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Searching for Satori in Paris
If I could find a way to live and work there, I'd move to Paris in a heartbeat . . . and I've got my reasons. Paris is full of living history. Paris is full of American history. Paris is a literary town. Paris is diverse. Paris is full of Parisians. Paris has pictures of beautiful unclothed women on billboards. If you go to Europe and skip Paris because some dipstick told you Parisians are rude, well, you're a fool, and Paris is better off for your absence.
On the other hand, if you go to Paris with an open and eager mind you will immerse yourself in an atmosphere that can be found nowhere else in the world. It must have been a Parisian sitting at an outdoor cafe, after all, who coined the term ambiance.
Sightseeing on the Champs Élysées not far from the l'Arc de Triomphe.
We arrived in Paris at about 8:00 AM on October 4th after some 20 hours in transit. The flight was pleasant and outwardly uneventful. The passengers were on their best behavior, each apparently wearing only one pair of skivvies, and none hell-bent on blasting their way into that heavenly concubine of eighty or so doe-eyed virgins. I was seated in economy-class purgatory, the middle seat of three, between the window and the aisle (hell would be the middle of the middle section no matter how many doe-eyed virgins surrounded you). J-Bo had the window, and on the aisle was a woman who was traveling with a group seated just across from her in the middle section. I politely inquired as to her welfare and she responded by indicating that she spoke no English. Now I'm not a pushy or forward type, but when you're going to be rubbing elbows and sharing air with someone for the next seven or eight hours I figure the least you can do is exchange names, and as it happens some years ago I had acquired ten or so key French phrases, including something along the lines of, "Comment appelez-vous?" Accordingly, I decided to inquire as to my new neighbor's name and to introduce myself. I got a little tongue tied trying to shift into French, ground gears a bit and initially said, "Comment allez-vous?" That wasn't all bad, it means "How are you", but it wasn't what I wanted to say so I forged ahead and said, "Comment appelez-vous. Je m'appelle Russell." Just in case I slaughtered the "What's your name" pronunciation, I figured she'd get my gist if I told her my name and pointed at myself. She did, and she was clearly taken aback. She looked across the aisle at a gentleman who may have been her husband and told him with only her eyebrows (as only the French can) that she was seated next to a complete and certifiable idiot. Then she turned back and told me that her name was Francesa. I nodded politely, and not finding application for any of my remaining eight phrases, the conversation lapsed. J-Bo had heard the exchange, and quietly told me that normally one should exchange some impersonal niceties before venturing into the personal area of names, but I remained unrepentant, and through the remainder of the flight treated Francesa deferentially and with complete kindness, and in the end I won her over, which is to say she figured out that I was harmless, and an excellent neighbor for a long flight . In fact, when I finally managed to fall asleep, she made sure the flight attendant left me a breakfast.
I took a Kerouac with me on this KarmaBum Quest (I had planned on calling the trip the KarmaBum Crusade purely for the alliterative allure, but it seems the word has been stigmatized and lost to the English language. No more gay as in merry, blithe, lively and no more crusade as in enterprise undertaken with zeal and enthusiasm). But anyway, the book I'm reading on this Kerouac Crusade is Satori in Paris. This book was one of his last efforts before he did himself in with alcohol. In this mostly true story Kerouac flies to Paris and travels to Brest in search of his roots and in search of satori, which is a Zen Buddhist term for a flash of sudden awareness. I'm not a big believer in organized spirituality, ok, I'm an infidel, but in this I am a believer . . . I believe that travel can bring flashes of sudden awareness of the human condition, and I was looking forward to enjoying Kerouac's story and to becoming sensitized to any potential satoris that might strike me while I was in France and Spain.
However, as I was saying . . . we arrived
at the Roissy/Charles De Gaulle Airport after twenty hours in transit,
passed through customs and were welcomed to France, and now we needed to find
our car. We were leasing a car and picking it up right there at the airport. Some advice, if
you are smart enough to lease a car also be smart enough to read the
pick-up directions 
before you are
afflicted with jet lag and travel
fatigue. I was only half-smart and would have found my way to the
pick-up area much more quickly if I had done my homework.
But anyway . . . we found the place, got the car, and we were off . . . and if you've ever driven in Europe you know the adrenaline rush the first time you enter the flow of traffic. Aiiiiiiiiyeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Look out Paris, here we come! There's going to be some U-turns happening, there's going to be some getting lost going on, but what the hey, we're seeing things we've never seen before (and then sometimes we're going back and seeing them again). Not to worry though . . . J-Bo has a B.A. in Geography, so he's navigator. I'm a cool hand behind the wheel with more than a few years driving experience in Europe. We're on the road, baby!
First, we needed to get headed in the right direction. Then we needed to stop and get fuel. The car was leased out on "the nearly empty when you pick it up, empty when you drop it off system." Then we're on the way to our first campground, the Bois de Boulogne campground. But as luck and the laws of probability would have it, we got off in the wrong direction a couple of times. The hell with searching for satori, we need to find the damn campground first.
| Three
U-turns and maybe an hour later we found the campground. It
shouldn't take that long. From the airport take the A-1 south
and follow the signs to Paris. Be patient. Get on the
peripheral (ring) road. Take the Port Maillot exit, be ready
to get over to the right coming out of the exit. Then follow
the "Camping" signs. You'll get there. We
did. Sunday's are not great . . . too many people in the Bois
de Boulogne. We found that out when we came back to Paris for
the homeward flight.
We were supposed to meet my step-son and his girlfriend (E&C) at the campground entrance at 12:00 noon. We arrived just a few minutes before 12:00 and E&C pull up in a taxi just seconds after we finished registering. Plans germinated in California and hatched in Paris (is that a mixed metaphor?). |
|
We pitched our tents under sunny skies. I'd guess the last stake went in by 1:00 PM. Driving tent stakes took a bit longer than it should have because I didn't bring the mallet. I'd heard a rumor that the airlines were searching all baggage, including checked baggage, and prohibiting anything that might be used as a weapon. Why, I don't know, but I believed it, and left the mallet at home. We had to scrounge a big rock to drive the tent stakes. Hint #1 -- If you're tent camping bring your mallet. J-Bo wisely crawled into his tent and went to sleep. I have a hard and fast rule developed during my younger days about not going to bed until night falls in my newly adopted time zone, so E and I drank a few beers in the warmth of the fall sun and concluded that travelers are clearly higher on the evolutionary ladder than non-travelers. E&C rented one of the mobile homes available at the campground. With a good exchange rate the cost figured out to about $40.00 a night for the two of them. The mobiles sleep four and are an excellent option . . . kitchen, fridge, toilet and shower, two bedrooms . . . not a bad deal. J-Bo and I rented one on the return trip. No hassles breaking camp or worrying about a wet tent on flight day . . . just get up and go.
But wait just a minute. We're in Paris, the sun is shining, and there are some sudden moments of enlightenment yet to be experienced. Check back soon as we begin the actual Search for Satori in Paris.