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The days just bleed into one another. There is no time. There never was to begin with...
Still in the van in a frustrating state of anti-sleep. Compared to this situation the plane was more conducive to catching Z’s. At some point I hear Graham, our tour manager announce something about the Paris skyline in sight. Why should I miss this for irreverent shut-eye? Colorful obtrusive French graffiti along the walls of the motorway streaming by me through the window. I’ve never seen so much street art along an interstate. New York doesn’t even compare to this level of imagery.
Arriving at our favorite hotel: Etap. It’s the cheapest most affordable place to stay but the brochure is deceiving, appearing to be some ritzy establishment. But really if they just provided shampoo, washcloths, and a proper shower room, I would actually approve.
Inside the lobby...a group of lovely French birds cleaning up around the café area. It’s understood in the facial expressions shared with the guys of the blatant attraction of these girls...
...
Taking my first shower in a few days. So invigorating...
...
I walk with Zach to a café around the corner and we share a Café Crème amongst old French men.
...
Back to the hotel. It’s around noon and 100% of us are 100% tired but I’m trying to fight it. Mark introduces me to the concept of polycyclic sleep, the same sleep cycle cats use, napping here and there throughout the day. A cat’s life for me I guess.
While everyone sleeps, I find a green stool in the lobby café and use the computer. I strike up a chat with two of the cute girls we saw earlier. They have hardly any knowledge of English so I use Google Translate to converse, making it an exhausting but interesting conversation with Cassandra and Alice—typing questions and answers into the translate bar. They’re both seventeen, soon to be eighteen—a fun interaction to have while I wait for our lobby call to go to the venue.
In the van...cruising through downtown Paris in route to O’Sullivan’s. This city is bewildering, a culture shock for sure. Taking random pictures of the pedestrians. Some of them shoot me strange looks. A group of French guys, obviously gay, notice my snap shot frenzy. I point my finger and bend my wrist in their direction as a welcoming sign to say hello. One of the guys responds with a classy wink back. I love France.
There. Setting up. Sound checking.
Then, with Zach and Jacob. We go on a mission in search of this café Zach read about, and had been to last time he came to Paris. After a few minutes of analyzing the subway map we hop onto a cramped metro train. There’s a guy strumming tunes on a guitar plastered in guitar pics. He actually gets onto the train. It’s jam packed. But with the presence of this troubadour the spirits are high—smiling French faces—happy people, almost everyone—producing versions of American sing-a-longs like “Rollin! Rollin! Rolling on a subway!” An amazing unifying moment...
I look over to Jacob, smile and say, “We picked the right car.”
Out on the street now, directly in front of the famous Notre Dame cathedral. The bells resounding and bouncing off the tall buildings. [Dong Dong Dong] Exploring further into the heart of this French maze madness. You could be stuck here forever and never cover every square inch of this town. People everywhere. This city is alive. Sparkling. Twinkling. In contrast to the hustle and bustle you can find little cafés on every corner each with a distinctive flavour—where life slows down for the locals. They huddle up at these tiny tables drinking their little café crèmes and smoking cigarettes, all facing the street as if the passerby’s were the entertainment. They’re judges critiquing our walks, our thoughts, and our talks.
After a brisk cold stroll we find Café De Flore and situate ourselves in a booth on the second floor. It’s a mad house in here with Frenchmen and Frenchwomen packed tightly at the tables drinking coffee and smiling mischievously. This café is where Sartre and other famed writers and philosophers used to meet. We order café crèmes and they’re exceptional. I’ve been awake for almost 48 hours and without being hopped up on caffeine I would literally drop to the ground. The malnutrition and lack of sleep hits you hard in spurs. Back on the street picking up an Egg and Cheese Crepe from a stand. Nearby a folk polka band pounds out some romantic tunes. I watch a couple take advantage of the moment by touching lips in such a gentle focused manner. This place really is the capital of love.
On the metro train. A man with non-working legs begs for Euros. He crawls on his hands, which are strapped to flip-flops.
...
Back to the venue. The Moulin Rouge next to it is all lit up in full presentation of glamour and shine. I sit alone outside the bar smoking a Djarum Mild. Space heaters mounted up in the ceiling. Others chit chatting around me. Scanning the beautiful cluster of French natives marching down the sidewalk passing right in front of me. Watching as almost near perfect female jewels stroll by floating away from my vicinity in a matter of seconds. Recalling something Zach said to me earlier about how great it’d be to come to Paris, meet someone, and have a wonderful affair, just for two weeks. Ideas like this and stories here birth so naturally; they hatch like eggs with an unstoppable drive for carpe diem. These faces tell it all: Bonjour, I live my life in constant satisfaction.
Showtime. Not a lot of heads in the venue but still a decent performance...
Afterwards this place turns into a club. Trendy music booming out the speakers. Guys in suave attire and girls in sexy dresses. It’s a real live zoo just outside. People lined up like ants waiting to get into The Moulin Rouge. Mates in other bands hooked up with French birds all over the bar. I feel lost and not sure what to do with myself.
...
Stephanie and Leandra, fans from Michigan, and Yuko from Japan flew all the way out here to see Mae play and sight see. I know Stephanie from previous tours, and she’s probably the coolest mom I know. Yuko’s a sweet Japanese gal who’s made multiple trips to the west coast to get her Mae fix and a good friend of ours. Leandra I don’t remember ever meeting before. But she’s got this piercing stare. I only notice it every now and then.
...
Later in the night...we’re all hanging outside the van amidst the craziness waiting for our tour manager to return. Some drunk black dude claiming to be from Sudan vies for our attention along with multiple flower sellers soliciting us every fifteen seconds wanting to give a rose for a quid. It’s hard to believe I’m even here...sipping on pints of 1664 ales in public in the middle of the Paris streets.
...
Back at the Etap. It’s after midnight. Dave, Tom, Jacob, and I begin a night adventure we’ll never forget. We start on a bus where a friendly drunken midget leads us onto the metro. He runs down the escalator and we follow blindly, an awesomely funny moment. On the train he asks us if we’re in a rock band and starts wailing air guitar for the Queen song "Bohemian Rhapsody", also an awesomely funny moment. Maybe he got bored with us or distracted but he leaves his seat with us and darts over to another drunk bunch and immediately has photos taken of him. This man will be embedded in my memory forever. Time to get off but our stop is closed so we’re forced to take the next one. Up out of the underground and without any idea on what direction to take. Marching down Marceau Avenue. Stop into a McDonalds for quick eats. Coincidentally the other band mates from Kyoto Drive walk in at the same time and lead us in the right direction. Baring the cold wind. Everything’s hazy. We make it to the Seine River at the spot where Princess Diana died of car injuries. The Eiffel Tower in the distance. We decide to go no closer and do a photo op right there on the bridge. Now we have to get back to the hotel. The trains are closed at this point so we keep exercising our feet down Marceau in hopes a bus will come. We end up using a taxi to get back.
This day will go down in my history as the longest day ever.
Sleep at some ungodly hour.
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