Paris, a city for lovers, rich people, arrogant pricks, escapist dancing lesbians and solid huge nuns. a city that as i explore smacks of the past hits me like an onrushing car. the drunk hazy ones of two years ago are difficult to decipher in comparison to those of eight or nine years ago. My feet hitting the pavement in order to accumulate knowledge for the city. as if my feet are scanners and i need to walk around to assimilate a good grasp of the surrounding area. my stubborness enables me to refuse to ask for any sort of help. i spend three hours wandering the streets looking for any manner of ways to to avoid asking for help. Ultimately it leaves me feeling like a foolish mountain explorer. As if i am climbing a mountain, having the tools to do so but instead of asking fro directions i just wander around the base trying to do it by myself.
I wander past a clothing store that sells 20's era clothing. Clothes from before, during and after the american depression. Clothes made for durability with flashes of colour. Clothes that defined an era, that made films such as the cotton club and the sting so memorable. I am genuinely enthused by the prospect of such a shop that i have a 20 minute conversation with the shop owner. I dont crumble and realise i slowly realsie how genuinely happy i am talkign about something i love in a world that made me so timid. I begin to grow in confidence, i will savour the trepidation later. I need to go and find my hotel, in my imature mind another great sign of manhood, slowly i begin to believe in myself. I was not at all prepared for this journey but i have fought my way through it. 4 months of manual labour has dulled my mind and forced me to retreat within myself. I settle down, i cant figure out how to work the television, another battle for another day. I sit down on the bed and wonder what i have let myself in for.