-Friday, April 10th-It's 11am and I'm waiting and pacing under a great big tree in the middle of town, as it dangles it's great big branches over top of things.. A staircase. A garden. A church with an oddly shaped roof that oddly enough, has a whole fruit and veggie market spilling out of it.. There's a boulangerie next to a cafe where I had a small coffee and croissant at (while waiting an hour and a half earlier), and a bunch of French people on their various ways to work.
And tour groups. Lots of tour groups.
I'm waiting because my friends Mark and Adrienne have mixed-up where it was we were supposed to meet - there was a lot of tired confusion at the time, all of us a little delusional from 13hrs of travel/beers/sleepiness - and so I've been waiting f-o-r-e-v-e-r... but it's okay because it's a really pretty spot and it's given me time to stave off a nasty hangover from getting too grossly, and the voices in my head from getting too 'Godly'.
(Just kidding, I'm not really crazy!)
But she is...
She was burnt to a crispy-dead on this very spot in 1431! Her name is Joan of Arc, and she's your punk rock dream come true.
With her Anna Karina haircut and lithe frame to combat a ball-busting bravado charged full of chivalric purpose and pent up sexuality (she was liberating France for her imaginary man after all!); Joan is that special lady who - whether you mean to or not - will have you 'fucking off' your talents, just because..
I would take Joan despite the sporadic bouts of psycho-hormonal bloodlust that could ruin a dinner out with friends. I would learn to love the shit out of those nights of sobbing, panicked mania - when all you wanna do is catch up on some sleep - by kissing her pretty head, and pulling her into me so that all my t-shirts can be ruined in eyeliner.
Having to skirt past the whole chastity thing would be super annoying however... Though I have never dry-humped armor before, I imagine afterward makes for a pretty sore dick!
..But I would respect her goals.
For those one or two afternoons she could pull herself away from the campaign, we'd use her clout to round up all the region's cider and lay ourselves down by the Seine. We'd talk about weird stuff all day..
Her.. about supernatural-religious stuff mostly, with a Middle Ages' peasant spin on things that would normally send me into diatribes about heliocentrism and the folly of living life to some ancient and oppressive book when she doesn't even know how to read - if she wasn't so funny in her telling of it.
Sometimes she would talk about really gross shit, like pulling Burgundian arrows outta her 'soulja boys' (..cough!) infected wounds - getting really detailed about the pus and colours and sticking her fingers in there - until I want to vomit fancy cheeses in her dirty-pretty mouth to make it stop.
Me.. I'd impress her with fantastical tales that I'd swear I made up; of painting while cooking and exercising, 1/2 price wing nights, pterodactyl pornos and Michael Jackson.
..If only I spoke French.
But it doesn't matter because with Joan, it's not meant to last. She's a martyr and I'm on vacation. Aside from the momentary eye-fuck, I haven't got a chance.
When Mark and Adrienne finally do arrive, it's relief. The playful flirtation Joan and I had been shooting back-and-forth is now something awkward. I'm feeling self-conscious that my haggardness has started to show and maybe why she's looking up in the air like that: spaced out and entirely someplace else.
I'm ready to go. I put out my cigarette and we walk away.
There will be other French girls this weekend, but I don't care about that. I'm set with wandering Rouen's beautiful old streets without romance. I'll enjoy all the 'colombage' and gothic churches in the easy company of friends instead.
But after so many solitary trips this year, I'd really not have it any other way.
And tour groups. Lots of tour groups.
I'm waiting because my friends Mark and Adrienne have mixed-up where it was we were supposed to meet - there was a lot of tired confusion at the time, all of us a little delusional from 13hrs of travel/beers/sleepiness - and so I've been waiting f-o-r-e-v-e-r... but it's okay because it's a really pretty spot and it's given me time to stave off a nasty hangover from getting too grossly, and the voices in my head from getting too 'Godly'.
(Just kidding, I'm not really crazy!)
But she is...
She was burnt to a crispy-dead on this very spot in 1431! Her name is Joan of Arc, and she's your punk rock dream come true.With her Anna Karina haircut and lithe frame to combat a ball-busting bravado charged full of chivalric purpose and pent up sexuality (she was liberating France for her imaginary man after all!); Joan is that special lady who - whether you mean to or not - will have you 'fucking off' your talents, just because..
I would take Joan despite the sporadic bouts of psycho-hormonal bloodlust that could ruin a dinner out with friends. I would learn to love the shit out of those nights of sobbing, panicked mania - when all you wanna do is catch up on some sleep - by kissing her pretty head, and pulling her into me so that all my t-shirts can be ruined in eyeliner.
Having to skirt past the whole chastity thing would be super annoying however... Though I have never dry-humped armor before, I imagine afterward makes for a pretty sore dick!
..But I would respect her goals.
For those one or two afternoons she could pull herself away from the campaign, we'd use her clout to round up all the region's cider and lay ourselves down by the Seine. We'd talk about weird stuff all day..
Her.. about supernatural-religious stuff mostly, with a Middle Ages' peasant spin on things that would normally send me into diatribes about heliocentrism and the folly of living life to some ancient and oppressive book when she doesn't even know how to read - if she wasn't so funny in her telling of it.
Sometimes she would talk about really gross shit, like pulling Burgundian arrows outta her 'soulja boys' (..cough!) infected wounds - getting really detailed about the pus and colours and sticking her fingers in there - until I want to vomit fancy cheeses in her dirty-pretty mouth to make it stop.
Me.. I'd impress her with fantastical tales that I'd swear I made up; of painting while cooking and exercising, 1/2 price wing nights, pterodactyl pornos and Michael Jackson.
..If only I spoke French.
But it doesn't matter because with Joan, it's not meant to last. She's a martyr and I'm on vacation. Aside from the momentary eye-fuck, I haven't got a chance.
When Mark and Adrienne finally do arrive, it's relief. The playful flirtation Joan and I had been shooting back-and-forth is now something awkward. I'm feeling self-conscious that my haggardness has started to show and maybe why she's looking up in the air like that: spaced out and entirely someplace else.
I'm ready to go. I put out my cigarette and we walk away.
There will be other French girls this weekend, but I don't care about that. I'm set with wandering Rouen's beautiful old streets without romance. I'll enjoy all the 'colombage' and gothic churches in the easy company of friends instead.
But after so many solitary trips this year, I'd really not have it any other way.[to be continued..]
* * *
>>This post has been long delayed and sitting as rough in my notebook since from when I was away (a month ago).. due mostly to horrible events that happened (not to me) which left me without a sense of humour for awhile. Sorry to the 3 people who may have been waiting and/or putting their lives on hold..
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