Excerpt from "Diary of an American Pornstar"
Beneath the streets of Paris, the stars will be my guide. Scuffed floors of well traveled metro cars support the weight of a young woman in search of the most intense, the most desirable bedtime story: a story about love. After the celebratory beer (my credit cards are back on!!!), I scaled the mountainous stairs leading to Joachims apartment once again, to reveal to him my immediate plan for the evening.
Me: I must see the Eiffel Tower immediately.
Joachim: so you go now?
Me: Yes, and I will return later. Much later.
Joachim: Get a map from the woman, don't get lost, and don't get robbed.
Me: Merci. I won't. Je vais returner.
Four trains and three metro stations later, one train I hopped on and off within seconds, I am still motivated to find this thing, Trocadero Square, bringing me back to Embarcadero, lining Frisco's bay, this is always my exit, and the familiarity, the similarity in the names draws me to it, like moths to light, like tourists from oaklahoma or other home cooked states to the pacific ocean and palm trees or Ground Zero.
Finally, the exit, the right train, everything seems in place. I get my camera out to record my first impression, and find the guy selling tiny itty bitty worthless towers and know the big one is close. But where? I look to the street to where I assume it will be, nothing, until my eyes glance down to the view finder. Right be fucking hind me.
I have to get near it, maybe even touch it, if the Frenchies let me, but first, a little gas for my foot drive: Sugar filled crepes. God how I love the French. There is no inappropriate way or time for crepes. Well, maybe way, but definitely not time. It's always crepe time. I merci beaucoup the crepe monsieur, and continue the mission.
-Back to my mission- Mac Dre
On the way down, a solo Frenchman approaches me, asks how often the tower sparkles. I tell him I'm straight Cali and I have no fucking clue what he is talking about, sparkles and shit.
Me: All the fucking time? Jesus Christ, I'm not fucking French, shouldn't you know this shit?
With these final words, the whole thing, the Eiffel tower thing that is, starts sparkling like freshman girls discovering the wonders of glitter.
Me: Film me dancing in front of the sparkles please? S'il vous plait?
And he does.
He shows me all around the tower, says he is alone tonight, yet with me. He sighs l'amore, and wraps his arms around me as we walk the gardens before the tower, separating one of France's finest works from its memorial dedicated to freedom. In every language the complicatedly simple word appears on poles reaching toward the sky.
There are wild kids at the hostel next to Joachim's place, and they are dancing with a shitzu in the doorway, singing "You've got to pump it up".
No I don't.
Daniel, my new French cameraman then tries to show me a quiet place we can sit on a bench, shaded by trees.
Now I'm wndering if he wants to rape me or rob me. One of the bad r's is about to happen. I want no part of this.
Me: No, mes amies await me.
Daniel the French Cameraman: but it is so nice tonight, and sa nez est perfecte. S'il vous plait.
Me: How about that well lit grass field?
Daniel the French cameraman: D'accord.
We walk to the middle of the field and he puts his plastic sitting cushion down for me, there are rats in the bushes nearby scurrying around and I expect his accomplice, who will aid him in either of the r's, to come jumping out any moment.
Me (in my head): maybe he'll get turned off if I bust out the hash pipe. Or maybe he'll get too high and not r or r me.
Me (outloud): you smoke? Fumar?
He doesn't smoke, instead he sings to me in French. Sings of all the things that illuminate his eyes, his view, sings to the Eiffel tower, to the people below it, to la Seine, and its reflection of the moon, the stars. He sings of how l'amore illuminates him.
This guy is mad French yo.
He sings of how my nose is his petite poisson, how he'd like to bite it and kiss my bouche.
Me: Merci, non.
Daniel the French Cameraman: I have one kiss please?
Me: Non, I have someone.
Daniel the French Cameraman: Ton amie can wait pour une bouchon.
Me: No, a boyfriend.
Daniel the French Cameraman: But he is not here non? N'est pas d'ici?
Me: Oui. C'est vraiment. Cette une grande probleme.
Me (in my head): yeah, and the real problem is that I don't have one, and I don't want you to be one.
Daniel sits behind me and starts to rub my shoulders. I clutch my pockets. His hands move down. My hands still on my pockets. I ain't getting robbed in fucking france by no fucking Frenchman. He starts to rub my butt.
Me (in my head): maybe having everyone try to fuck you instead of fight you is no better.
Me (outloud): je suis aller.
Daniel the French Cameraman: Nous allons?
Me: Non, je suis aller.
He walks me to the point that is directly in the center of the Eiffel tower and looks up, holding my hands.
As his eyes fall back to earth, and upon my own, the notion that maybe he just wanted someone to feel close with on such a beautiful evening in such a lovely place crosses my mind.
I set out this evening, this trip, with the goal of finding love on my plate, the main course, and immediately upon seeing the tower, glowing like my beautiful pacific ocean, I wanted to be desperately lonely. To suffer miserably through the glorious experience, and immediately upon crossing the Seine, Paris' main vein, the ever moving body of water that brought life to this country, I met someone as hungry for love as I. Looked into the faces of happy couples and despised them, even though I had my singing, loving cameraman guiding my way.
Its hard to know who to trust with your heart.
I kissed Daniel goodbye, bonsoir dan la bouche, and even though we agreed to meet tomorrow night at 7pm, in the same place, when his eyes fell from the heavens, from the center of the Eiffel tower, and met mine, he knew we would never see each other again.