When the plane touched down at Roissy I woke from what felt like a forever sleep. I’d dosed myself with Klonopin an hour before take-off. Sometimes it keeps me out for the full eight hours it takes to go from JFK to CDG, sometimes for only an hour. Depends a lot on what you’ve eaten, which is true for so much in life. This time I’d knocked myself out for the duration, which is grand except for the part where one wakes up dehydrated as if one has drunk all the sand in the Gobi desert, which effect was particularly embellished when one was hungover as the result of overbevvying Singani 63 the night before the flight (check!).
The promised driver was waiting by the customs exit. He introduced himself as Alexandre and asked if I needed help with my luggage. I nodded at my rucksack and told him that was it, that was my luggage, so no, I didn’t need help with my luggage. Alexandre was wearing a chauffeur’s uniform, or an ill-fitting grey suit. I was wearing clingy black sweatpants, a white T-shirt, and a thin grey hoodie, and had oversized sunglasses on despite the weather, which was as grey as Alexandre’s suit. I’m sure that despite feeling haggard and foggy I looked hot. I could tell by Alexandre’s reaction when he checked out my ass as he ushered me through the terminal door and towards his grey Mercedes. I let it slide because everyone checks out my ass. Including me. Sometimes I spend significant segments of the day or night checking out my ass in the mirror on the inside door of my bedroom closet at home. It’s time well spent.
What I could not tolerate, however, was his transcendently lame chit-chat during the interminable drive to wherever-the-fuck, France. How was your flight what’s the weather like in New York I’ve been there five times myself I love that city if I get enough money I would love to move there but also to Los Angeles don’t you love Los Angeles the weather is so great there what part of France are you from and on and on and on. The guy was relentless, despite the fact I never answered a single question. Some people can sustain a conversation by themselves for hours, and I am a magnet for these interesting types, particularly when I’m hungover. My usual countermeasure is to put my earbuds in and turn up the Quartetto Italiano recording of Beethoven’s late string quartets, but my phone’s battery had died sometime during my flight-long blackout, so my back-up plan of feigning sleep was deployed, with limited success.
By the time we arrived at wherever-the-fuck and pulled into the long semicircle gravel driveway and up to the steps of what I’m sure H2 would call his hôtel particulier, but I would call a large and tastelessly designed suburban faux chateau – lacking only machicolations, or more properly mâchicoulis, through which to pour boiling oil on hoi polloi – Alexandre had given up his attempt at conversation and was instead happily humming along to some trite French pop song on Chérie FM (Toutes vos chansons préférées, non stop). I’m of the opinion that all Parisian men are isophiles, though they might not themselves be aware of it. The world would be a far better place if my opinion were fact.