Greatest Kiss In Mexico - Part 2 of 3

The trip home was long and hot. We couldn't get a cab to take us back to the hotel, so we got a ride to a truck stop tourista stand and then we took the bus to the hotel. From the “Walk of Shame” to the “Ride of the Peon”, we had killed an entire Wednesday in beautiful Puerto Vallarta just to be attacked by Richard and Enzo and the rest of the wool gabardine swarm. We felt dirty and clammy, and that’s just because of the bus ride. We went to a small restaurant just outside of the city with Che’ Alepou’ and Doc and called it a night.

The next morning promised to be better. It was scuba diving time and we were excited. Jim and Lex had boarded the Foca on their last visit. The Foca is an eight meter blue and white bass boat that is really wide with a blue and white striped canopy above. It’s perfect for divers and all their gear. On the last trip, Alexis got sick because the other woman, who did not dive, was smoking Guadalajaran Thai stick in a boat being tossed about the waves. Poor Lex. Seeing how green she looked made our fellow passenger offer her some of her drug, but Lex needed Dramamine.

The Foca sans Javier

The dive was led by the proprietor, Javier. About 1.8 meters tall; curly, deep black hair that was combed only by dips in the sea and a shake of the head; big, round brooding eyes; and a deep brown coloring that was both Latin and a tan presented to him by the Sun God, Ra. Unlike Enzo, Javier got laid. When we met him, he was married to an expatriate Canadian who was perky, blonde and fun. Somehow, you knew it wouldn’t last. Javier is Javier. He is the diver, lover, proprietor; and hearing the faint gasp of Alexis as he emerged from the water told all. Jim might actually get some if only by default. Unfortunately, we arrived at the wrong time and Foca had left without us.

Morning had just broken and the rest of the day was still available, so Jim and Lex headed back to the hotel. At this point many travelers would have been ready to give up. Not Jim and Lex. It was an opportunity to explore and then meet Che’, who was still running down beach-combers and organizing the great timeshare rebellion of ’99; and Doc, who just loved his family no matter how weird. The Marina was the destination, and the whole gaggle made it there without incident. The Marina is a sort of “V” shaped area with El Farro (the Lighthouse) at the vortex.

As much as our revolutionary cohorts were into being on the beach on the water, they were not into being on the dock. The traveling duo however was into traipsing along a pier to see what’s going on inside of the boats. It was dessert time and Doc & Che’ were ready for bed. So we sent them home and continued to explore. Right after El Farro was a restaurant called Cucurucoocoo. The lovely 20 something blond hostess in the black dress invited us in after promising that they had great desserts. We were in, a little mariachi trio, dressed like the "Three Amigos" with Chevy Chase and Steve Martin, greeted us. It was us and a middle aged African American couple off to our right. Our waiter came and we asked him about dessert. He replied, “We have the greatest dessert in all of Puerto Vallarta!” Okay, we thought, what do you have? He replied “Bananas Foster!” We looked at the menu and we saw flan…they were out, “Bananas Foster?!” The menu had a listing for dessert of the day, so we asked about that or Ice Cream. The waiter replied “Bananas Foster!!” We ordered the Bananas Foster.

About the same time the band was wrapping up their set with a Mariachi version of The Eagles' "Please Come Home for Christmas". Lex, naturally, sings the end in harmony with some guy at the table next to us. Turns out he is a 2 meter, 2 stone, Canadian ex-pat who works as a builder/handyman around town. Blondie, the hostess, was his girlfriend. They sat and talked with us for a while. Jeff, the Canadian was waiting on a friend and asked if he could hang with us for awhile. Sure – we pick up strangers all the time, that’s why our vacations are so colorful. Before he sits down the band started up and our waiter arrives, only he is not the enthusiastic “Bananas Foster!!” guy. Now he looks as nervous as a young guy trying to get through the Guadalajara airport security without anyone noticing the 4 kilos of Jalisco cocaine lodged in his rectum. He puts the pan on the table and heats it. He is sweating bullets and dumps the sugar on the untreated pan. At that precise moment a mushroom headed plume of smoke, reminiscent when Enola Gay visited Hiroshima, erupted in the small restaurant. We immediately start laughing our asses off. The African American couple are doubled over from a lethal mix of asphyxia and laughing hysteria. The band plays on while coughing and laughing. Our waiter, now sweating even worse, dumps the booze and banana into the nuclear pan. By the time the dust settles, we have a black ooze banana thing and the kid is hoping we aren’t pissed. I lend him my napkin to wipe his forehead (it stops being a joke when he sweats into my food). I have no idea what was in this obsidian primordial ooze but is was very tasty. The band concludes their set and Lex and the Canadian Ex-pat are harmonizing away.

Then Jeff’s buddy sits down. He introduces us to him. His buddy’s name is Casey and he works in the area. They’ve built stuff together. We start talking college football and turns out he went to TCU and…Then it hits me like a bowl of Bacardi Coconut Rum Jello…It’s Casey Owens! THAT Casey Owens, who works for Mr. Chavez, the richest man in ALL of Mexico. He barely confirms his identity and I belt out “Enzo is an Asshole” I must have said it twice because Lex said he got the point. Casey was a great guy. He confirmed that everything Richard said was bullshit, except that Mr. Chavez was the richest man in all of Mexico and that he married into the business. (Self-made my ass!) Anyway, Casey bought us drinks & the four of us talked up a storm. The restaurant had filled up and we were having a great time.

Suddenly Jeff and Casey became very quiet. So we thought they had tired of us. We have that effect on people. We noticed a very regal Mexican couple, about 60 years old, sat down next to us. They both had jet black hair, white shirts that accentuated their indigenous Mexican tan, a Stetson cowboy hat and the lady had bright red lips with a diamond boulder for her wedding ring. They smiled, so we smiled back and kept drinking. Casey leaned over and asked if he could excuse himself for a minute. He and Jeff got up and joined the table next to us. Then we figured out who the couple was….

We were sitting next to Mr. & Mrs. Chavez the richest man in all of Mexico!

We had attained Mexican Self Actualization! Casey sat down and before his ass hit the chair I said “That’s Mr. Chavez, the richest man in all of Mexico!” Casey said 'yes' and I asked if he told him that Enzo was an asshole. Lex told me to cool it. The night went on for an hour or so. Casey and Jeff picked up our check and Jeff says “It’s refreshing to hang with people like you.” Then Lex whispers “Yeah, real little people like you.” She saved the best joke for last. Casey and Jeff were fun and nice and capped off a wild evening. The next day was good but it was our Rhythm of the Night cruise and we had to get to go back to the Marina.

Greatest Kiss In Mexico - Part 1 of 3

The Happy Adventuristas

Tourists are targets. Not terror targets but exploitation targets. I would like to say we are wary travelers but sometimes we get sucked into the craziest things. Fortunately, voyagers Jim and Lex have astounding rebounding capabilities, and at the least you will receive a great story. On this Puerto Vallarta trip we got a lot more.

Developers outnumber tourists in Puerto Vallarta and they have employed virtually 87.6% of the Jalisco state in the capacity as “advertinistas”. People who get paid to bug you with brochures ad nauseum. You can barely hike a cobble-stoned block without a native handing you a “gift” that only requires “…a short 90 minute presentation for time share." They all make promises but really it's just annoying.

Doc, Lex & Silver Alepou' @ Chicos Paradise

My In-Laws, Doc & the Silver Alepou' (fox in Greek), wanted to take us to a place called Chico’s Paradise. A mountainside restaurant and walking area where Mexikids would dive off the cliffs into the water for touristas loose change. The fresh fruit was great – his name was Tony…oops, that’s another story. Chico's served this fruit cup in a half watermelon, and it was delicious. Next to what Kim Bassinger did for strawberries in “9 ½ Weeks”, I don’t think a fruit cup exists that was this good. We sat above a pool of water that was fed by a small waterfall. I guess we were 20 meters (notice metric when in Mexico) above the aqua. Tan jagged rocks flanked a small tributary (that’s what they’re called when they aren’t old or long enough to be rivers). These rocks went up about another 40 meters. Touristas could walk the rocks, but not jump into the pool of water below. I don’t think insurance was a concern because you could walk on the rocks but there was no railing to hold onto (otherwise this would have been OSHA’s paradise).

Rather, revenue was the concern. No Mexikid would want to be shown up by an overweight tourista wearing black socks, sandals and outfitted in the latest Tommy Bahama wear that would equal his family’s annual income for two years. As we were watching the diving exhibition, a young man from New York presented himself as the assistant manager.

Clue #1: we missed: everyone has a title. However, he was confident and asked us how we were enjoying our food. He also noticed that your favorite wacky couple was eyeing one of those half size magazines that list all the things to do in Puerto Vallarta (if you were willing to advertise). We were discussing the merits of the “Rhythm of the Night” cruise. We would be ferried off to an island, once rented by Sam Houston that had no electricity, for a wonderful, candlelight dinner that would guarantee awesome island sex because of the great food, ambiance and endless supply of liquor – which would flow like a river, not a tributary. Touristas Jim & Lex have always found talking with the indigenous people of an area has produced great results. So, we asked what he thought. Our assistant manager said it was really nice, and if we were willing to wait through a “90 minute presentation” we could have free tickets. Jaded by another experience, we declined his offer because who wants an obnoxious sales call on vacation? He assured us that it would be no problem; the Mayan Palace did not operate this way. So we said, “Sure”.

On Wednesday, we set out for Nuevo Vallarta to see the Mayan Palace Condos. Doc & the Silver Alepou' were ready to look for some new digs, too. Their timeshare hotel was selling timeshare rooms to Apple Vacations. Che’ Alepou was starting a timeshare insurrection, and was combing the beaches for timeshare owners to join her rebellion. Looking at new property with her kids could provide greater leverage dealing with the hotel Junta.

Our cab brought us to the property. Twin pristine white columns soared 12 meters into the air, a gauzy, yellow fabric that rolled in the wind above us served as the canopy. The terra cotta drive spilled into a terra cotta tile foyer that was larger than the airport. The lobby was a wide open expanse that looked out over the property and the ocean. There were no walls except for the registration desk where we signed in. Only columns and blue water. Doc & Che’ Alepou' signed in also. We sat down with Richard. An expatriate from San Francisco, Richard was about two meters tall, 85 Kilos, black hair, brown eyes and wore designer black wool gabardine pants, a gray silk shirt and black Italian leather sandals with a tight weave. He started by telling us to keep an open mind and not rush to judgment. This was NOT going to be like those other timeshare presentations or properties. As we started the get-to-know you phase, his boss, Enzo, called him over. We couldn’t see Enzo very well, but he was with Doc & Che’ (their hair being the only thing whiter than the columns made them easy to spot). Richard came back and asked us if we could combine the sales call.

Warning Flag #1: Doc & Che’ were sized up to be an easier and more lucrative hit based on demographics than the wacky couple. Statistics were more plentiful than on ESPN’s web site. Richard had already started giving us the statistics about the great investment of timeshare before Enzo pulled him over. They also knew that statistics preyed on the elderly, so the get-it-now-give-it-to-your-kids pitch was loaded and ready to fire. We emphatically said no, we were looking for ourselves. Enzo insisted a second time, but we started to head back to revolutionary headquarters, and so they backed down. Plus, I didn’t know who this Enzo character was, but he didn’t make a good impression.

Because it was surrounded by water, we had to take the property’s special ferry along a series of manmade inlets to get to the hotel. The water was a deep blue and fountains from the middle of the inlets interrupted our mini canal ride. Richard explained to us that Mr. Chavez was the richest man in Mexico, and he decided this would be his ultimate resort. (That’s equivalent to saying Mr. Smith is the richest person in America). He had other businesses but Mr. Chavez took particular pride in this property. The Chavez story punctuated our ride until we got off the golf cart ferry.

We walked the grounds. Richard pointed out that our timeshare allowed us to golf on the in-construction golf course. It did not include greens fees, cart fees, or caddy fees, but it was just like belonging to a country club for the length of our stay, except for greens fees, cart fees, and caddy fees. The property was grandiose. A tall, yellow turret separated two long sets of hotel rooms that were about 5 stories high. In front was a pool that had the shape of an amoeba. Fountains sprung from the pools, too. Lex envisioned lying by the pool reading the newest slut fantasy from Danielle Steele or Jackie Collins while Jim toiled at the golf course for half the day. Jim envisioned paying for greens fees, or cart fees on top of the exorbitant fee that it cost to get this place, while Lex read the prose of the Queens of American Literature, Danielle and Jackie. Richard didn't have to talk; we were already getting to like the place. Then we got the tour of the actual rooms.

They seemed spacious, but were decorated in a Catskills New England motif: all browns and plaid. The views were great and expansive, but imagine giving Doug on “Trading Spaces” instructions to make a Mexican hideaway, but then he did his Catskill Contempo. The rooms were dungeon dark. After all the pristine white stucco, we were in America again. Alexis never got past this, and the dreaming that we did prior had evaporated into the morning sky. Still, we were intrigued.

Richard escorted us to the sales cabana and offered us a cold nonalcoholic beverage. We hadn’t talked price yet; we were at the guarantee and amenity stage. Richard whipped out a white three ring binder filled with plastic covered sheets that showed internal correspondence. Mr. Chavez had hired Casey Owens, a young American right out of Texas Christian University (TCU) ten years ago. Casey had worked himself up the ranks from sales guy to the right hand man of the richest man in all of Mexico, Mr. Chavez. Richard pointed out, “He was one of us”. Casey had signed several documents that assured the quality of the Mayan Palace. Warning Flag #2: True official correspondence is NOT done in Microsoft PowerPoint on colored paper. That is usually done by an employee’s son or daughter who is “good with computers”. Casey had signed a lot of PowerPoint slides.

Now for the wind-up. Richard fires the curveball. He gives us the price, and, out of nowhere, appears Enzo, his boss, to get a status. We couldn’t even swing the bat.

Warning Sign #3: Enzo. Ethnic Mediterranean people rarely speak about a certain part of their heritage. In Greek, it’s Manga Man. I’m sure Italians, Spaniards, and the Portuguese have a different name, but all loathe seeing the Manga Man. Enzo, like Richard, was about two meters high, 85 Kilos, and had a deep brown, George Hamilton tan. His hair was jet black, combed straight back, and held in place by a Valvoline 5W 40 oil treatment. Beady, brown eyes were a distraction to the bright white teeth he flashed. His black silk shirt opened to a field of black hair punctuated by two gold medallions hanging off two gold chains. He had on black wool gabardine slacks with at least seven pleats per side. His black alligator belt with the shiny silver buckle rested just above where his navel (probably filled with lint dating back to 1968) rested. His Italian accent would have seemed cosmopolitan had it not been for his slick and distrustful look.

We Mediterraneans’ know “Enzos”. They’re the ones on the make, who give normal Mediterranean men a bad name. They talk but don’t listen, and speak a foreign language when around others who are not of their ethnicity. Enzo had already lost the Mitchell’s; now we were the next victims. Fortunately, Enzo’s stay was short. But the next fastball came, and we were given no privacy to discuss each pitch as it came. Finally, Richard realized he couldn't outlast us. He said to write a number down that we thought would work. We talked and put down $12,000 for a one bedroom timeshare. Richard said he would have to talk to Enzo.

We knew the number was low, but we figured that they would counter with something close and we could go from there. Richard’s blathering about “once in a lifetime”, “legally we can’t offer this again”, and “call your accountant and he’ll show you that the numbers make sense” were all calculated into forcing us into a decision. We knew this, but the property was nice and if we got it for that cheap, then it was worth it. As we mulled over what we had just done we realized that our 90 minute presentation was at 2 ½ hours and counting. Richard still hadn’t come back with Enzo, and nobody came to refill our drinks.

Enzo & Richard had tired us out, and we were willing to wait, but not wait, and wait, and wait, and wait. After 20 minutes, we got up to leave. Enzo was behind the cabana just sitting there trying to make us sweat. We were little people in his universe of hot chicks, cold drinks, and gold chains. I believe if he had gotten laid as much as he thought he did, he probably would have been more relaxed. Seeing Enzo just pissed us off and we started to head back. Of course, we had no idea how to get back, but Richard intercepted us and asked us if we had made a decision. We said, “yes”, and the answer was “no”, and Jim gave vivid instructions to Richard on what acts Enzo would have to perform on various body parts in order to even get us to think about going back to the table. Richard said he would take us back and get our Rhythm of the Night Tickets.

Apparently, when potential targets say “no” it means that they must take the “Walk of Shame”. No more golf cart ferry on the beautiful water. Instead, we had to walk about 2 kilometers back to where we started, along a path lined by dead grass, with the property to our backs. Richard didn’t even talk to us. He joined a petite, pasty-white salesgirl who wore a gabardine pinstripe skirt cut just below the knees and a peach sleeveless, collared shirt. She had honey blonde hair. We can’t tell you much more because they walked about 4 meters in front of us. They both had tight butts, though.

We filled out an exit survey, vented on that a bit and collected our tickets. Richard wished us well, and I asked for business cards because Jan from work was coming next week and I said that she might like to look. Richard said that statistics show that no one gives referrals to timeshare sales people. Basically it was, “Good-bye little people from Indiana, you unsophisticated little urchins”. At this point we suggest that you go to the Mayan Palace and ask for Richard. We left tired and pissed that we got sucked into a 4-hour waste of time. The Rhythm of the Night would simply be our Webelos badge of Attrition & Stamina….However that was just the beginning.

Working Out At 50 - 10 Fitness Thoughts

Working Out At 50 - 10 Fitness Thoughts

With a 3 Paragraph Preamble

Journey, AC/DC and Montrose were blaring on the 8-Track on the way to wrestling practice in Jeff Neeley’s red car. We would put on our smelly grey or blue gym shorts and hit the weight room, run four miles, wrestle around on the mat for a few hours and lance a boil with a pocket knife. We would sweat, smell and lose weight on a daily basis. Life was simpler then.

Today it is much different with a few things the same– first my body is simply a gelatinous mass that moves on its own, not the 162 pound machine it was from 1978 to 1983. At 51 I am tired and stressed from work. I would prefer to chase photography, read Voltaire In Exile (it’s 1,000 pages without pictures…it will be a while anyway), play my 1968 Sunburst American made Fender Telecaster and explore a city. However, somewhere along the way you realize a cold is not a cold…it could be death. So, after hearing my friend, Mike, talk about his brother’s heart attack at 53 (Mike explained how they opened him up and found that diabetes had ravaged his body). I knew a change was required. My two best friends are my wife, the Love Goddess, and my little brother Johnny, the only child. I need to stay healthy for them. The alternative can’t be my legacy.

I’m a Type 2 Diabetic because I let myself go to hell. I’m here because of me. It’s been a three year pogrom that is still evolving. I am roughly 20 pounds away from my eventual goal. My glucose readings have been cut in half and my blood pressure has dropped considerably. Here is what I have learned along the way:

1. - Girls Are Different – Duh, but my good friend Nicki got Alexis and I working out. She would have those bootcamp workouts. I was the only guy. The women all made me feel welcome and would high-five each other after each rep. It’s like High Fiving myself after every paragraph. It’s fine but different…

2.  - Music Part 1– The music in those early days – Miley Cyrus, Eminem & whatever else were just too saccharin from the old 8 Track days. My playlist has Santana, Sam & Dave, CeeLo, Johnny Winter, Jimi Hendrix, Stevie Ray, Imelda May. I just couldn’t get it going the same way with that other stuff. Plus the songs time my workout.

 

3. - Zumba is For Girls – I have always been invited and felt welcome at the Zumba classes I’ve attended. However, I am a gelatinous mass. Women have control over certain muscles that men don’t (that works on two levels doesn’t it). Women shake their money maker and I’m making $2.74 in change.

4. - MyFitnesspal – Nicki got me started on this online/phone app and it has been the only time in my life when I recorded my food journal. Virtually every food you try, including Greek cookies like Kourabiedes or Koulourakia is listed. Better yet, it’s free. It’s indispensable on my journey to less gelatinousness. I highly recommend it.

 

5. - FitBit – Simply the best pedometer and software. Works with myfitnesspal and tracks everything. Since it updates myfitnesspal automatically it really helps me stay on track. It also doesn’t set of metal detectors at the airport…very cool.

 

6. - Simplify Nutrition –Do I watch calories, sodium, carbs or sugar? Ask 100 people and you will get 16 different answers. I was pretty confused. Kirstin is the nutrition specialist that really helped. She said “Control one.” I have chosen calories and that has seemed to help. Also eat three meals and don’t skip. I have gone from 2,500 calories to 1,700 calories and I may drop that down soon, but I am still losing and finally have a semi-workout routine so…not yet.

7. - Fitness Center Not Gym – I work out at a fitness center where they have Purell to clean and sanitize your workout area. What? Did Rocky have sanitizer when he chased that chicken or did the one armed push-ups? Clubber Lang used a towel to do pull-ups. Louden Swain sweat climbing the peg wall in Visionquest. Purell? WTF! I comply but….just…I give up.

 

8. - Cartoon People are still Cartoon People. Cartoon People are the ones who sculpt there body and have to let everyone know with a primal scream or exhale after every rep. (Others just work out and sculpt there body…they are cool). My favorite story actually is about the Only Child and Jabo. They had just gone to college and were working out at the Fitness Barn. A Cartoon Character was working out. When he was done the Only Child asked for help with the weights. The Cartoon Character said he would remove the weights, the Only Child replied, “Take away? I need another 50 lbs on each side.” Classic. They are still annoying.

 

9. - Jock Straps Were Cheaper – I now need compression shorts, compression shirts and no cotton. Huh? No cotton? Polyester? I thought Poly Ester was a Pi Phi that I…um she was a Pi Phi. I know these synthetic compression clothes lets your body breathe and holds everything in better. Still, a jock is like $7 – compression shorts are $65. I could almost live with that but no cotton? I’ll look less fashionable, sweat and stay retro in my cotton t-shirt and sweatshirt. Plus, in all that skin tight stuff, I would look like a Polish Sausage with a Lycra casing. There are options to cover up, use them. Please.

 

10. -    Music 2 – Last night I was working out at the Fitness Center. It is small with treadmills, bikes and weightlifting machines on one side and an open area for classes on the other side. The center has a dated but huge Sony boom box for the classes. You can use the Sony IF you are the only person in the gym or you get permission from others at the fitness center. I have already mentioned my rock and soul playlist. A married couple put on “The Message” on Sirrius XM. They played it louder than the music in my headphones. It was this sappy, folk guitar crap. I have nothing against Christian music but at the gym, oops, fitness center, so loud? At the pause between songs on my iPod I kept hearing a moan from the radio that sounded as if Vince Gill stepped on Amy Grant during child birth. AAArrrrrrrrgghhhh – I wanted to punch them back to Orthodoxy. It was so annoying and disrespectful. I stayed above it but….

So there you have it. My health journey so far – I hope to see you 20 pounds less from now.

The Irish Were Greek

My travels produce many stories where I meet many unique people. I should write more of these travels down but this was a most important occasion that does require a written record.

I was working in Snottsdale. One woman, Mary, somehow mentioned that she was getting her PHD in Celtic Studies. She pointed out that her PHD has nothing to do with "Eastern Mysticism" meaning, "I have more research to do on why the druids mated with Leprachans inside stonehenge to produce the Faeries of the East. Rather her studies have to do with contemporary celticism & storytelling." How do you market that?

None the less I asked the question:

Were the Irish really Greek?

She answered, and I quote, "...probably, in fact, yes"

Stunned, I explained to her how she vindicated my Grandfather who always maintained the Irish were Greek and we always laughed. She said she could relate because she was 1/2 Irish  and 1/2 Greek. (Her grandfather was the exact opposite of my Papou in that he forbade his children to speak Greek so they could assimilate better.)

According to the Gaelic book, Lebhar Gebhar Erenn, which is part of a series of three books detailing the founding of Ireland, the Milesians, who were of Greek origin, sailed and invaded Ireland and defeated the Fumari Tribe which inhabited the island at the time. Then the victorious Milesians mated with the leftover women who had lost there men to the victors and promptly populated Ireland.

Mary did point out that earlier texts than the Lebhar Gebhar Erenn say that Mil was Egyptian and stole his wife Scotia at the tower of babel....and who cares, she lost me at Babel.

So, my grandfather, James Demopoulos, has been vindicated and if you don't believe me than show me where I'm wrong in the Lebhar Gebhar Erenn.

SLANTE

HAPPY SAINT PATRICK'S DAY

Still in Paris #20-29

20.     If you are lost, be lost with confidence. You’re in a foreign country. Your parents have hammered in to your skull that thievery is so rampant, even gynecologists and proctologists are amazed how deep a thief can get into your pockets. You have watched “Taken” and your dad is not Liam Neeson. You are male, so using a map is absolutely not an option or listening to your wife, for that matter. The key is to walk as if you are going that way, on purpose. Stride confidently. Look for interesting shops to visit and walk in. Not only do you discover some really neat places but you look marvelously confident and stylish. That bullseye on your tourista back got a little smaller because, after all, you are a tourist but you are not stupid. You are a confident idiot, and that is much different. The Parisians never stole from Jerry Lewis for a reason.

21.     The best flight ever. I would like to thank American Airlines for an absolutely first class experience to Paris. The service was great. The chairs were comfortable and I am still wondering how I lost my wife into the chair. I know she hit the bottom left button and I suddenly saw her ankles, then she asked me to hit her middle right button, I saw her gluteus maximus. Then she hit a button, giggled and she was gone till right before we landed. I had fun with the travel kit we got and watched “Mud” with Reese Witherspoon. I turned my travel socks into puppets as they performed “Metamorphosis” and “No Exit” as a comedy, Kabuki style. The converted sock puppets were better than Reese Witherspoon trying to act slutty. They may do Shakespeare’s “Coriolanus”, it sucks as a play and no one has seen it, and it would still be better than Reese Witherspoon in “Mud”. The food was good, but most of all the Flight Crew was awesome. By far the best flight greater than three hours I have ever had. I think Alexis is still stuck in that seat, hitting the middle left button, and chain smoking Pall Mall filterless cigarettes.

23.     Arrrrggggg, stop emailing me – Turn off all electronic devices. Get a European burner phone for emergencies. You are on vacation, cut the tether. It took me three days to ignore all the e-mails I was getting. While I had a small crap storm upon my return, it had nothing to do with the e-mails that I received in Paris. Just cut the link!

Martin - our tour leader and now friend.

THE Embassy of Texas.

24.     The Embassy of Texas – A strategy we took on our trip was to take private tours in each city we visited. In Paris we actually took three (General, Louvre, Food). All the tours were 1^st class. The first one was with Martin (http://parisbymartin.com/tours). It was a 3 hour tour, a three hour tour, that’s what he promised, just like the SS Minnow. I think I was Gilligan & Lex was Maryann. Martin lied, it was close to 6 hours and it was only because Alexis & I couldn’t go another hour. Hell, we couldn’t go another 10 feet, oops 3 meters. We left him at the Seine.

Martin is a young South American expat. Martin is a thin guy in his late 20s, has short, black curly hair, and an unshaven beard ala Don Johnson from his Miami Vice heyday. He met us at our hotel with this large 28” rollerbag. You would have to check at the airport & they may tag it with a “Heavy” tag. If you were in the Mafioso you would use it as a body transport bag. He greets us at the hotel and whips out a map that he had colored for us based on previous e-mail conversations. He showed us where we were at and said we were on the “Happy” side of the Seine River, because when you turn the map upside down the river frowns. I’ll always know Paris North by the smiling Seine River. So we go for a walking tour and he shares stories upon stories. Alexis & I eagerly eat it up. Heck, we would be happy finding Paris’ biggest ball of twine! We first go by the Embassy of Texas. The Embassy of What the H…..? Texas? Yes, when they became their own state and before they joined the USA, they were independent and opened up Embassies. France was the first one to recognize Texas. Was it the 10 gallon hats that made them recognizable? I digress. Martin turns to Alexis and me and asks, “Are people from Texas different?” Through our laughter we told him “yes” and the laughter and smiles would go on the rest of the night.

Martin's customized map.

How they measure the meter...really...the Embassy of Texas is off to the left, so yeah no crap.

After walking around Paris we hopped the Metro to go to the Eiffel Tower. (Yes, Lex and I broke into a short version of Berlin’s The Metro.) We get to the Eiffel Tower and it is magnificent. We had seen it during the day 24 hours earlier, but it was majestic. You felt like you were 40, 60, 80 years back in time…right up until the pesky street peddlers would bump into you. The third one felt a sharp Greek elbow and that seemed to do the trick. I never had a hankering to hang out at the Eiffel Tower, but now I just wanted to stand and gaze at the yellow din of the lights. Martin sat us down in an area where everyone seemed to be having a picnic. The only exception was the older photographer with the much younger girl. He kept making her jump in front of the tower at night. It was slightly annoying for 5 minutes. Martin goes into the big bag and pulls out a Cheese board with the different regions of France etched on it, pulls a few baguettes and opens a bottle of red wine. He had purchased cheeses from each region, carefully arranged them on the board and then told us about each region. He also put a black T-Shirt on the bag that said “Paris by Martin”. I would have purchased a T-Shirt but they were slightly smaller than my socks…if I wore socks.

He endeared himself to Lex for life when he saw a small Parisian rat. He turned to Lex and said “Ratatouille!” The roar of laughter between them was deafening and infectious. We would go to the Sarbonnes and then to Notre Dame, where he told us the story of every gargoyle and nook and cranny of the doors to the cathedral. It was a tremendous amount of information. His energy level was actually higher after midnight. We would walk around St. Germaine and we noticed all the Greek Restaurants…even in Paris we can’t escape our Greek food service heritage. We walked by the most narrow street in all of Paris, and then we had to stop. We hated to, but we also wanted to be ready for our trip to the Louvre and we were hoping we could actually walk. It was almost 2am and we had just had one of the most special nights ever. (I should point out that I read about Martin on Trip Advisor. He only had 8 reviews when I read about the tour. Today he has 121 reviews. On a 5 star rating system, 119 were perfect. Martin rocks.)

St. Germaine

The doors of Notre Dame A.

The doors of Notre Dame B.

Where we left Martin. Magic one the "Happy Face" Seine River.

25.     “He's a socialist lawyer, so he's cheap.” During our picnic, Martin told us about setting up his business. He said he had a lawyer doing a lot of work. I thought that cost a lot of money and that’s when Martin said, “He's a socialist lawyer, so he's cheap.” I just laughed and laughed. That phrase can be interpreted in many ways…all of them funny.

26.     If you’re about to die in Paris, look to the ceiling. That's where the emergency exit sign you missed is. The sign is green and flush to the ceiling. I just remember having a cup of coffee, looking up and seeing the exit sign pasted to the ceiling. So your last words in a fire would be – “Oh, it’s that way…cough.” Fade to black.

The Starry Night

27.      Vinnie Van Gogh is awesome. Starry Night is almost iridescent. Little Paulie Gauguin did relief work. We got to the Musee D'Orsay and what a great surprise, especially if you love impressionist and post-impressionist art. “Artwork should never be hung on a white wall”. Somebody said that – I don’t know who. Each gallery area had a dark wall which made the artwork just pop straight off the wall. Van Gogh’s genius is immediately on display when you see Starry Night. It almost twinkles in the swirls of the stars. I had seen Van Gogh in New York and Chicago, but this was just surreal. I felt I could just walk through the streets and find his ear. The walls were a deep blue and absolutely made all of his work almost levitate. Every gallery in the world should walk through and take notes. I left with a new appreciation for Van Gogh.

After Van Gogh was the Gauguin gallery. I really enjoy him and realized that he did carvings, too. While the carvings were cool, I still really like his artwork. The walls were a deep maroon red and it really made the carvings pop too. Just like the blue did for Van Gogh.

Ugliest Children ever.

The Shining Twins, less scary than the children by Van Gogh.

28. Your kids are fucking ugly if Van Gogh can't make them look even remotely attractive. I was sucking in the brilliance of Van Gogh when I had to exhale at the hideousness of two young children. OMG! Look to my left, pure beauty with a mundane object. Look to my right, I want to dive into that dreamy landscape from the bad Robin Williams movie “What Dreams May Come” (although Annabella Sciorra was smoking hot in the movie). Then I see these kids that make “The Shining” twins look comedic and fun. Holy Crap! Those children were hideous, and the parents were likely proud of the portrait. I need a shower just thinking about it.

Whistler's homey and huge mom.

29.     Whistler’s Mom is huge, but they don't like it when you whistle and yell "mom". This is a classic painting that I can check-off on one of those buzzfeed.com quizzes that says I was there. I was impressed with the sheer enormity of the painting. It was maybe 6 feet tall by 8 feet wide. It was huge. I appreciated it. Then I turned to Lex and whistled and said “Mom?! Mom?!” then I got the definite vibe I made too much noise and it was time to move on.

It's just better at night!

30. Eiffel Tower at night is better. As I mentioned earlier – it is just so cool at night. It’s worth mentioning again because it was magical.

Europa Thoughts 11-19

11.     Anything cold is challenging except for champagne. Air conditioning is different in France, and all of Europe, as we would learn. Our hotel rooms never got cold, but one of the neatest parts of the day was in the afternoon. The hotel would put out a silver bucket with a script insignia. Inside the bucket were 4 bottles of champagne: One was a rose` champagne, another amber, and two, well, champagne colored. The bottles were tilted on the side of the bucket, sweating with condensation around the regal insignia that had the crossed flags, a taloned, winged creature and a banner at the bottom. It was in French, so I have no clue what it said.  Since, champagne is French, I’m in Paris, it’s warm…I tried all 4! Mmmmmmm. I don’t care for rose` champagne in the states and it sucks in France, too. However, the champagne colored champagne was dry, bubbly and delicious. That is French air conditioning….champagne. Since I was the only guy there, the staff loved me. Oooooh lala! My kind of air conditioning. 

Cheesey Picture!

 12.     Cheese and wine all day, baby! Gotta love the French. My eating schedule got totally screwed up starting in France. However, the greatest surprise was getting to eat cheese and bread every afternoon and then some. While this would turn into a daily occurrence throughout Europe, it started here….so the French get the credit today.

 13.     Turning into a child. Growing up, my Papou (grandfather) would regale me with stories about ancient Greece and its impact on the world. After all, Greece is the center of the universe. Papou’s teaching wouldn’t stop at just Greece. He would talk about history’s great minds, and the Greek influence. Mom, who spoke French, would also tell tales of France. My Yiayia and Papou had taken me to Greece in the 6th grade. I remember every moment of that trip even though it was the summer of 1972 or 1973. I actually took French lessons from Mrs. Iatridis, an Egyptian Greek. When she went to Paris, all I wanted was a red beret. (It was ixnayed by a mother who shall remain nameless, Mom.) Now I’m walking the streets by the Cannon Monument, (with Baby Napoleon on top…oops he was just short) by racks of red, blue, black and purple berets. I realize the beret from North Beach, San Francisco, where the great Beat Poets spewed their verse means a whole lot more to me. (That beret is hidden by the Love Goddess. It is black.) The reason all of this is important is that somewhere, whether it was getting lost walking around, enjoying my wine and pecorino cheese, seeing artwork and masterpieces every day, I was sliding into that moment of dreaming what it would be like in Paris…and I’m here. 

Hotel Biron

Balzac and his pile.

14.     The Rodin Museum was great, very tactile and open. François-Auguste-René Rodin is, in my little cultural dojo, one of the greatest sculpturers (is that a word?) ever. I was formally introduced to Rodin’s work when I went to Philadelphia. I was on my way to run up the stairs at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. These are the stairs that Rocky ran up and, like Rocky, raise my hands in victory when I accidently came across Rodin’s museum. It was hard to miss the Thinker pondering, “Why the hell am I in Philadelphia?” So I decided to check out the rest and there it was, the Gates of Hell. Based on Dante’s Inferno (an all-time favorite book) figures are struggling to get out of the bronze block as if someone has put a piece of cellophane over their face. Over 180 struggling people damned to a circle of hell. Rodin, from this point forward, has had my full attention.

Rocky at the top of the stairs.

 

Seamus and the Thinker.  Mitch G insists this is not the original Thinker. The picture above is the Thinker done by Rodin AND at Rodin's house. Seamus was added.

 

Sculpture of Seamus - #48 on your tour phone.

Up late one night with nothing on Skinamax and Alexis asleep, I came across a movie with Isabelle Adjani and Gerard Depardieu called Camille Claudel. Subtitled, the movie is the biography of Camille Claudel who was apprentice, artist/craftsman, muse and lover to Rodin. Oh yeah, Rodin was married. It’s a great movie. The movie took place at Hotel Birron, and then suddenly I am here! 

Movie Poster

 The museum was his home (Hotel Biron), a white brick, two-story mansion (by today’s standards). It has three peaks, with the middle section double the size of the two flanking peaks. It is perfectly symmetrical, which is ironic because Rodin is absolutely asymmetrical. Walking into the left section we are immediately greeted by sculptures with a green-black patina and some soft white sculptures. Honore de Balzac grabbed my attention because he was naked with, at first glance, a pile of poop from the floor to his butt. St. John the Baptist was also there. As we walked through the museum I was struck at how it was so tactile, getting right up on the sculptures, people taking pictures. The experience was fun and different. (Unlike the gestapo/stazi volunteers in Dusseldorf).

Gates of Hell Close-Up.

Seamus workin' the ladies like Hanako above.

The Kiss sculpture was there but the sculpture that captured the most passion to me was called “The Mature Age”. A young woman is on her knees, reaching with an outstretched hand to an older man’s hand yet not touching. The older man is standing with his left hand to the young woman, but on his right shoulder is an old woman, her right arm in control of his, glaring at the old man. The old man looks to the ground, his head tilted toward the old woman, a look of resignation is on his face. Wow, then you learn that Camille Claudel likely did the work and you realize two things: 1) That’s Rodin, his wife and hot, younger lover. 2) Camille Claudel was the Alanis Morrissette of the 1880s and 1890s. Wicked cool! 

The Mature Age

15.     You're not in America, they watch but don't suckle to your nipple. I would love to blame another nationality, but unfortunately we Americans can be a boorish pain in the ass. Speaking loudly in a restaurant, in the third person, does not help get better service. Every meal is an event. It’s a huge departure from ‘fast food’ America. The waiters are watching for a break in the action. They want to see if you are done eating and talking, then they will visit the table. I noticed it more than the Love Goddess. 

16.     Yes they speak English, but it is a second language and they don't speak slang. Along the same lines as #15. The Parisians that we came across would speak English, but it is a second language. Jokes with words don’t translate which explains the French Jerry Lewis phenomenon.  

17.     ‘Bunny ears’ are funny in any language. I have two bad habits that are fun. 1) If you leave your camera unattended I take a selfie. 2) I love giving unsuspecting photographers bunny ears when they are taking a picture. Typically, the people smile and laugh in the picture. People laugh at that here in the States and they do in France too. Laughter is the world’s universal language.18.     All these people can't be skinny! Where are the fat people? Holy Crap! I’m walking down the street in St. Germaine and I realize I could fit four French people in my khaki pants, two in each pant leg. Is there a farm in Provence where they send the fat people to the Charles André Joseph Marie de Gaulle Camp for the Non-Skinny? 

No fat people, couples in a variety of mixes.

  18.     Couples come in all shapes, sizes and age combinations. Everybody loves everybody. It was cool to see such diversity in every relationship. The common element was passion for each other. I enjoyed that.