My favourite things to capture when traveling are the little details that belie the true life of a local. One may get a general sense of a city from the weather and architecture and language, but to travel and eat and shop like they do here is the most enriching experience.
I’m so lucky to be here.
The hotel manager is something of a bumbling old man who barely speaks a lick of English and wears a checkered sweater and cap even though it’s boiling outside. When I asked him for his name, he said, “Monsieur ________”. “And you”, he said, “are Mr. Laenin”?, as the room was booked under Karin’s name. I laughed and shook my head. “Better you with a girl than a boy with a boy”, he said, touching the tips of his index fingers to represent some nondescript relation he didn’t approve of. Even though it was a completely homophobic comment, his Parisian charm almost let him get away with it. Almost.
Every time I see him now, he asks me if she slept over last night. I think he assumes I came to Paris for some kind of booty call.
It hasn’t quite clicked in that I’m here yet. I was occupied with so much back home that this trip forever felt like it was far away, even when I was flying out the next day. It’s Ascension Day in France — a country made up mostly of Roman Catholics — so everyone has the day off and most shops are closed.
9:30pm and it’s still bright out.
During the day it’s close to 30°C, and the heat makes certain smells come out in Montmatre, reminiscent of Chinese marketplaces (though nowhere near as pungent). The temperature drops to a brisk temperature in the evening though, and one needs to carry a coat or sweater when traveling at night.
I find myself in Paris once again, this time for a video contract over the next 10 days. Karin approached me to work with her in creating several films around this beautiful city, and I have the pleasure of being involved with this amazing personal project of hers.
This is only the second time I’ve been at Basilique du Sacré-Cœur, and both times there’s been weed in the air. I even passed by a man trying to roll a joint while sitting on a park bench, his paper madly flapping in the wind. There must be something really trippy about the church.
I’m doing it better this time. More efficient, lighter luggage. Luckily, I’ve made this trip before and the experience is paying off. Pushing my limits last visit has given me the confidence to handle anything that may happen. I can retrace my steps without a map, remembering where I took what photos on which walks.
To be honest, I’d never heard of Spanish Romance until this year. Once I found out it was a classical standard, I started seeing it on all these CDs by respected guitarists and compilation albums of “classical greats”. It seems like anyone learning classical guitar will try to tackle it at some point, seduced by such an elegant melody. I have no classical aspirations, and even I fell for it.
I figure I’d record this before I cut off my nails cause I’ve been growing them for about two months1 and I’m completely sick of them. They clack on my keyboard and iPad, and I always have to be annoyingly careful about not breaking them. Unfortunately, this song also sounds way better with some brightness to it when it’s not played with actual nylon strings; I’m still using a set of Silk and Steel, and there’s a certain fatness to the sound when you really dig into them.
I’ve only had Larissa for six months now, but it feels more like six years. There’s so much familiarity in the wood and glossy curves. Even when I’m trying out a guitar several times the price of what she would cost, it never feels as nice.