I noticed there weren't a lot of hippies in Paris, least not at this time of year, and not a lot of men sporting beards. Both are in abundance in the bay area, and that makes me feel at home. They never have gotten the whole hippie thing down in Europe. Gypsies they got, but they're outside the whole stratification process, anarchists is what they are. Hippies fall into that general category of anarchy.
The attached photo was taken a couple of days into our stay in Paris.
We had just finished shooting a cooking demo in our apartment in Montparnasse, and Geraldine and I were out for our evening stroll, and checking out this bar that has a jam session. I was very much in the mood to play some music. It was a nice walk, no rain. We got to our destination, had a beer, and decided to keep moving. Geri was dead set on making sure I got my exercise via walking the streets of Paris, and I was all for the workout. I had a goal of loosing 5 to10 pounds in Paris and I did it, all by walking my fat ass off.
That's what people do there, they walk. I counted one gym in all of Paris. People walk everywhere, and take the Metro, which once you've figured out the system, it's easy and cheap. We were sashaying our derrieres around town, shooting photos of this or that, and just having a good ol' time being away from the dogs and cats, and our everyday responsibilities. We were only responsible for ourselves for a change, and a little freedom is addictively liberating. It's like being young again, but this time we're old, or older, and who knows if or when we'll ever get back to Paris. You just want time to slow down, hell stop, but time has a way of ruthlessly marching along.
So we're in Paris, and I said "fuck it, I'm not coming all this way without playing the blues. So I pulled out my trusty ol' C harp and played You Gotta Move. Don't ask me who wrote it, but I've been playing it for over 40 years. ever since the Stone's had it on their Exile On Main Street album, my favorite Stone's album, for it's worth. That album, and most anything pre 66'. That's a whole other article. The tag line to said song is "When the Lord gets ready, you gotta move."
I actually had a couple of people stop and listen till I was finished, and I was happy about that. What I'm about to tell you is no lie. When I was finished singing that song I said to myself "If it ended right here, right now, then I'm good with that."
It didn't end right there or then so we strolled down another street, and decided to hit this Irish Pub. My wife's the Irish one, a Prod, raised Catholic. We ordered a couple of pints of 1664, and we're sitting back talking, and a young guy goes past me on my right side heading to my left, towards the front door, and out of my left eye he puts what looks like a 32 revolver up to the left temple of my head, and I didn't get nervous at all. I was completely calm. Not an normal thing for me. I'm the high strung hippie, not the mellow one. He said something in english which I can't recall.
Now I've had guns pulled on me a couple of times before in my life, real close like, and I was real friggin' scared those times it happened. I've pulled guns on people a time or two, and they were scared. It's as natural as breathing to be scared when a loaded pistol is poised at your temple. I'm not boasting here, and I'm no tough guy, that was my father Rocco, but at that moment in time I didn't care.
It was at that instant when time almost stood still, and just before my wife said "what are you doing?" in her Miss Manners' voice to our new friend with the "gun", was when I said to myself, "I'm OK with this, this is a good place to die. I'm cool with it. Maybe this is it, maybe today is the day"
I had heard from a friend before we left the states that someone was going around Paris shooting people. Some whacked out ethnic thing. We got that over here too. My buddy and I were joking about it saying something like, "Sounds like a normal day in Oaktown to me man." you know.
What we hadn't heard before we arrived in Paris was that people were now going around with plastic toy guns, putting them up to people's heads as a joke in response to the people doing it for real.
I grew up in a home with guns, spent a lot of time in the woods as a boy, a lot of time, and I've had weapons my whole life. I may rightly say I'm quite good with both knives, and guns alike, I have a fondness for their artistry, and a deep respect for what they can do. Everything has a place in the universe.
Now just after I said I was OK with dying for the second time that evening, within the last 1/2 hour for Christ's sake, and just before Geri said, "what are you doing" my hand instinctively moved to my right front pocket for my nifty 3 inch buck knife. I put it in with my check-in bag. We traveled light, but I have always carried a knife since I was of a young boy. I've been a barber now for 42 years, and one of my fortes is a sharp razor. It's a family tradition. If I don't have a knife I my right front pocket it will drive me crazy till I have one there, no kidding. I'll become obsessed. I have carried a knife in my right hand pants pocket my entire life.
We were just in NYC a few days before this, and I found out later, that it's illegal to carry a knife there. Give me a friggin break.
Man times sure have changed. Men use to be called "cats" now we're calling each other "dog".
Anyway, like I said, I was OK with dying right then and there, but maybe I could get a jab in before it was all over. I figure at least go down trying.
Anyhow, I wasn't really committed to pulling the knife anyway. I figured I had a right to protect myself, but I was a stranger in this town. I been living in and around San Francisco since I was 17 and S.F. is called the Paris of the West, but this was the real Paris, and I'm an American.
When I was younger I was much more dangerous man than I am now, and a whole lot quicker. He might not had got the drop on me when I was younger. But, with age comes some pragmatic abilities. Not to mention, who knows what the French gendarmes are going to think of me right?
It was just then that I looked over at Geri, and we both realized that this little scene being played out was too contrived to be too real. Well Praise Jesus, I did not have to move as the song suggests which was perfectly fine with me. I was OK with dying like I said, but I was equally committed to living a little longer.
And that, cats and kittens, is a true story.
I sat the young gentleman down, even bought him a beer, and explained that in America, the wild West, where we come from, people don't like getting guns pulled on them, it's not a joke. Even when he put the toy gun down on the table where we were sitting at he pointed the barrel of the gun at me, which I couldn't abide by, so I changed the direction of the barrel.
I concluded that we Americans don't get a lot of other people's cultures, and they don't get ours either. He and his friend who showed up believed it was funny. It became a fad for a short time there. People putting toy guns up to folks' heads. Ha Ha Ha.
I was just happy to be alive. I was with my girl of 24 years, she still looks good to me, Geri's gorgeous, everyone knows that, we are still in love with each other, and it's Paris in April even if it won't stop fucking raining day after day.
The next day some teenager tried to pick my back pack on the escalator in the Metro, but some nice young gentleman told me what was happening, and then told the pickpocket to bugger off. I didn't feel a thing when he was trying to fleece me. These kids today.
It's nice to know that my world, Geri's and mine, for better or worse, is still not dull.
This is a food blog, dedicated to food, but I just had to tell this one. Thanks for indulging me, that is, if anyone actually reads this.
You gotta love Paris man.
Stay tuned on to the next blog series... Lovin' My Oven
Peace,
Make Food, Not War
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