My Cousin the Communist

Bonjour, I have made my way to the city of love, and it is lovely. But, before I begin, let me tell you that the french do not type quite the same as Americans, and if you find a Q where there should be an A or so on, please find it in your heart to forgive me. Mais oui, the city of love. Paris is a beautiful city with beautiful people. My cousin, who I am staying with, is a communist. I think it's cool. That's about the only relevant part of this entry in regards to the title. He took me on a backstage tour of Lido, a very famous Caberet. It was fun, but I was hoping I would get to meet the girls, they would all fall in love with me and (since a group of performers must stick together) all sixty of them would marry me, we would move to Utah, and have our own normal cookie-cutter, polygamist, Franco-Amercan, half-nude, dancing, Jewish, (big) pickett-fence, life together. But, it was their day off, so, no go. This threw me into a semi-depression until my overwhelming sadness was overcome with great anger. Having been so close to where many semi-naked girls would be later on (hey, beggars cant be choosers and its still exciting to think that at least somebody would get to see them), naturally I was hungry. I wouldve smoked a cigarette because thats what I do after almost seeing a naked girl, but a) I dont smoke and b) I think the French have used up all the cigarrettes in the world. So, I make my way to a cafe. It is quite crowded but there are three rows of tables outside. Two rows are full, save one seat, and one row is completely empty. I sit in the empty row, trying really hard not to be the obtrusive American the French have grown to love, but the waitress makes me move to the one seat stuck between the other sardined diners. When I sit down, they make me feel welcomed by giving me dirty looks, showing me the empty tables (where I just was), scooting their chairs away and continuing to reach across to my table to ash their cigs in the ashtray in front of me. Now, I thought about graciously offering to share the ashtray with my neighbors (on their laps), but since their table was full and seeing as how I was being such a nuisance (by enjoying their culture and adding to their economy) I decided to let it go. Bienvenue (welcome) à Paris. Thanks a lot Pres. Bush. Do all of us travelers a favor, and next time you think there are weapons of mass destruction someplace, go ahead and check first before you piss off the rest of the world. Oh, and as an added benefit, maybe thousands of young Americans wont lose their lives and limbs. Sorry, was that too political? Thats the freedom (of speech) that the soldiers are fighting for right now. Liberty is not free, right? Oh yea, I could have written that before Saadam wasnt building bombs. Again, another digression.
So after a long day of looking at beautiful paintings at the Musee D'Orsay ( I just figured out how to use ' ), I'm meeting my cousin, the Communist, in the Latin Quarter before going to see a River Pheonix, 1988 flick- Running on Empty. ( It's great, the French play old films in their theatres over and over. They are such cinephiles that their moviegoers support an industry that re-plays films in their theatres.) As I'm waiting at our meeting place, well, you can guess. It's finally about to happen. That which we've all been waiting for. The foriegn girl of my dreams is finally checking me out. There's no mistaking this one. She keeps making eye contact then quickly looking away and pretending like she's looking around for somebody. Don't play coy with me mon amour. An American boy and a French girl? I know it's wrong. But I feel it too. There's no stopping our feelings for each other. But, there's so much to overcome. It's like Berlin in the early 80's. You are on one side of the Wall and I the other. We are so close, but I can't reach out to touch you. Your head says no, I cannot be wiz 'im. E is American and I reach across him to ash my cigarettes. Mais, non. I can hear your heartbeat on the otherside. It says, oui oui. I say, no thanks, I tinkled earlier, but if you have to go it's no problem, I can wait. And you say what? I say, I would have said piss, but I'm keeping it PG for the kids. And your eyes grow wide. You act like you have no idea what I'm talking about (and if you don't you should go back and read my other blogs, because then you'd get it) but I know that it is just a rouze. You play like you dont understand me. I say, even though we don't speak the same language outloud, our hearts converse like two teenage girls on the phone after the cutest boy in school accidentally bumps into one of them and says, Oh shit, My bad B. And that is the language of the soul. The language of love. We are like one. And even though this Berlin Wall of love stands between us, tonight my love, tonight we're gonna party like it's 1989. (That's when it fell for you history buffs out there.)
None of these words had to be spoken. It was all in our eyes. Finally she gives in to her heart, starts walking towards me. I have my line ready- Wanna get some crepes and makeout? What, you don't like crepes? And as she approaches she opens up her arms and some French dude plays Dr. McThroat-examiner with his tongue. I guess I might have had one or two misinterpretations with the whole eyes/ me thinking she was in love with me. Oh well, I finally got my show. Even if the girl wasn't half naked.

Au revoir,

Jason, or as the French have so affectionately nick-named me- Jazon.