The Place

As you probably gathered, On The Road has fallen distinctly quiet for some time now. I haven't been in a particularly good place to write; personally, nor other-ly, let's say. Even a sentence which I don't want to bin immediately simply cannot be conjured like a rabbit. But hope has returned favour (for me at least and less so for you) as I would appear to have re-found The Place.

The Place (noun): a place where I don't write, but the words come to me.

In the last couple of years I've had the fortune that The Place was easy to find. In Japan, it was the train between my town, Shiroishi, and Sendai. Every other day I took the train to the city for some kind of social call and, when I wasn't getting a head start with a train beer or two or nestling into the seat drunken dozing, I was writing. The first time I took the train from Shiroishi into Sendai I was with a girl; also recently moved to Shiroishi, also Asian, also called Jenny. The road into Shiroishi had been undeniably less stimulating, we burned tarmac in my supervisor's car, passing small concrete boxes and road signs which my hangover ignored. (cheers guys, you know who you are). That week as I settled into the country life, I became increasingly aware of how small Shiro is. Coming straight from a massive city (the Glasgow metropolitan area has a population of 2 million), I was rather bored. Jen and I decided that what we needed was a bit of human interaction. The week we arrived was also the week during which one of the biggest festivals of the Tohoku region was taking place. Straight after work we jumped on the first train to the Tanabata festival. Jumped is perhaps the wrong verb to use here as the linguistic ordeal of buying a train ticket was a definite hindrance. But soon enough we were sitting down on a train. If you have ever watched Hayao Miyazaki's Spirited Away (if not, I don't like you any more), you probably remember the seating plan on the train. The seats are not arranged like an ordinary train in the UK, with short rows of two or three seats on either side of the carriage, separated by a gangway. Instead, the seats in some trains in Japan are set vertically along the carriage. Not much seating space, but clearly more efficient for a game of sardines. As the train departed we saw pieces of the village we would soon call home. Tiny cardboard houses and rusty ramen signs suddenly gave way to a river riding east, rice paddies populated by hungry cranes, and the hills which bordered them, breathing damp mist.

We passed in unbroken silence.

Of course, as I became better aquainted to the scenery and the respectability of train beer, I became less bewildered on the train. Yet the serenity remained, and became the backdrop for at least 70% of the poetry which I wrote in Japan.

But not all train journeys are quite as productive for writing. The journey from Sendai to Nagano for example. Clocking over 11 hours on local trains, I didn't even write a limerick. Neither did I write on the tracks from Tsuruoka to Shiga (in 2 days I racked up 20 hours of train time). I did, however, write a response to an article about being a guilty 'flyjin' foreigner in post-tsunami-quake-nuclear disaster Japan which was published in the Daily Yomuri. On my phone.

The Transiberian too, despite the ridiculous journey time. I managed only to craft the bare bones of the idea for a play which I have yet to write. The difficulty being, it just wasn't The Place.

Thinking back to Paris, I had so much artistic competition. It was complete immersion; from the ghosts of writers who had starved on Rue Montorgueil, to my contemporaries who arrived on a dream of little more than a 11m2 studio shared with a stray cat and too many coffee grounds. The last flat I found myself squatting in (thanks again Love, I miss you so much), I spent most of my time in some kind of stupor with film makers, travellers, painters, philosophers, bartenders, and chefs. And a lecturer of economics. That's perhaps why the writing was effortless. The life I had there lent itself well to writing, I was permanently stimulated by my bizarre life as a penniless, homeless writer.

The struggling artist. Some clichés are just true.

The Perfect Dialogue

Recently I have kept bumping shoulders with the idea of the Perfect. Rarely does a word become so important to me for an entire week. It began at a strangely Fitzgeraldian dinner party. An ensemble of mainly expatriate dwellers of Paris trickled together to celebrate the laziness of Sundays. Well, not so lazy for the brilliant hostess of course whose culinary skills were a definite testament to the hours spent in the kitchen. I was introduced piece by piece to the party. One of them had his hair slicked back in a quiff, and was wearing a striking black and white dress suit. Generally my palate cannot really handle the obnoxious, yet the drawling managed to ignite my interest. An interest which was very nearly revoked when he called me 'kid', but I let it slip since I couldn't remember his name.

'So, what are you doing in Paris?' he finally asked. I always find this difficult to answer. The simple answer is that I am an English teacher but that occupation only costs a fraction of my time with my mind boggling 13 hour work load. As I sit writing about my travels, occasionally editing photographs which I have taken and munching unenthusiastically on day twelve of the pastry challenge, I know I'm not just here to teach. Of course, I don't want to impose my neurosis on my new acquaintance straight away, so I reply simply, 'I'm a hobo.' Strictly speaking, this is not a lie . I don't have a permanent address, nor have I since July this year. I currently live on my friend's sofa. In the bedroom he rents, from the true contract wielding occupants of the apartment. My companion's reason was a little more noble. He had arrived lately to edit his doctorate research paper and was currently occupying the lucky position awaiting results.
'Why Paris?' I asked.
'Why not?' he reminded me. 'Paris is perfect.'

Generally I would treat a statement like that with caution and dismay. But I had faith in the intelligence of the gentleman and so I didn't immediately shit on his response. But when I asked him to explain what he meant, he couldn't. At very least, didn't. He stated that Paris is perfect according to the Cartesian notion of perfection. I felt a little cheated then, and I wonder now if the reality is that he was not keen to dissect the city he loves. I am beginning to love living in Paris, as I always learn to do, in the final moments before leaving a place. Yet I would never describe the city as being perfect. It has millions of facets, of which thousands are brilliant. Paris has an enviable good to bad ratio. But I could never give in to sentiment and state outright that it is perfect.

Some friends came to visit me from Russia this week. I met a crazy trio in Yekaterinburg and I had been looking forward to the Parisian leg of their Europe trip ever since. When I finally found them, I asked one how he felt about Paris. Quickly, the previous Sunday's comment reared its head. Soon we found ourselves debating the existence and definition of the Perfect, and then swiftly rearranged the statement into the much more satisfactory question; 'is Paris ideal?'

My friend is not disappointed with Paris exactly yet it seems he is underwhelmed by it. He gazes at Paris with eyes I recognise, eyes I wore once too. Paris is mismatched with the expectation he had developed from celluloid.

The next day, on meeting them after their trip to the Louvre, I reiterated the question. Paris was no better for him on the second day. In fact a little worsened by their visit to the Louvre. (They tell me the organisation of the museum is horrible. I was worried before, and rather comforted now to know this) I felt a little sad that, even as a tourist, my friend was not enjoying Paris to a great degree. I said that there were some brilliant things I wanted to show him but he replied honestly that he didn't want my view of Paris. He wanted to discover Paris for himself. I respect that. In fact, I was pleased. I wouldn't have to drag him on mundane excursions to the three most scenic spots of Paris. (There's not even a list, unlike in Japan.)

So instead we hung out with a few beers in Rue Moufftard. Rue Moufftard is a tiny cache of students and pubs hidden behind blocks of tenament buildings, and lit by rows of dazzling fairy lights. Any former student of the University of Glasgow is automatically subject to a tiny wrench to the heart as a memory of Ashton Lane ignites. I was rather impressed with Rue Moufftard, I have been missing oak panel display cabinets displaying emptied whisky bottles. We drank, and nibbled goat saussison, and departed at 2am, less sober than sober.On our dander back to Chatelet along the boulevards of Paris, we jumped the railing, nearly falling into the Seine, into the grounds of the Notre Dame. We drank rosé from the bottle with two Parisian girls we met under the Christmas tree after shouting at them, "ISN'T IT JOYOUS?!" My friend and I exchanged performances. He recited Russian poetry. I love the Slavic languages, the jittery consonantal sound completely opposes the slow balanced melody we have with English. I reciprocated, by song. I have a bad cold at the moment so I chose to rasp my way through Stand By Me. My friend fell silent. When he finally remembered to say something, he announced that it was perfect.

A place in itself cannot be ideal, at least not for me. I need to build interactions which build memories, these souvenirs alone are worthy of being ideal. I will remember Paris as being a beautiful city undoubtedly, but that is irrelevant. The beauty lies with those people I met here, and the things we did when we dandered down the boulevards of Paris.

Today I made Sunday dinner to thank the flatmates of the place I have been living in for the last month. A good old roast chicken, roasties with a raspberry bakewell tart for dessert. From scratch. That was a brave choice, baking pastry for French people.

And afterwords, my friends told me that it was perfect.

Perhaps I agree.

The Pastry Confession

So, all the stories you've heard are true, I will be carting my plump arse back to Scotland just in time for the onset of the festive season. (My birthday too, don't you forget.) I'm facing my last two weeks in Paris already. I feel a little guilty for not giving it a proper heave-ho, but I don't feel there is good enough reason for me to reasonably stay. I enjoyed autumn here, particularly the dead leaves mobbing the pavement. There are some things I will miss about Paris. In the same way there are many things I missed in Japan. But now, I miss lots of little things about home, most of all.

The thing I missed most about home, when I was in Japan, it was bread. Simple bread. A little diversion to clarify: Japan does have bread, it is sold in packs of slices of 3, 6 or 8. And, it NEVER goes stale. I sometimes left these slices on top of my toaster for weeks at a time (my cleanliness is not even the issue here). They neither grew mould, nor went stale. For its longevity it might have been the perfect disaster food. Admittedly I didn't see a single slice of bread the entire month after the Tohoku Daishinsai, but I stand firm in my beliefs. 

The big problem, however, is that the bread despite it's clearly advantageous life span, is... awful. It's sweet, it's too soft, it sticks to your teeth like toffee. It's just not really bread. I'm not unacquainted with Asian breads being Chinese after all. Now would I ever turn down a nikku-man. There's always room for nikku-man. But the bready famine it wasn't limited to bread, it was pastries, cakes, anything flour based which required an oven. In fact, anything which is readily available in Paris from at least three shops on every street. Paris has spoiled me with the one thing I missed the most and still I have not had enough. I love leaving a boulangerie with a warm baguette in hand, munching one end, trampling crisp dry leaves piled by the roadside. I am quite content with my decision to leave Paris but I know for a fact that bread will yet again become a distant desire. 

So for my last two weeks, I have decided to put myself on a diet. A bread and pastry diet. I'm going to sample one of these butter loaded floury baked goodies daily until I leave. My mouth is already salivating in excitement. I may require two seats on the plane... 

So, I present to you now;

The Pastry of the Day

Feuillette chocolat et banan. Nom nom nom...

Down and out in Paris

Here's a poem I wrote recently, still in fairly raw form.
   

    Itchy Feet

My sister asks 'where are you?'

'Writing,
under the awesome shadow

of the Sacre Coeur',
I lie.

'And your plans?'

'A single espresso on a terrace in the sun.'

I procrastinate

Surveyed by bo-bos. 

Under the impression
They are not I. 

I rest my legs

Bend to scratch my heels

My itchy, itchy feet.

Feet that trod half the world around

Past buildings smaller
Past people shorter

Past cups of pleasureless watery coffee,

Till I reached this cup,
Its muddy slosh

Lacking an anthem to boost my heart.

I imagine Amelia

Sinking 10,000 miles forward

Never glancing back

Whilst I recline
Too comfortably

On native tongue luck. 

I fly forward to no glory.

No temptation

To part this wicker chair.

Only the restless twitching,

Of my itchy, itchy feet.

I arrived in France two months ago. The envy of my friends I am now, living the bohemian dream in Paris. I cannot inform a single person of my current status as 'resident of Paris' without being confronted with a chorus of 'ooh, how romantic'.

Paris is undeniable. Gorgeous sandstone tenements accompanied by cute iron balconies, galleries and museums housing some of the greatest artistic treasures in the world, and all the sugar and carbs you can imagine glistening impatiently in the windows of too many boulangeries. Yes, Paris is a beautiful city. Particularly in Autumn when the summer heat has released cool breeze into the city, tugging at scarves and berets in the process. Yet for me, there's something very wrong. It feels like I'm living on a theater set. I don't interact with anyone who I'm not pre-destined to. Paris, like Venice, is stuck. Marbled in time, it is a testament to the will of people. We imposed our imagery on Paris, created it as a place of wonder. Paris has little life of its own, fuelled mainly by romance tourism.

I looked once for the artists in Paris and found a sorry sight, what the French call the 'bo-bo'. The Bohemian Bourgois. The artists fled Paris long ago it seems, extradited by the super inflated cost of living. A tiny studio apartment not more than 11m squared will cost upwards of 550euros per month. Just you try painting in that. Now the only artists left are those with parents willing to spare the change from their pockets. In come the bo-bos. Flooding Paris with pretense, I have met few genuine people since I arrived and I wonder at times, whether I am one of them. 

I think it may be time to leave this town.