After four hours if indie music, 75 pages of The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, and enough tea to fill the bladder of a small whale, I find myself now (midnight, Tuesday the 5th) in a very strange mood. I’ve only met a couple legitimate French people, but I’ve seen a few other unique individuals who I think merit a short spotlight here. I’ve been keeping track of all these people in my black book of wonder – a book where I store little writing ideas, and which smells just as a good book should (a bit like feet and paper).
#1: The Albino
I first saw this woman on my way to school. She reminded me a bit of the albino monk in “The Princess Diaries” – she even had the same haircut! She lumbered past me in a shabby sweater, mid-length skirt and big, muddy boots. She muttered to the ground, tilting her head from side to side with each person she passed walking. This was a sunny day. Apparently, the rain makes her very outgoing. A couple weeks later, on the same street, I passed her again. This time, standing under a bus stop shelter, she was yelling and cursing at everything – cars, passers-by, birds. But she did it with a smile. It was almost like she had a fantastic joke to tell everyone, but they didn’t get it.
#2: The Hat
I think it’s a widely-accepted fact that Paris is a very fashionable city. Walk one block in the First Arrondissement, and tell me that it’s not. The French are so chic, their country’s like a walking, talking fashion magazine (with tourists as the less-fashionable advertisements). There is one woman in particular, though who is either very, very behind the curve on what’s “hot” or so avant-garde that she’s dressing according to fashion rules sixty years in the future. I’ve seen this woman on two occasions, and she’s worn the exact same thing both times: yellow shoes, yellow dress, yellow jacket, yellow blouse, yellow jewelry, yellow purse – and a yellow hat. The hat is, I believe, the best part of the whole attire. It’s as if she went through a craft store, picked out everything yellow, and glued it onto a gigantic yellow hat. Ribbons, feathers, tulle, and, for some reason, something that looks like a rolled up piece of paper. She walks with so much confidence; you’d think she was unaware of the bird nest on her head.
#3: Metro Man
No, I don’t mean a superhero who dresses really well. Near the Eiffel tower, there’s a set of stairs that leads to nowhere, just a little place below street level – and there’s a man living there. He’s actually got quite a nice setup: mattress, cabinets. He even has multiple pairs of shoes and a few stuffed animals. The first few times I walked past, I thought it was just some storage area for the street cleaners. Then one day, I saw a jumbled up mess of blankets on the bed. I’m not sure how long he’s been living there, but I intend to tell him how cool he is if I ever see him leaving his den.
#4: Radio Head
This man is by far my favorite. He usually hangs out on Avenue La Motte-Piquet near one of the corner cafés. He’ll sit in the middle of the sidewalk with a portable radio held up to his ear, blasting French talk shows chatter and awful 1980’s hits. He once walked in front of me while crossing the street, and he started screaming at this woman, pointing his finger with his free hand while still clutching the radio. It was some program about dog grooming. Apparently, he thought that the woman really, really needed to get her act together when it came to grooming her dog. Radiohead’s probably a bit fuzzy upstairs, but he’s nonetheless absolutely fantastic.
#5: The White Pimp
While the other four people I’ve highlighted are “regulars,” and I see them every once in a while, the White Pimp was definitely a one-time thing. And what a time it was.
On my way back from my second IKEA trip, I found myself in what was probably the only car in the entire RER train system without seats. Too tired to look for a seat, I propped myself up against a wall and prayed to every god known to man for this to be the one single place in Paris without creeps. I didn’t get any creeps, but I did get a pimp.
Or at least I thought he was a pimp. I spotted him the second the train stopped at his station. Who wouldn’t notice a man in a white suit in a sea of black? Then, as my luck would have it, he got into my section of the train, but quickly moved to the section with seats. Pimp crisis averted? Nope. A few seconds later, he staggered against the movement of the train back to my section, where I stood with two other guys. I looked closer at his clothes, and realized that, what at first looked like crisp, new pimp attire, was just crinkled, old Goodwill attire. His white linen suit had more wrinkles than an episode of Golden Girls. His “fancy” shoes were missing a heel. The dark blue polo player on his shirt showed through the suit jacket, and the blue stripe on the collar peeked up from his crinkled lapels. He stood in front of the door for seven stops, staring at himself in the reflection of the graffiti-covered window, incessantly tugging at his jacket to get rid of the wrinkles. He was so bizarrely fascinating to watch, with his combination of self-assuredness and self-consciousness.
#6: Tom Waits
I would give my right leg and left hand to actually see Tom Waits. The closest I’ve gotten (so far) is a metro performer. I recently learned that it’s illegal for musicians to busk on the trains, but that hasn’t stopped anyone, and I’m glad it didn’t stop “Tom Waits.” When he stepped on the train with his guitar, I thought, Oh jeebus, here’s another person who’s going to sing something I can barely hear, and I’m going to have to avert my eyes as usual to avoid being mugged. But when “Tom Waits” started playing, it was fantastic. He sang a song in English about the life of riches he used to have, how he would buy champagne for all his friends, how everything sucks “when you’re broke.” From the gravelly voice to the sound of the guitar to the lyrics, he actually could have been Tom Waits. I stared out the window and wished he would keep singing the whole train ride. He got off two stops after his song ended, but it was amazing while it lasted.
This, I love.
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