Not so Quiet on the Western Front.

They say ev’rything can be replaced
Yet ev’ry distance is not near
So I remember ev’ry face
Of ev’ry man who put me here
I see my light come shining
From the west unto the east
Any day now, any day now
I shall be released

They say ev’ry man needs protection
They say ev’ry man must fall
Yet I swear I see my reflection
Some place so high above this wall
I see my light come shining
From the west unto the east
Any day now, any day now
I shall be released

Standing next to me in this lonely crowd
Is a man who swears he’s not to blame
All day long I hear him shout so loud
Crying out that he was framed
I see my light come shining
From the west unto the east
Any day now, any day now
I shall be released

1996 - I think.
A lot of the 90's are a bit of a blur, for various reasons to be honest - and not what you may think, although drugs, alcohol and sleep deprivation from working 100 hour weeks in order to pay for all the travel took their toll. The rest is blurry, because it's suddenly getting close to twenty years now for some of these adventures, of course they are going to fall into a haze.

I was back in France, again. I don't mean for it to sound that way, it was never trivial and banal, there was always something new to experience - mostly foods, but hey the first time you sleep on the left bank of the Seine, on a park bench in Jardin des Tuileries, or my favourite yet - with the people that live in the Paris Metro, all of that is giddy, exciting, frightening and precious.

This time we started in Belgium - sorry King Albert it is a road. Cycling down through Luxembourg following the French German border, in a lazy and sloppy way we were following the line of the WWI front.  Nothing terribly new, lots of idyllic countryside that gave way to the industrial hinterlands of the German border and back to rolling farm lands. The cafes and towns of Belgium. Blurring into those of Luxembourg, once again, beer, wine, great food, chocolates, wine, architecture, pretty girls, churches, crypts, absinthe, libraries, museums. The adventure really began when we were in eastern France, near Boulange, Lorraine in the prefecture of Moselle.
Not exactly there, but close enough. Cycling with a friend who has asked to remain nameless - he was an archaeology student. Never travel with any sort of professional historian. Especially not an archaeologist. Each one of them truly believe that they are an Indiana Jones or Howard Carter. I swear that they have a self image of leather jackets, pistols, bullwhips, and rugged good looks. The truth is much more akin to the Professor on Gilligan's island. I admire their ability to get into libraries, museums and archives that the rest of us plebeians never get to see. But, after the fifth archive in air-conditioned splendour, sitting around waiting for an ancient codex to be brought out by three archivist wearing gloves and face masks, to protect it, when I'd much rather be chasing the local girls, drinking the cheese and eating the wine, it gets a little boring.

Ancient books in written in Latin or Greek or the delectable choice of Bacchanalian behaviour worthy of Porthos. Hmmm, we all know which I'll choose.

Now, I want to state that I have never actually been arrested. To which, I'm certain my parents are greatly relieved and proud. It was suspected of being touch and go for a while. However, I have been, questioned, detained, my details taken, fingerprinted, and I've been escorted to borders both National, provincial and state and asked not to return.
But, I've never been arrested. This is one of those times that it came very, very, close.

The French have a love of bureaucracy. They love it when it is slow and ponderous, they love it when it is fast and efficient. I personally feel it all depends on when said bureaucrat is heading for lunch.

So, where was I? Oh yeah, Boulange.
There we were cycling along the winding country lanes, the farm land slowly rolling by, rows and rows of ancient grapes, alongside a crumbling dry stone wall, my buddy "Indy" saw IT. It was just happenstance - the light of the day, the recent weather, the season and how close we happened to be.
IT -  turned out to be a femur and hip bone. Ooops. Not something that you see everyday. I would have thought dead animal and not given it any second thought. Not, Indy. He went into swashbuckling mode, practically throwing his bike down and rushing over. Indy instantly proclaimed, on cursory examination that it was probably some unfortunate souls remains left over from one of the wars, WWII, WWI, Napoleons folly's, so on and so forth. He was right, the presumptuous fucker, turns out in this case it was from WWI.

Well, the problem was, as it turns out, this was early in the morning. I stayed and babysat our very silent and well behaved charge, while Indy went to try and find the farm owner and alert the local police. We were filled with a sense of civic duty, a warm glow that some poor soul was about to let the light shine down and be released. All manner of civic pride and excitement was pumping through both of us. Flashes of the movie Stand by Me, went back and forth in our collective consciousness. We would be on radio, TV, in print. Did we have a comb? No, oh well. I'm way better looking than Jerry O'Connell and Wil Wheaton ever were.

Now, did I mention that it was before lunch?

My advice to all travellers -

1. Don't travel with professional history students of any sort. They are tedious.
2. The police, no matter how well dressed are never your friends (I'm looking at you Prada wearing Milan force.)
3. Never attempt to conduct any sort of business with a government beaurcracy before lunch.
4. When asked for your papers - never ever say "Which ones?"
Turns out "Indy" had on his person at any given time a Canadian Passport, a British Passport, an Israeli passport and for some reason a Swiss one as well.
Ok - he was born in Canada, to a Brit and an Israeli all that made sense - the Swiss, no idea. But, it's just a bad idea to admit to having more than one. Maybe, just maybe he was, in fact an international Howard Carter style grave robber.
Well, it turns out the local constabulary didn't care for any of this - as it would mean paperwork before, during and after lunch. So instead of a good work, a merci and bonne journee, we were detained. I want to stress that. We were detained. We, weren't arrested, but we were taken in and questioned. Seperately, forcefully, in a comical good cop bad cop routine, offers of Consular assistance were made. Did we want representation?
'Are you kidding me?'
'That bone is 80 years old if its a day. You'll probably find uniform relics next to it.'
Now I quote.
"Ahh, but Monsieur, that is just your story, perhaps it is that you have been overcome with the guilt of your crime and have only now concocted this story in order to assuage your conscience. We will leave the two of you here to think over what you have done and decide if there is more you would like to add to your statements."
With that, we were locked away and off the inspector and his cronies went to lunch.
I wonder where? What are they having? I dreamt of cold cuts, baguettes, cheese, cornichons, wine, coffee and Pernod.
I suspect to this day, had we used sound judgement and by that I mean we sat down and had a mid morning repas and then waited until after lunch none of this would have happened.
To be truthful, it wasn't that bad. The facitlites were very clean, very old, and we were the only ones there.
After close to a two hour wait, the inspectors returned, satiated from an extended meal. There was the smell of garlic and wine, I was hungry now. Our doors were opened and we were allowed to go, released into the setting sunlight of the west.
No thank you's, no sorry for wasting your day, no thank you for finding a son of France.
I've since discovered that this is not atypical behaviour in France - where the beaurcrats will do just about anything to clear off the work from their table. It also didn't sour my trip, or any subsequent ones made afterwards.

I don't know what compelled me to ask my far too recent captors for a recommendation on where to go for a meal but I did. We were pointed to the local cafe - told to try the Andouille, homemade pate Lorraine and Rum Baba - if we would like we certainly could join him.
Cheeky bastard.

Down and out in Paris

Angeliou oh angeliou
Oh oh angeliou angeliou
Oh angeliou oh angeliou oh my angeliou

In the month of may
In the month of may
In the city of paris
In the month of may
In the month of may
In the city of paris
And I heard the bells ringing, and I heard the bells ringing
In the month of may
In the city of paris and I called out your name

I have to begin this post with a disclaimer or a well established alibi.
I love Olivia, she's awesome, she's gorgeous, sexy, vibrant, caring, compassionate, bewitching, witty and smart. I could go on and on forever extolling her many attributes, talents and virtues. I know when she reads this, she's going to want more than what I've just listed but that's all she gets right now.
The truth of the matter is there were others before her. Obviously, they all paled in comparison and none of them count any more. But, yes there were others.
In order to establish my alibi - this post is more about Paris, but its integral that it includes Tracey, and these events took place back in in 1992 - six years before Liv (Side note from Liv: I was only 14 turning 15 at this point)  and I even met.

Tracey of the long red tresses.
Tracey of the full lips.
Tracey of the sparking green eyes.
Tracey of the I'm a stewardess and get cheap flights.

There is no getting around it, Tracey was beautiful - hot, clever and witty with a sharp tongue.  She had fashion sense, an incredible ability to drink, she was also six years older than I was. Seriously,
to this day I have no idea why she became taken with me. Well, enough of that. If I extol anymore of Tracey's virtues I'm going to be in even more trouble.

Tracey and I met inadvertently. She was the older sister of a friends girlfriend. That's one relationship difference away from being 'I am your father's brother's nephew's cousin's former roommate'. And one night over good food and drink we were introduced, a spark happened and as it turns out both of us asked after the other the next day. We didn't get to see each other again for a few weeks, but something smoldered and kindled over that time. Surprisingly, one afternoon I got a phone call, saying pack a weekend bag, grab your passport and be at the international terminal in an hour.
Who was I to argue?
Tracey had a regular flight run. Paris, New York, Toronto, Ottawa,  Montreal or something along those lines. And whenever there were empty seats - I was able to get on the flight for free or next to nothing. The two of us made spectacular use of this in our short time together, in retrospect maybe that's why her airline went under.

This was before my spiritual quests and really it was the start of my travelling. I was just becoming the person I am. I certainly wasn't down and out at all, but I was living pay to pay, I was a starving student, my priorities were: wine, alcohol, wine, cigarettes, women, books, food, conversation fit in there somewhere, school and then rent. Anything else was incidental. I was studying politics and Russian literature - it was impossible for me not to become part of a Marxist existential intelligentsia. Throw Orwell's Down and Out and Somerset Maugham's Razors Edge into the mix and I was in heaven living this life.

It turned out that Tracey shared an apartment with five other stewardess in the Latin quarter. A small apartment on the Rue du Pot de Fer at Mouffetard avenue. This is right in historic Paris, this is where Orwell lived when he wrote Down and Out in Paris and London, Hemingway lived just a few blocks away with his first wife, Samuel Beckett lived around here as well. This was all back in the 1920's when the area was having a decade long party.
We saw it as our duty to revive it.
The streets are paved now, the walls no longer paper thin, the toilets are no longer shared, the bugs do still run rampant and the rats don't run from the cats in the street. The street was narrow, pedestrianised, crowded with sidewalk cafes of all descriptions, Russian, Moroccan, French. Wine and tobacco abounded, mixed with smell of garlic, the holy trinity of carrot, celery and onion filling the entire world.
I was in heaven.

The noises from the street of laughter, conversation mostly French but in various dialects the Algerians standing out prominently,  music, glass and cutlery clinking rose up to the tiny apartment. All of it just seemed to add to the merriment that filled me. In Down and out, Orwell wrote of this place being miserable - I just don't see it. I could have lived and died in this one street, never wanting to leave it. It truly was a microcosm.

Of course, I was excited to be in Paris, I wanted to see the Louvre, the Tower, the Seine all of the historic icons.
Tracey said no.
No?
No. She simply wouldn't budge, this weekend was all about her Paris.
Red wine, cigarettes, coffee and decadent simple food.
Breakfast was coffee, bacon and eggs scrambled with pesto from the cafe at the entrance to the building.
Hot Chocolate to drink which was actual chocolate melted in thick cream and served with bread to dip in it.
Lunch was a bottle of red ordinaire, cured garlic and pork sausages, room temperature brie that ran almost liquid when it was cut into and a baguette that was baked fresh that morning.
Dinner - steak et frite with Cafe de Paris butter.
My first taste of a Gauloises
It's amazing, its twenty years on and I can still taste and smell everything. I have no clue what Tracey and I talked about, but I can still recall the conflicting aromas of the street, the food, the perfumes of the stewardesses, the smell of the mess they left around the apartment.
It was only 48 hours, but my taste and love of Paris was lit.
I had to go back, and back I did, whenever I could, but more on that another time.

Wherever you are now Tracey, thank you and nostalgic love and reminiscence to you.