Paris is Intoxicating: Day Three and Adieu

We had to leave for the airport by 5pm. I thought the girls were going to cry. I thought I was going to cry. A three day trip to Paris is too short, and Jan and I both vowed that the next time we came it would be at least for a week, if not two. Indiana Jane and The Professor were up early, out the door of the Edouard VI and speed walking down to the Metro and into the heart of the city.



My last day in Paris was my first day in a week without the Lufthansa Flu. I could breath, smell, and most importantly, taste. The patisserie was a few steps from the hotel, and the lemon tart was delicious.



I suggested to Jan that rather than trying to cram an exhausting day of speed sightseeing into our schedule, we allowed ourselves to just be. We stayed close to what we now considered to be our neighborhood, taking in the architecture and doing a little last minute shopping.





We felt at home, and we must have looked it. Two college aged girls stopped and asked us for directions. A harried looking man in his thirties asked me in broken French if I spoke English. I spouted my phrase book French to the shop keepers with gusto, and was rewarded with smiles and remarks in French about the weather. We were treated like we belonged, and we felt like we belonged. From now on Paris was going to be our city, and we would visit her often.






Before we knew it, our first date with the City of Love was over, and we eagerly anticipated a long romance, and our chance to get to know her better.

Paris is Intoxicating: The Arrival.

We arrived in Paris the evening after Christmas for three sweet days of cliche busting wonder. The Eiffel Tower was dressed in blue, the Champs Elysees was decked out in all of its electric Christmas finery, and we all fell helplessly, eternally in love.



My friend Vince, who is originally from the south of France, once told me, "Willie, Paris is intoxicating." He was not exaggerating. After we checked into the Hotel Edouard VI on Boulevard du Montparnasse we grabbed dinner at a nearby Chinese restaurant, then it was off to bed for Jan so that she could rest up in preparation for the next day. The Professor, Indiana Jane and I made a beeline for the Eiffel Tower. We walked down the boulevard until we saw the Invalides,



then hooked a left and followed the beacon from Gustav Eiffel's marvel of the Industrial Age.

Paris is alive! Vienna was asleep when we were there, but from what The Professor has told us it barely has a pulse in the best of times. Paris, on the other hand, is vibrant, exciting, energetic, amazing, and a thousand other wonderful things. The three of us milled among the crowd, drinking in the sights and sounds and shaking our heads at our good fortune to find ourselves in such a magnificent place. Just before midnight we headed back to the hotel, each of us dreaming of the next few days.

Tomorrow: Day one.

Yes We Did!

Tonight the United States of America lived up to its promise.

I was a child during the civil rights movement of the sixties, unaware that it was even going on. We were never taught to hate in my house, and it was a shock to me as I got older and became exposed to the hatred and racial bias around me. Why do so many hate because of skin color? It's as arbitrary to me as hating someone because of the color of their eyes, or hair.

We've still got such a long way to go, but tonight was a wonderful, giant step forward on our journey; not only as a nation, but as human beings. As my wife and I whooped at the announcement of the election results, and later cried tears of joy at President-Elect Obama's acceptance speech, I could only believe that tonight God has truly blessed America.

Our House, Is A Very Very Very Fine House...

I've always said, if you feel poor, move. The sheer volume of possessions that you'll have to pack will convince most of you that you have far too much stuff.

We've been packing for a couple of weeks now. The first week we felt like we accomplished something if we loaded two or three boxes a day. Now we're in the home stretch, and in the past several days alone we've filled at least a hundred boxes. Most of my stuff was packed weeks ago. I've always been somewhat of a minimalist, so much so that a Buddhist monk would probably look at my few meager possessions and think, That poor bastard.

My wife bought this place after her divorce, and raised two extraordinary girls in it. They're both young women now, and were well on their way to adulthood when I entered the picture seven years ago (this makes it very hard for me to take any credit at how well they turned out). The oldest is going to be a college professor, the youngest is still deciding between psychologist and anthropologist. One night, when we were still dating, the power went out. We had a full house; The Professor and her boyfriend The Artist, both 19 at the time, Indiana Jane, 15, and the two of us. Indiana Jane and I lit a few candles. As we walked around the house we both remarked at the large number of decorative candles in pretty much every room. Most of them had never been lit. Indiana Jane and The Professor convinced their mom that now was the time. When we were finished we appeared to have the only house for miles with electricity. As the warm glow of the soft candlelight cast shadows onto the front lawn, the five us us sat on the sofa and talked quietly, smiling as we occasionally looked around the room at what we had done. That's my favorite memory of this house.

Doin' The Dishes

My squadron was having a party out in the desert hot springs near the Navy base we were stationed at in southern California. We had several campfires going, and I walked over to a smaller fire and joined two of my married buddies. I arrived in mid-conversation.

"I do the dishes about once a week," said Irv. Dave mentioned that he too, did the dishes about once a week, sometimes twice. Having moved into an apartment a few months before, I felt compelled to join the discussion.

"I do the dishes everyday."

Dave and Irv were amazed, and asked me to repeat myself, in case they misheard.

"Yeah, I do the dishes everyday."

There was real admiration on their faces until I mentioned that I did most of the cooking, too. Sort of like when you were a kid and you realized that Superman didn't exist after all. Then it hit me. We were having two different conversations.

"Oh. Ya'll meant Doin' The Dishes. Hell, I haven't even had a girlfriend for at least a year."

The three of us stared quietly into the fire, two married guys and an bachelor, each of us probably thinking what an idiot I was.

The Waiting Is The Hardest Part

Three very cool things are just around the corner. At the moment I'm in a holding pattern, biding my time until the fun starts. My wife and I own property outside of Austin in the Texas Hill Country, and will be moving there soon to build our dream home. About that same time I will begin recording a new CD, and at the end of the year we're taking a family vacation in Vienna and Paris. It's like I'm a kid again, and Christmas is still so far away.

Christmas was sometimes a pretty tough holiday when I was a kid. My stepfather worked as a union electrician, and went on strike every two or three years. Santa never skipped our home, but I did notice that some years he was considerably less generous than others. Occasionally the season was pretty good.
One year, when I was about ten, my mom woke me up in the middle of the night.

"Wanna know what you got for Christmas?!"

I had already figured out the deal with Santa, and excitedly agreed to this rare privilege. Mom grew up poor, and on her best Christmas probably received less than her children did on our worst. This year Christmas was especially good, and Mom was so happy she just had to tell someone. We snuck out of the room I shared with two of my brothers, and Mom showed me some of the toys I was getting. I couldn't believe my luck. It was the best Christmas yet, gift-wise. Mom let me play quietly with one of the toys for a few minutes, then it was back to bed so that she could re wrap my presents and hide them until Christmas morning.

Mom was a kid when she had me. Married at eighteen and a new mother at nineteen, looking back I marvel at what a kid she was for most of my childhood. She was and is a great mom, but when I become impatient, and start focusing on the destination rather than the journey, I remember that I come by it honestly.

Under Pressure

I've held a belief for most of my life that I work better under pressure. In order to truly put this theory to the test, I would have to compare the results from performing two similar, if not identical tasks under different circumstances, one at the last minute and the other having received more of my energies over a longer period of time. This will most likely never happen because I am a lifelong procrastinator.

A friend wanted me to sing at her wedding, and asked that I write a special song for the occasion. She gave me about six months advance notice, and would call once a month to see how the song was coming along. "Almost done," I'd say. "Just doing a little tweaking." The truth was, I had not even started the song because I had a little writer's block.

A few days before I needed to leave for Green Bay, Wisconsin to perform at the ceremony, I hopped in my car and started driving north, because I was desperate and remembered that I had started some of my best songs while driving. I was living in Nashville, TN at the time, and about an hour later, having crossed the state line into Kentucky, I got a few ideas and turned the car around. By the time I pulled into my driveway, the lyrics were done and I only needed to work it out on the guitar. Two days later I drove to Green Bay.

Annette's fiance met me in town, and I followed him back to their place. That night Annette's sisters and her friend Mary cornered me and demanded to hear the song. "We don't want to cry during the ceremony," they explained. "It will ruin our make-up." The song was about love, of course, but also mentioned loss, as Annette's mother had died recently from a sudden illness. Her fiance had also lost a parent, and the girls cried during that first performance, vowing to be strong during the ceremony.

The day of the wedding came, and the bride's sisters (Tina and Kim) and best friend Mary were dolled up in all of their chiffoned finery. I took my place near the bridesmaids, and during the appropriate time started fingerpicking the opening bars to the song. The girls were doing great, not a misty eye among them. Then I got to the verse about loss, and I heard Kim's urgent whisper to Tina.

"Look at Dad!"

We had forgotten to prepare the widower, and who could blame us? He looked to be more bear than man. He was a big guy, well over six feet tall, barrel chested, bearded, tough looking. He was also in tears. The bridesmaids lost it, and began to cry. There was also a catch in my voice, but I recovered and finished the song.