silverrevolver

I'm not sure whether or not you would call the Sunset Cafe a bar or a club. If you had to break it down it is probably a little of both like almost all bars in France. A damp cellar, stone walls, smoke, sweat, no proper ventilation. A stuffy stone death trap with arched ceilings. The bartender is a platinum blonde with tattoos, she always smiles warmly as I order my wine. I attempt to give off the false impression that my French is good. I quickly go through that sort of shit international small talk one is forced to engage in every city on the continent that has students. I smile, as I recieve my change and I took my usual place in the corner.

I was early. I have not yet let go of that Anglo-American concept of punctuality. I arrive five minutes early and wait for forty-five minutes, as the French and those who have lived here for any period of time are always late for social engagements. I was prepared as always, and opened my book and nursed my wine. I was probably looking quite morose as I always do when reading -- concentrating makes the lines in my brow deepen and my eyes squint.

Next thing I know two woman are standing in front of my table, my book has been taken from me and they are studying the cover and flipping through it. They then sit and introduce themselves. They are half Columbian, half french. One studies law, the other biology. I try to speak to them in Spanish, but my Spanish is already rusty and the similer syntax always mixes me up and broken French comes out instead. This is alright, one gets used to it. It is actually nice to be forced to slow your conversation. French People always waves their hands at me and say, "You speak so fast!" When I say nice, I don't actually mean that I enjoy it., I mean it is good for you, like roughage. Next thing I know their friends have arrived and I am surrounded by four women, all of their names escape me. One is a tiny latin girl with big glasses and no rythym, the other a French girl that looks like an Italian Catholic. I learn that she is an evangelical Christian, the rest inform me that they are socialists. By the time my friend arrive I am surrounded by Socialists.

A word about my friends. Louis is a tall philosphy student from Bakersfield California, home of big cars with the horns of bulls on the hood and western country music. He is morose and dry, his French is perfect. He looks too normal for his own good, but then the Kantian run of mouth begins. He says fuck a lot. He also claims to have invented the term "cunt glove". David is from Malta, he went to school in Londan and he does not understand my distaste for England, he loves it as much as he loves to complain. He is short, greasy, but not in an Italian way, he has very well manicured facial hair, including a slightly camp "chin triangle". He always uses languidge as an excuse, he doesn't meet a girl, it's because he doesn't speak French. I think it's because he stands in the corner and stares. Nobody likes "that guy". I tell him that he needs to let go of his insecurity.

"Fuck man, if she rejects you at least you won't be able to understand what she says to you."

"I know it just makes me so nervous. When I was in London I fucked many French girls."

This conversation happens every night, so I shrug my shoulders and return to the dance floor. He usually pulls a runner within the hour.



...To be continued. It will be done by the end of the day. I just have much to do, even without furniture moving can be a pain.