The thing I remember most about Paris is the dog shit! Oh, the Louvre was breathtaking, the Eiffel tower awesome, and Notre Dame had the peace and reverence that only a thousand years of sanctity can create. But, the dog shit was everywhere. Paris and L.A. have the most dogs per capita of any major Western city, But in L.A., my home town, they clean up - the French don't! In the three days that I had been in Paris, I had stepped in so much canine excrement that I took to carrying paper-towels in my backpack, just in case.
It was Sunday morning, my fourth day in the city, and I was leaning on the balustrade of Rue des Deux Pont, looking at the river and across to Ille de la Cité and Notre Dame, when I heard the click-clack of high heels. I turned and saw a tall, gorgeous girl striding out with that gallic haughtiness mostly seen on a catwalk dressed in an haute couture gown.
Suddenly, she lost her step. Her foot slipped abruptly sideways, and her confident aire was broken.
"Merde!" she exclaimed, "Ces clébards dégoûtants!"
Those disgusting mutts indeed, I thought, surprising myself that I could understand so quickly. God love 'em for stopping this beauty in front of me! I delved into my back pack for the paper towels, and shouted to her, "Permettez-moi, Madamoiselle. J'ai quelques essuie-tout." I waved the paper towels, in case she had not understood my terrible accent.
"Ah! Merci monsieur," she said. She moved to lean against the balustrade. I kneeled, held her gorgeous, mini-skirted leg, lifted her foot, and removed the soiled shoe. As I cleaned her shoe she stood there, one leg bent to keep her unshod foot off the ground, her arms behind her, her hands upon the top of the low wall. I looked up and glimpsed a wisp of hair from her armpit. Obviously, like most French women, she didn't shave. I have always thought that part of the reason the French are so damn sexy is the mixture of musky feminine scent and expensive perfume. For me, some body hair on a women, armpits and pubic, is an incredible turn on so lacking in America.
She regarded me with studied nonchalance, as if to say, "No big deal - people clean my shoes in public all the time."
I gave her back her shoe. She looked at me quizzically as I tried desperately to think of something to say to keep her there. Then she said, "Vous êtes pressés? Avez-vous quelque temps?" I quickly translated to myself: Am I in a hurry - do I have some time? Hell yes, for you, babe, I've got eternity. "Non, je ne suis pas pressés," I replied.
"Chez moi est près d'ici. Venez avec moi," she said - I live near here, come with me. OK, things are going well, I thought. She started walking away, turned, and beckoned to me. "Venez," she repeated, "Taxi!!"
We climbed into a Renault cab and she told the driver where to go. After a few minutes of insane driving we arrived, she paid, I followed her upstairs to a walk-up, studio-flat, and went in with her. I looked around. There were paintings and drawings everywhere; someone here was an artist.
"Que voudriez-vous boire?" she asked, "J'ai du vin." Something to drink? Wine? Sure. "Merci," I said. She pulled the cork out of an already open bottle of wine using her exquisite white teeth. She handed me a glass and said, "Allez, foutrez à poil, s'il vous plaît" - go, strip-off. Hmm! Cuts to the chase, doesn't she, I thought. "Assoyez-vous là -bas," she continued - sit over there. I went and sat down where she indicated.
She came toward me and arranged my body into a pose. I realized, she was the artist and I was now an unwitting artist model. Oh no, I thought, I'm not up for this. I started to get up.
"Non! Séjour là . Ne bouger pas!" she insisted - stay there, don't move. Well, she was cute, and I hadn't anywhere else I needed to be, and this was a new experience, so, what the hell. I settled back down. She began to sketch with charcoal and chalk, peering from behind her easel, studying me intently.
