The Paris Plan Emergeth

Supposedly I'm here to work on a book.

I've slowly started reading through the first draft of my manuscript, taking nips of brandy to steady myself as I go. I'm about two-thirds of the way through now and am convinced this colossal piece of crap is what led to Thursday's crisis of faith.

C'est la vie as we Parisians say. I could always toss myself in the Seine.

Regardless, a plan is forming itself around me:

Louise gets back next week and we'll begin work on her one-woman show. I've also decided to attend her workshop on anal lovin' – assuming it's not terribly hands-on – because as I learned from yesterday's hammam experience, there's nothing to fear but a room full of breasts.

You can quote me on that.

My other friend Maud has invited me to her home on Sunday for an aperitif with friends, which means a gloriously exhausting evening drowning in French language and French cigarette smoke. The last time I hung out with Maud, one of her friends shouted John Wayne lines into my face at varying intervals throughout the evening. It was the only English she knew. Or perhaps she believes all North Americans are cowboys. One of the two.

The Harmonica Federation dudes reconvene next Saturday and I'll be there with support hose on. This was one of the highlights of my last trip here. I arrived with images of an incense-filled, bohemian literary cafe dripping with turtleneck-wearing poets. It was more like an old folks home on bingo night. Two words: boxed wine.

Also on Saturday, I'll begin to explore the racial/immigrant experience of Paris from the perspective of a local. Dana once remarked that Paris is an Arab country and she's not wrong. You might think Parisians are all willowy model-types, but the hijabs (headscarves) and taqiyahs (skullcaps) outnumber the high heels and skinny jeans by far.

And other than that, my list of activities includes hanging out at La Fourmi, finding a way to surreptitiously observe the contraband cigarette trade at Barbes-Rochechouart and hitting the sex museum (ahem...Musee de l'Erotisme, excusez-moi) on boulevard de Clichy.

So I'm covering old ground, venturing into new territory and hoping to receive divine guidance about whether I should toss this book under the Metro and start from scratch.