the return

i went to the train in marseille at 5, walked on and found my place. the train pulled out on time and headed to take me to the point where i would transfer for the final leg back to angers. the ticket man came by and asked for mine. "its in my bag" i told him and stood up to go look through my things. by the time i finished rummaging for the ticket i knew wasnt there, the man had finished checking the coach and proceeded past me, answering his phone.


and so, i made it to marn la valle with not much trouble.

i waited thirty minutes for my next train, then got on. we pulled out as i found a spot and ticket men walked up and down the aisle. nervous, i pretended to be asleep. the man poked me. "monsieur," and he asked for the ticket.

again my act, went to my things, "oh my, its not here. wheres my ticket?" he told me to buy a new one, but i didnt have the cash for it. he asked if i had a credit card. i lied. so he billed my house.

he was helpful and told me that, in fact, that train was not my last, but i had another transfer and, when it came time, he pointed me in the right direction.

on this train no one checked tickets and the ride was smooth. on the other hand, the train ahead of us hit a pig.

we pulled to a stop at a small, closed train platform and mosied around to waste time. crisp autumn air does something to make stars shine brighter, and this time was no different. i questioned if that was in fact the milky way. surely not. we werent that isolated. but to have to guess yes or no is testament to the number of stars. the sky was brilliant. the train's heater kept a steady hum, the brakes let an occasional sigh, people gathered for small chit chat and after thirty minutes we kept on.

only 15 minutes later did i arrive to angers, cold and clear, stars brilliant, where i returned to my own computer, first time in a month, and had to remind myself how an american keyboard is laid out.

qwertyuiop
not azertyuiop
and asdfghjkl;
not qsdfghjklm

Sunday

Once, spring morning melted into afternoon. Drinking games lulled and after the sun rose, one by one, the party moved to the front lawn. A Fisher Price piano played on the broken couch outside; we spoke in hushed morning tones. One friend reached with a bedsheet behind her, arched with the sky, and greeted the sun.

Chorus hymns from across the street quieted for announcements, the sermon, and prayer requests after the offering. Baskets filled, hands raised, amens given, and everyone stood up. The breathing pipe organ ushered them slowly and they all congretated outside.

At our front lawn, someone brought out last nights leftovers refinished for today's brunch and the sheet was laid out for a picnic. Pink boots changed feet and a washed out bean can working as a water cup rounded the picnic like a Lazy Susan. Shirts came off for the sun.

An old man donned a thick mustache twirled upward at the ends and a grey fedora. He spoke excited, but not loud, glad to find such easily approachable people as he welcomed himself to our picnic with a smile.
<> Many great places 'round here, I tell ya. Any of you been near the hospital? There's a hill there and the sun sets jus' other side of a small pond down there at the bottom. <> Some smiled polite as they could, a couple of us shyly said no, while all eight stared in wonder. Why'd this man stop? When would he ask for something?

<> No? How 'bout the small forest there North side of town? Not much left, but its outside the gritty, you know? Quiet, <> yet no one had been.
Still blank and curious faces.

The man looked quizical. <> Well, I'll leave ya. <> He sauntered off, mumbling to himself so we could hear, <> Jus' so much great things 'round here, shame no ones been around to see 'em. <>
We continued our sluggish banter and smiled most of the time.

Ties loosened from fathers' necks, mothers said last goodbyes, and children chased each other, or stood shyly by, holding rolled up or otherwise proudly displayed colored Jesus stories. Then the road filled with motors as families went respective ways for Sunday dinner, then quieted as they ate.
Forks poked the plates and knives scratched as many mashed potatoes into as much of Granny's gravy as a mouth could hold. Green bean cassarole and chicken, sweet tea or Dr. Pepper?

Dinner finished and several relaxed. Granny tried to help with the dishes. The daughters, a husband, and the middle nephews gathered plates and glasses, put them in water, and an aunt rinsed them, fitting what would into the dishwasher. A neice wiped the table and a nephew staggard through the crowded bodies to wipe countertops. Conversation settled into old couches and the '78 television set showed the game just fine.

Our picnic finished. We each took our own dishes inside and piled them haphazardly beside the sink, among the clutter and mess of last nights party, to return to, together, after our walk.

Something to Send Home

A poem I'm working on I'd like to put out there is timidly called, Can't Get Out:


Eyes awaken to sunlight over coffee
  and go down,
    just as heavy as dawn,
  after the sun has warmed the blankets.
Sky's clear, but there's mostly blue shadows.
It may be windy out -
cardboard seals four broken windows after gails snapped
   the panes shut, which broke the glass
   that protected the flat where I live.

Little light, lots of noise.
The trees show the bliss of a cool breeze
  as they hog all the sunshine.

The boistrous, the reserved, the brave,
   congregate at the streets
   and share what they know,
   even if they dont know much.
Everyone has so much to tell.
     I cry,
"Why hide a pretty face?" and
  "What a strange hat,"
a buttery bowl of malt-o-meal warming my lap.

The Strike

Picnic twists the faucet nobs as far as they will go. Without hesitation, the faucet drips. "Well that's defiant!" Picnic declares.

wandering eyes

lady walking looks lovely in her colorful, flowing hippy skirt and elegant but not gaudy blouse. shes not used to dressing up like this, especially in foreign places, unsure if she fits in paris or stands out like the pale guy in shorts and birkenstocks. i see her, but my eyes skip around too quickly and shes lost her youthful curves and developed baggy eyes. i realize, however that she didnt stun me but i liked her style, so lovely on such a great sunday afternoon. i decide she put those clothes on specifically for today; not haphazard, she planned this. i turn back to greet her in some passing manner, and smile for her choice sunday dress, but as i do, i watch her head drop ashamed, chin tucked into her neck. she wants to hide away from eyes like mine, that wander around and, before i know it, compliment or insult people without my knowing. my heart drops into my stomach and i want to vomit. this image, like others - the time i spoiled moms surprise; the eyes that questioned me as i gave up on a love i was afraid of - will forever haunt me.

in marseille.

yesterday was the strike. trains ran slower due to a lack of conducteurs; my train rolled from outside paris into gare de lyon as my 1:15 to marseille tugged out. had i bought a ticket, i'da been out 50 to 100 euro, but i had different plans.
solene and i crossed the street to her place and dropped off my bag. natasia and thiery sat down to lunch; solene and i grabbed a few items from the fridge to down before leaving with thiery to the strike. he got his flag, i got my camera, we put on our shoes and left.
walking, solene turned holding the flag and said to me, use to, french people walked with baguettes and wine; now its strike flags. thiery turned and responded half-joking, its a new concept: the permanent revoluion.
at the metro, one train came and went without space for us, packed like a japanese subway, so we left to walk. outside, thiery and solene discussed something in french, then decided that walking would take too long, and we got on a different line to take us closer to the march. we waited from our new stop as one train came in and rolled out, then another, both bulging like balloons full of sand, so we walked.
arriving to the march: people chanting, banners, signs, people dressed like old men with walkers, afterall, this is all about retirement age. we walked toward the starting point, shooting pictures along the way; solene and i reached laurent and pauline and said goodbye to thiery, who continued to the back to meet his group.
we walked a while in the parade, but my next train left at 4:15, so i cut out early and went to the metro, but again the frequency of two minute trains was dashed to one every six, so i waited; my train came, luckily not overflowing, and i got on. from my stop i walked fifteen minutes to solenes place to get my bag, said goodbye to natasia and went to the train.
at gare de lyon, i found the platform where the train waited for its travelers to board and situate themselves; i stowed my bag, took my book and issue of new statesman (amanda) and sat in an open seat.
i chose any seat i could find since i had no seating assignment; i never bought a ticket; its strike day. im on strike.
the train pulled out and i read an article, started a short story but fell asleep. whatever time passed and i awoke to french countryside and its distant mountains; i finished the story and the lady beside me stood up to get out. at the same time i looked up, one of my few times to do so, and there leaned the man walking the aisle checking tickets.
quickly yet subtle, i went to my bag to rummage, pretend to look for something, sure, ill take my cookies. i stuffed them in my back pocket and thought to myself, as the man checking tickets made his way closer, i think theres a bathroom downstairs, as im in the top of the double-decker train car. down the steps and into the washroom, i took my time, let a little pee into the toilette, not close to as much as i tend to wait for, washed my hands - thoroughly - and slowly stepped back out.
as i went up the stairs, in the reflection i saw the man in front of my bag checking two other tickets, and i decide to not look back, go straight to my seat, and sit down. the man never returned.
i sat biting my lip so not to smile, thinking, surely its not this easy. im not clear until im off the train, i told myself. i looked out the window because the back of a head has fewer characteristics than a face; the baby's idea that if i cant see him, he cant see me.
the sun dipped closer to the mountains, shadows cast, pink ribbons bled the suns light and dark violet in the shade.
with every gasp of the air-locked glass doors behind me my heart skipped a beat. and this time i heard a lot of chatter behind me. i glanced quick to see the man discussing something with a lady across the aisle; i turned back, oh its so pretty, i cant take my eyes away from this beautiful countryside. the chatter lessened and i looked up to see if the coast cleared. no. presently, a second man with conducters cap and credit card machine held the ladys visa printing a receipt. i turned back to the view.
staring outside, i wished i could sneak out the window and ride the train top. after several minutes of a nervous stomach and feeling eyes in my back, i finally turned around.
a man stood beside my row; ah! but hes on his cellphone, walking out to talk; hes no man of concern. is this true? am i clear?

the train continued into lyon.

will he come by to check the tickets of new passengers?

he didnt.

we pulled into another smaller station, then another.

the sun dropped behind the horizon, now flat strolling into the coastline, and the colors had faded to deep blue as the overhead bell rang in the car and the conducteur came on in a soft french drone, madame et monsieur, and i understood nothing else but, marseille st charles.

the train whispered to a stop as passengers gathered their belongings and lined up at the door.
they slowly stepped out while i waited to get my bag. i packed the magazine, the book, and the cookies, went down the steps to the platform, breathing easy, not believing i made it, for free.

i tried the phones to call caro, the friend picking me up to lead to her flat where im hosted by she and her collecataire (flatmate), but they didnt work until a generous man, whom i waited to ask me for something, helped with my phone card. it finally worked and i talked to caro. i offered the man my phone card for his help and he mumbled something about needing to buy more time for his phone, do you have some change you can spare? truly i hadnt, and i said sorry as i put my phone card back. i wish i could help. its okay. we said goodbye. good luck, i told him and i found caro waiting in the station. she led me to her flat and i met the cat without getting her name, and juliette welcomed me to make as i want in the apartment, so i took off my shoes and gave them the bottle of wine i brought. we drank the wine and talked, listened to music and laughed, and eventually it became bedtime.
the girls started to pull out a folding bed and i interupted saying the couch is perfect if thats fine; i never want to be difficult, so i say no to things i think will be a hassle, thereby confusing the situation and becoming an eggshell. dang.
but theyre fine with it and caro got sheets and blankets and made up the greatest bed one can make of a couch. thoroughly impressed, it made me think of a bed & breakfast; she brought pillows and we and juliette talked some more in those late-night tones of voice, finished our drinks and went to bed.

i was tricked by marseille when i stepped out of the train station telling caro, its much quieter than paris. the piercing buzz of mopeds and vespas, grumble of trash pickup trucks, rattle of dishes and drunk-loud conversation barraded through the broken windows as i laid flat, sure it would settle after everything closed.
i woke up, and woke up, and woke up, closed the shutters which didnt help, laid back down with the pillow over my face, rolled one ear into couch cushions, held the pillow over my other. up then out and up then out and then caro came in for cigarettes and i said hello; she went back to her room and i dozed again to wake up a while later to the same sounds that shook me awake all night; this time i started my day.

finding and finding out

moulin rouge line out the door on burlesque ave with massages for relaxation and bars with clean girls. leffe on rue blanche with peanuts corn nuts and a kernal of popcorn for a few bits from my pocket; i like changing coins more than bills. wish i didnt have to change anything. a sweet older lady in overcoat with umbrella puckers her cheeks wondering around with her cloudy eyes behind glasses; she walks beside a girl in fur and heels, tight jeans and eye shadow, who holds her own umbrella, though not one of mary poppins' character; white and black polka dots. an older man smokes outside his bar/girls and in the windows, pictures of late 19th century burlesque girls, girls showing leg, back from the days of class. behind me, a boy with lungs too young to keep up with his laughter. my beer's finished. god i'm glad they didnt waste my time with more popcorn.

°   °   °

this bed. its no hardwood floor, with its cotton sheets and africans dressing, cool sheets that welcome me, say bienvenu, simply, with no frills, sincere. i helped natasia and soléne make quiche. i rolled out the dough they already made and put it in the pan i buttered, not much help. the quiche baked and thiery, solénes father, natasia's boyfriend, arrived home; introduced himself in french, then in his thick accent asked We need, uh, to speak english for you? made me nervous doing this, i said I wish you didnt. he lost his accent, but not his humor. we cut up over dinner, and his generosity pulling nice wine from the cupboard, sharing with teo, natasia's son and her daughter. chopped veggies, each in its own bowl with its own sauce, the quiche, the wine, a salad, and an ice cream bar. all this after a hell of a day thinking:
damn it the french feel entitled to everything, yet share nothing. anything you want costs - phone, directions, a ride to where they're already headed. they strike if they dont like something and mope if they work; the girl at the metro piddled at her desk several minutes doing absolutely nothing, which was obvious - strighten pens on the map, open a drawer, swivel the chair - before helping, if she did, i didnt wait around to see, the one lady persistent enough, or patient, to wait. my phone card cost 7€50 and doesnt work at payphones; i used it at the taxiphone; now the card is running out of minutes and taxiphone charged me anyway - as does the hotel after the man with cellphone said No when i asked a favor.

why so upset? because people dont treat me how i like to be treated? its a long road; but for every middle finger i got hitch-hiking, i got four apologetic waves. so i decided to forget the day, except - the notre dame is breathtaking, the louvre shook with pipe organs, and moulin rouge is red, but theres no absinthe or rimbaud - and ill bask in the night spent within generosity. i was gonna sleep on a hardwood floor after an avocado for dinner.

walking

paris is walking on a bed of snakes much larger than me, and as i take steps, the snake moves forward so i go nowhere, and the snake swerves as it slithers, so i dont know if i'm still going north or west now. then another snake comes by and sweeps me off like a current, no more forgiving than the first, and there's as many snakes in this bed as feathers in a pillow.

the old man

blue light seeps through the shutters, day begins:

early morning quiet Monteparson, an old man, gaunt with grey whiskers on his cheeks and chin, stares into a tree full of red berries; his old eyes, soft blue like the sky behind its highest clouds and bags lay low below them, like puffy cumulous waiting to rain. the woman he loves starts past again, like every other day, with her trolly, a decade or two his minor; he watches her everyday. the man points abruptly in front of her startled face, Do you see those berries? he asks excitedly, eager to hear her speak. She ducks nervous to pass, yes, and continues as he turns to keep her attention. They're poisonous, but i want to eat them.
he cant keep up with her youthful pace, and lungs too abused by years to shout, he watches her go, backside swinging side to side.

paris

woke at 7 for the 5 hour ride-share from angers to paris; rode with olivier and another girl, forgot her name, good looking, kind. tried to stay awake, but early hour and rain made it impossible, though i didnt sleep well; car afterall. reached le mans for one more passenger then three more hours to our drive. country side spread forever with patches of trees, early in their changes preparing to shed for winter; landscape like a quilt and a flock of birds burst out of a crop of corn; a pigeon pirched atop a dead sunflower, head bowed to autumn. sleep, awake, and doze, stretch my eyes, we're close to paris, slow for traffic due to rain which holds back as we pass through a tunnel - terrorist warning issued yesterday - expecting to see d'triumph, eiffel tower, paris, i see, a busy city, roundabout with statue center, metro entrance and bus stop. we pull in, get out , pay and i'm alone; backpack on, no clue where i am, walk. back and forth, no map, not lost, just dont know where i'm going. stop for kebab; wanted one since i got to france. filled tip top, go out aimless, stop for a map. waiting - CRASH - lady runs into pillar in center of intersection. well enough, we all continue. i get the map and locate myself, walk on; starting across a bridge, looking right, ah, nice; turn left, well hell! there it is! the eiffel tower standing rusted with wisdom, distinguished, watching me stare at it. c'est cool. keeping on between buildings, wandering still no direction, step into a caffe.

reached the eiffel tower, wow that thing is tall; sat on a bench bout an hour watching peace signs for pictures, people standing 20 feet from their subject a hundred yards from the monument, but there they are at the eiffel tower, and there's the family. Hakunahmattatah said the man gonna sucker me into a 'happiness' bracelet looped on my finger so to make it as we chit chat; he's from gambia near serbia and as he takes it off my finger begins to wrap it around my wrist i say no, no, its ok; but happiness, hakunahmattatah he tells me; no give it to someone else and he knows i know, pats my shoulder with a wink, ok, and goes. i sketch. a man walks past close to me, mumbles something incoherent; i keep to my rendering and he returns after while with champagne and red wine; sits down. champagne? he offers; no thanks; wine? no, merci, i'm fine. where are you from? he asks. texas, england, no, australia, no races through. new york? yeah, you been? no. thats that. then, my friend lives there; ah great, its a great place; i love america, or us, best country in the world. thats that. whats your name? i ask; he tells me, i cant remember. his friend comes, one of the men carrying plastique eiffel towers les ogres sing about attached to a giant keychain; tells me my new friend's name; sounds like hardly working; hardly working shows me his wrist and the tattoo it dawns, says jammy; thats your name? he says something, now i think hes a boxer. his friend walks away. whats your name? he asks; david i tell him without hesitation; ah, good name; thanks. thats that, then he moves my backpack and on the side previously hidden is the aa name tag declaring Brian Gore; he puts it back. you drink? i love to, just not now; champagne? again; no thanks; red wine? 10 euro; no, mon ami, i'll wait for her; for my friend, he offers, 5 euro; no, i smile earnest, thank you, i'm ok; ok he says and walks away to sell his wine.

called soléne to meet at saint michel for drinks with friends; food and friendly conversation, then to the bar. drinks, jokes, after while we leave. i'm at the apartment of pauline and laurent, generous enough to give me the only bare space on their apartment floor. laurent reads, pauline practices portugese; put their books away, turn off their light and talk with soft night time tones. my light is the only one left on, but its early to rise, so time to switch it off.