The Honest Truth

Alright, my internet minutes are running out, this is the first time I’ve had access that didn’t cost more than a meal in days, and I’m late for the beach.

Currently in LaRochelle, small town three hours outside of Paris where Ruth and I’ve stopped before going to the farm to WOOF our faces off.

Sascha is only here with her sister and it is a PARTY. Seriously, last night after dinner of mussels and oysters we drank at a war themed bar and Sascha’s sister Alexa (also here) came up with a fitting lyric: “WAR, what is it good for? Making a BAR.” Had to be there? Seriously though, we sat on old fighter plane seats and looked at picutres of our bartender posing with various soldiers. Only in LaRochelle.

After that we stumbled upon a jazz duo playing outside a restaurant and pulled up a seat. They were great, and all around us were tqbles of people and old white walls that go up forever. Ironically, Ruth and I had unsuccessfuly been looking for jazz shows in Paris for the past three nights and co,e up dry. Turns out all we had to do was get a little deep in the country.

Speaking of Paris, here is a poem to summarize the experience:

shitty room in Hotel Bastille

sinking bed, atleast kindof clean.

Now when writers talk of   ”getting rooms” in Paris.

I know what that means.

Buttery croissants, karafs of wine.

Rolling drum, feeling fine.

Museum lines: “Fuck it. Let’s go somewhere smaller.”

100 euros= 160 dollars.

Skinny women, fat beef.

Agressive men, skinny frites.

A sidewalk cafe,

A smell of piss

the homeless in bed,

We all get a whiff.

Au revoir Gay Paris,

and your crusty white bread

Be well ma cherie

we have left your town red.