Beyond The Hole

Madrid & Paris

August 11, 2002 @ 02:46 AM

Bonjour guys — I’m writing here in Paris with the dead time until my train to Strousbourg arrives later this afternoon. The French keyboard layout is driving me mad. It looks touch-type-able at first glance, but in actuality you spend half your time bouncing on the backspace and reverting to hunt-and-peck mode, as if some wayward child has swapped just enough keys to throw you off. But I digress, I believe I last left you hanging in Madrid, so let me continue from there…

The bullfight in Madrid. Why oh why did I go to see a bullfight? I suppose I was curious in such a way that couldn’t be satisfied except seeing this brutality first hand. Totally gruesome sport, if you can call it such, as it didn’t seem very sporting. At the outset I was intrigued — the music, the costumes — all comical and light-hearted. The matadores parade around, then they let out the bull, who, looking more confused then pissed, stands there waiting. What follow is a lot of not-especially-brave-looking attempts by the matadores to provoke the bull by flipped their brightly color capes around and shouting, then making a direct line to hide safely behind the nearest wall. After which some guy on a horse comes out wielding a trident spear-like-sharp-thing on a pole and the matadores lead the bull to charge the guy on the horse — who when within range levels his weapon at the top of the bull’s back. And the bull gores the horse — which is wearing what looked like some kind of wooden armor — not the rider. It gets worse.

Matadores come out with barbed darts and try to plant them in the bulls back over and over until finally the main matador comes out and proceeds to wear out the bull by provoking it to charge again and again until finally when the bull can barely put up any kind of a fight the matador draws his sword and ends it.

All of this is accompanied by much cheering, even as the bull’s corpse is drug out of the arena by a team of horses. I think for a sport to be entertaining, requires a certain amount of fairness and uncertainty — here with the bull fight you know exactly what’s going to happen, it’s just a matter of when. I only stayed for two rounds; sitting in the train station and waiting to catch the night train had more appeal.

After a restless night’s sleep on the train we were awoken at the border crossing. In line, as I fumbled for my passport, senses still numb in the cold morning air, I was greeted with an unfamiliar “bohn-zhoor.” I was now in France; a fact for which I was not prepared mentally. I panicked, tried to hide it, and went to find the connecting train to Bordeaux.

Once in Bordeaux, I sleepily wandered the station — trying to regain my wits and devise the next course of action. Soon, I realized I had no desire to stay in Bordeaux. Turning right around, I hopped a train to Paris. I wasn’t looking forward to Paris either, the whole notion made me sick. I had heard a lot of horror stories — high prices, disdain for Americans, the filth and smell, and tourists, everywhere tourists. But somehow I forced myself to trudge on — to buck up and convince myself it would be good for me and I’d be thankful later. Little did I expect to stay more than a few days.

As my high-speed TGV train careened around corners, creaking in a variety of alarming ways, I imagined the worst ahead and decided I’d rather take my chances continuing on this old mule of a train, then arrive in Paris. My heart sank as we drew into the city.

First impressions: all the above grips are pretty spot on, except most of the people are actually very nice. Everyone has dogs, they poop everywhere, and the only party that seems to be responsible are the guys driving the narrow sidewalk-cleaning trucks with front-mounted, fully-articulate, 500 PSI, poop-removing water nossels. I took a picture of one such custodian in action, to which he returned a rude hand gesture (no time for fun, now that’s dedication)!

Another interesting observation, every morning water erupts from all the manhole covers and streams through the streets. Seems rather foul; I haven’t been able to make sense of it.

My first two days in Paris I spent sight-seeing. This place is so packed with tourists, all the main attractions require a 2-hour wait. So, I spent some time exploring alternatives options: I toured the Montmartre cemetery, took a stroll through the catacombs and saw huge piles of human bones, walked up the hill to Sacre Coeur, and went in every bookstore I could find, (of which there are a lot).

Despite the crowds, I still managed to see the Arc De Triomphe, Notre Dame, and the Musee d’Orsay. I decided against visiting the Louvre after hearing one lose weeks inside and still not see everything. Besides, my patience for museums of any size or importance was at this point in time, considerably lacking.

Day three, I came down with a case of digestive sensitivity, plus a fever, and spent 35 out of the next 48 hours sleeping. My mood sank even lower, I was thoroughly miserable. Thankfully, after my prolonged rest and with the aid of some over-the-counter drugs riding in my backpack (thanks Mom!), I managed to drag myself out of bed and spend a day visiting the Eiffel Tower with Ryan, a guy staying in my room.

Now, being the day after, I feel great and my spirits are returning. Just in time, its past time I returned to the road. Next stop, Colmar and the Route de Vin!