Old and New

Ah, what to do when I feel the need to write, but am not ready to haul out the typewriter? Write in my journal, of course.

Today dear reader, I offer some thoughts on Paris old and new, in no particular order, just the way they come up.

The old:

Dog Shit. Still everywhere. Watch your step.

Trash. Also still everywhere. It amazes me, often, on my walks, just how much trash people in a city the size and density of Paris can generate. Myself, I make a small (a gallon or two) sack of garbage every day. But everywhere on the street, I see trash. Cigarette butts, sinks, furniture, appliances and just plain garbage. And that's not even in the garbage cans, the ones that line the street at all hours of the night and day. The trucks seem to run continuously, but they hardly get one street clear before it's full again.

Bums: I saw my first Parisian bum way back in 1976, and they are still here. They sleep on the street, in corners and sometimes just right in the middle of the sidewalk. They shuffle down the street, accosting passersby and patrons in the cafes. There are at least two that I now recognize on my own street. I wonder how long they've been here, how long they will last. The Parisian winter is coming.

Beautiful People: It should come as no surprise, I guess, this being one of the fashion centers of the world, that people look so good, dress so well, just going about the regular business of life. Men in sharply tailored suits made of delicious looking materials. Women, in delightfully colorful and stylish outfits, carefully matched and combined elements. Shoes, oh man the shoes, on both men and women.

Traffic: Streets are congested, horns blare, drivers sit stuck behind delivery vans and people trying to park in impossibly small spaces.

The New:

Scooters: They are everywhere now. Just six years ago there were none. Now they zip along the bike lanes, in and out of pedestrian traffic on the sidewalks and through the slow (and often stopped) traffic in the street. Once used, they are abandoned, often right in the middle of the sidewalk. Of course, the riders all young and oh so stylish, likely on their way to some hip little cafe to meet their hip and good looking friends--see above.

Bike, moto and car self-services: In addition to the scooters, many places for these services have been carved out of what would have been parking places just a few years ago. Often--especially the car services--the spaces are empty, prompting me to wonder if they really have enough vehicles available that actually work. I've seen one bike parked in the storage area of my building every day, as if someone has figured out a way to keep it without paying.

Art: There has always been street art in Paris, but in the past six years, it has exploded. Murals, graffiti and stickers cover every square inch of many walls. Some of it is interesting, but for the most part, it's just dull and repetitive, as if the artists are trying to be the next Banksy, but can't figure out how to do that without just imitating. One the other hand, I did see my first Bansky a couple of days after arriving.

Diverse People. When stayed here in 2012, I could not help but notice the number of black Africans in our neighborhood. It seemed natural, though, as one of the streets near our apartment was lined with hair salons dedicated to blacks. Today, however, the number of black Africans in this neighborhood has increased many times over. Just a short walk up the rue Faubourg St. Martin in the late afternoon leads me through throngs of young black men, usually dressed well, leaning on storefronts, sitting on motorbikes and scooters, drinking, laughing and talking loudly. They are not at all threatening, at least not to me, but I have to wonder what they do for a living, where they live. Blacks are not the only diverse people, I see Asians, Arabs and of course, Whites.

Screenwriting

I am a screenwriter.

I have never had a script made into a movie, never sold a script. Hell, I haven't even written a script, but I am a screenwriter.

So far, in about three weeks of actual writing, I have gotten about one-third of my first script, Oui Madame, on 'paper'.

I have no idea if I will sell it; no idea if it will ever get made into a movie; no idea what it will be called if it gets that far. Geez, I don't even know if I will get credit. Maybe William Goldman will re-write it. Maybe it will get made. Maybe it will star Jennifer Lawrence, Helen Mirren and Daniel Craig. Maybe it will even be called Oui Madame. Nope. no idea.

I do know this. It will get written.

I have the story completely written. In my head. What I am working on now is getting the story out of my head. This is easier said than done, of course, but consider that before wrote I wrote a single word, I had been thinking about it for more than a year.

Many nights I went to sleep, thinking about how the story would begin, unfold and end. I spent a lot of time in traffic, commuting to work at UT, then running errands at Valentina's, thinking about this. By the time I had it fully worked out in my head, I started to think I was obsessed, and that if I didn't get it out, I'd just go crazy.

I decided to not go crazy, but in typical form, I decided to make a plan.

The Plan: 1) Move to Paris; 2) Write screenplay; 3) Sell screenplay; 4) Write another screenplay.

So, here I am, at step 2).

I have, as I said, written what looks to be about a third of the play. I've also spent a lot of time learning about how to write from online classes, watched a lot of movies (not one a day as I hoped, but at least 3-5 a week) and read a few books and screenplays.

Of course, that's like nothing.  It is nothing. Not 10,000 hours. Hell, maybe not even that many minutes. I know. Newb.

One book I am reading--of course not finished--is by William Goldman, who is recognized as one of the great screenwriters of the last half of the 20C.  He wrote The Princess Bride, which is the best film I have ever seen. It could have its own channel on TV. I'd tune in every day.

Goldman also wrote a lot of other screenplays (and novels, which he adapted for the screen). You look them up. This isn't a biography of Goldman.

Adventures in the Screen Trade is a dated book (1983), so a lot has changed since it was written. Some things have not. Hollywood still rules the film industry, and even though there are a lot more opportunities out there (Amazon, Netflix, etc) for new screenwriters than there were just a few decades ago, most Goldman's advice so far has been sound and encouraging. At least that's how I see it.

One of the most important things I have learned from this book (and Sorkin's class) has been that whatever I write, it will not be made into a movie.

It will certainly not be made into the movie that I have envisioned, not the one in my head, not the one hardly one-third written.

On the other hand...

If I am lucky, someone will buy this script.

If I am lucky, I'll get an agent.

If I am lucky, I'll get a chance to write my second script--the one that will win the Academy Award.

Ah. I am not in a casino, but I am gambling. I am gambling with the time, money and health I have left in my life. I am gambling with my family and friends. It's all on the line here and now.

So what will it be? Red or black?

Laundry

Dear readers, just a thought or two here before I eat. I have some pork chops braising in a tomato sauce on the stove, and I am about to watch the rest of a movie.

I didn't write today. Well, not technically. I did make some index cards for the next eight to ten beats coming up in the next scene of Oui Madame. Yesterday I finished what looks like scene 10. Onward tomorrow.

I wrote the cards while doing my laundry, which, although it sounds mundane, was a remarkable milestone for me today. Today marks the beginning of my thrid week here in Paris, and for the first time, I am starting to feel just a tiny bit comfortable. If that sounds like an exaggeration, it is not. Each day, I have had to face the uncertainty of where to be, what to eat, what to say. Each day has brought some progress on those fronts.

I know where I live. I know whether to turn right or left when I leave my building. That was the start. Then, I found a grocery store. The first one I found was a Franprix, just up the street. There I bought some of the basics on my first day, butter, salt, pepper and food for a couple of days and nights, some ham, can of tomatoes,a couple of pork chops and some hamburger meat. I also bought a six pack of beer (Heineken seems to be the cheapest) and a bottle of tequila. Hmmm, San Jose. Never heard of it, and it may not even be tequila, but it seems to work. Last week, I learned that the Monprix has the better prices and more selection. The I found a bigger Monoprix on the Boulevard Bonnes Nouvelles, just a block away. Little by little, I am learning my neighborhood.

Now I know, sophisticated Parisians and ex-pats 'know' that you have to have a favorite set of shops: boulangerie, boucher, primeur, epicierie, fromager, charcuterie, etc. But so far, and it's just been two weeks, Ihave found it easier  to shop at one of these little (by American standards) grocery stores.

As an American, I am used to things coming in packages, so it's not all that weird, and, other than meat and produce, most of the things I needed right away were more practical: dish soap, hand soap, shampoo, toilet paper, paper towels, etc. I needed all the spices, but so far I have only four: salt, pepper, garlic and fine herbs. I'll add to the collection as I go.

I have found a favorite boulangerie, and have been there enough times to  warrant a smile of recognition. The bread is fantastic and the croissants (au beurre) are delightful--I have to be careful not to crush it on the way back to my apartment, it's so light and luscious. The baguettes are perfect of course, and cheap, just 1 euro. One baguette lasts me two days, with Bon Maman cherry jam and butter in the morning, and with Nutella for dessert that night.

My next shop to frequent will be a charcuterie, but so far I haven't found one that I like nearby. I bought some packaged pate at the grocery store the first week but it was so bad I could not eat it. I want the real deal, and I will find it soon enough.

My first efforts have been to find myself in the neighborhood. I want to be able to walk in any direction for a few blocks and know where I am and how to get back. Then, I will gradually widen the circle and travel to some more distant spots.

I've been to the Canal St.Martin, a delightful place where I had lunch on a sunny Sunday. I thinkit was in week two that I finally ventured down to the Seine, down the Boulevard de Sebastopol, all the way to Chatelet and finally the Seine. It was beautiful, of course, the kind of deep green that comes with the late summer sun--in a few weeks it will be dark and grey.

I went down to the Seine again today, this time all the way down the Rue St Denis. This time I crossed the river. I walked across Cite, past the Palais de Justice and Ste Chapelle, ending up walking along the upper part to the Pont Neuf, past the fake booksellers where all the tourists stop to get that authentic Parisian souvenir. They also sell Eiffel towers six sizes and three colors. Sigh.

I headed back north again, toward that part of Paris I call home, the part that seems separated from all the tourism, though I know that's an illusion because I often hear English and German. And after all, I am just another tourist, here for a few months, not for a lifetime. But when I get to my street, I start to feel at home. I at least recognize the shops, the vendors and some of the waiters in the cafes--there's no connection other than in my head.

So that is why today, going to the laundry was so important. It marked another step in my attempt to create a routine, a pattern that will ease my fear and give me the strength I need to keep writing.

Where I live

Dear readers, both of you know, as I do, that I should be writing the screenplay instead of this journal, but I am waiting for dinner to warm up, I've had a shot, a beer and half a cigarette. As the desire to write wells up, so does the interest in dragging out the typewriter (my term for the PC I use to write the play) diminish, and here I am writing just to keep writing.

Of the three things I was most curious about discovering when I finally arrived here, at the top of the list was the view out the window. I was careful to choose a place that not only had a window, but which appeared to be well lit with the possibility, at least of a pleasant view. Not included in the photographs of the flat was the view, so I had good reason to be concerned. One flat that I looked at early on had the requisite window, and thankfully the landlord included a shot of the view, which was a wall. Not at all what I had in mind. Turns out, I got very much what I had in mind.

When I arrived last Monday, it was a warm day, and I hiked the six or eight blocks from the Gare du Nord, found the building an texted my contact to check in. Actually, thanks to the internet and my phone--wifi on the train from London to Paris--I had already checked in with her, but the time had come for me to meet her and ah, well, actually speak French for the first time in six years. It would be an understatement to say that I was nervous, even a bit scared, but I kept telling myself that's what I'd come for. Right? Right.

The text came in, "Vouz pouvez montez". Ack. I  crossed the street and said my first bonjour to the man standing next to the building entrance, whom I assumed (correctly it turns out) was the concierge (or guardien, as the sign says on the door of his ground floor flat, next to his horaires)
and  stepped inside the courtyard.

Actually it is more of a corridor, with three story apartments on both sides. Quickly, the address I'd been given by the landlord, Batiment 9, 3eme etage, became apparent. On the left I could see that the numbers of the buildings were going up, and soon I came to number nine. I am familiar enough with this part of living in Paris: one has an address, and then a sort of sub-address that enables things like letters or packages to make it to your door. I opened the door and stepped inside, greeted by exactly what I was expecting, a narrow staircase, with a stone first step and wooden steps up to the concrete landings, a cast iron railing painted gloss black and that smell. People. Food. Paris.

In 1980, when I lived a worked here for a year or so, I lived in very small flat. It was so small, that I couldn't even stand up in half of it. On the top floor of the building, it was just under the roof, so that the slant of the roof literally cut the space in half, vertically as well as horizontally. The two advantages (besides my own toilet and shower) were the two windows. One was one of those classic French windows that open up from about one's waist to the ceiling, opening inward to reveal a delicious view the city skyline. The other was what I friend of mine told me is called a, get this, 'vasisdas' because, I know this will sound lame, and no I haven't fact checked it, when the Germans arrived during WWII they occupied the apartments, and when they encountered the windows in the ceiling, that up up and are propped open for ventilation or opened fully to give access to the roof, the Germans asked, 'was is das?' I said it was lame.

Ok I digress. The current apartment has no wasisdas and has a non-sloping ceiling, but in many other respects it is the same. First of all, it is tiny. It was hard for me to grasp just how small eleven square meters actually is, but when I got to the room, my eyes were wide. I really thought I was in the wrong place, and the contact, Stephanie, saw my wide  eyes and asked me if anything was wrong. Of course, it was just the American in me, and it was hot, I was sweating having hiked up the three floors (83 steps) and terrified at the prospect of having to actually speak French.

Yes, it was the correct apartment, and yes, it is everything I expected and hoped it would be. The window looks out onto the corridor that I walked through to get here--building 12 is at the end, and it's lined with plants and flowering trees. The pavement is cobblestone, though likely from the 20C, and it's clean, light and quiet.

It's also just about twenty feet wide, which means that my window looks almost directly into my across-the-way neighbors on at least two floors. It also means that they have an equally good view of my apartment. Just today I learned while cooking dinner that one of my neighbors across the way is American--I heard her talking to her French husband.

I have actually met one of my two next door neighbors, Ahmed, who lives on the right. I saw but did not meet my neighbor on the left, who has the rest of the third floor. Today I heard her out in the hall, vacuuming, mopping and cleaning, but I was writing and wasn't inclined to greet her while she was at work. In any case, when she retreated to the apartment I set out for a walk and found that she'd put down three new runners on the floor. It's nice to have neighbors that care for their space. All I've done so far is stick a longhorn logo on my front door.

During the day, it's quiet, and at night, the familiar city noises come up along with the smell of cooking and music and tv in a dozen apartments. The courtyard is full of different kinds of light, smells and sounds. I love it. It's why came. Home. Paris.

PS - The other two things? Smell. Check. Internet. Check. 

First Week

Well, dear reader, if you are here, you must know where I am and why I am in Paris. I have just a few notes for this, my first full week.

My flat is tiny. There is literally just enough room for a bed, a table and me. That's enough, though, I am here to write. When I first saw it, the place looked much different than what I was expecting, but that's just the American in me. Now that I have been here a week, I've realized that any more space would simply be a waste.

The quartier is amazingly busy and diverse. I go out for a walk at least twice a day, especially now while the weather is warm and sunny. The streets are packed with pedestrians and the cafes are full. It seems like everyone is smoking, especially in the cafes. The people are remarkably diverse: Africans, Asians, Eastern Europeans and the occasional American like me. Bakeries, butcher shops and vegetable stores are abundant. I can chose from three of each, and that's just in a block two. The food is fresh and looks fabulous, though as I yet I have to go in most of these places, I know in time I will find the ones I prefer and go back until I am recognized as a regular. In the meantime,  I continue to explore and discover places.

Walking in Paris is an art form. One must learn to be quick and nimble, look down for dog poop, look up to make sure you don't run into or over anyone.You must be prepared to step into the street in an instant and return to the sidewalk in the same amount of time, lest you get run over by a car or cyclist. People walk, ride scooters, motorbikes and skateboards. Cars are ubiquitous, of course, but painfully inefficient--I pity the poor drivers trying to get somewhere.

I  haven't seen any 'sights' nor do I want to for a while. I saw the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame last time I was here, and I know they are still there. I've no desire to see them right away. What I want to do is figure out whether or not to turn left or right when I exit the building to get to the grocery store or the bakery. It's wonderful, actually, to have enough time here not to worry about seeing something--there will be time for museums and churches, perhaps. Maybe I'll just stay away from all the 'big' things and learn something about the little things, the shortcuts, the small restaurants, the cool cafes. One thing I see right away--I don't have to go far to see Paris.

I've begun to establish a routine, though it will take longer than a week to get there. Since I don't have to be at work at a particular time, it's a bit challenging to figure out what to  and when. Of course, it's also been an adjustment to sleep, but I think that, too will come with time.

I've been writing. I've already gotten a couple of scenes down and think I am developing some momentum. At least I find myself wanting to write--I was concerned that I would get here and just dry up, but that's not the case. The story is eager to get out and it just takes a few minutes to get it out every day. I started writing on day three, and so far I have managed to sit and work every day since.

I miss my family and friends, of course, but it's only been a week, and the newness and energy far outweighs any sense of loneliness. I suspect when sun disappears and the rain comes, it will be a different matter, but for the moment, I am quite happy, where I want to be. Home.