite unlike those damn 70 year olds in Dubai who are so obviously disgusting when they coo, “How are you?”, that they might as well ask “Suck me?” Fuckers.
It took me two hours to find a “Tabac”. That is where one gets telecartes which are credit phone cards. I had asked 3 people for directions and when I got to the “Tabac” the lady says that she does not sell SIM cards. Apparently, telecartes are not the same as SIM cards. Typical stupid me. I should have realized that something was up when I was told that one can purchase a SIM card from a tobacco shop.
After asking another bunch of people I got to an ORANGE outlet and got my SIM card. Yay! I was so happy because I did not speak in English even once (except when I got to the telecom outlet and said “yes” to one of the attendants). A word of advice, never ask directions from old men. They are grumpy and rude and make you want to beseech them to tell you how you had made their lives miserable. Stupid old men. They are the same everywhere.
After that escapade I decided to go home the same way I had traveled to the ORANGE outlet. Then surprise, surprise, I got lost. I have no idea how one can get lost going back the ‘same’ way one used to get somewhere. In any case, by getting lost I found a Laundromat, a Chinese shop, an Indian shop and many, many sex shops. Incidentally, I live next to a shawarma shop. While I spent three months in Dubai and never had the opportunity to eat a shawarma, no matter how much I wanted to, now, half way across the world, I live next to a shawarma restaurant (which is also an Indian restaurant called Samsara; I laugh because it reminds me of my religious studies 104 class at UIUC) where I can have those sandwiches day and night if I so wished. Talk about irony.
Thankfully, I found my way home. Apparently, I had missed my building. Having realized that, I mentally slapped my forehead. Most buildings look alike in this part of Paris ( I haven't seen the other parts yet); small and cramped. However, I am glad that I found all those wonderful nooks and crannies. I now know where the supermarket is, where the pharmacies and bookstores are situated, other groceries, bakeries and the best place to buy a good dildo. So, my advice to present and future travelers; although arriving at one's destination in the least amount of time is often ideal, don't do it. Get lost, it's a helluva lot more fun.
# posted by Mare @ 5:51 AM 
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Yeah, there's a McDonald's there and well, there aren't a couple of porn stores, there are tons of them
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