Piss Poor in a Puddle of Pee part 2

Taxi Exhaust...Gag Me!

I don't remember exactly what time it was-10 maybe 1030pm- but I had to do something quick or I'd be piss poor with hundreds of dollars in my pocket. There was no doubt I was going to have to accept a hit on the exchange rate. At this point in my journey, I would have traded next month’s paycheck for taxi fare.  My hotel was not in walking distance.

I looked around (still smelling coffee) and headed to the concessions thinking I could get conversion in exchange for a purchase. That was a losing proposition before I could even get near a counter. If you've ever been to Europe you'll know they get more out of their clock than Americans do (of course, no one gets more hours out of the "work clock" than Americans-a sad commentary to be sure).

More specifically the Italians but generally applicable throughout Europe, people eat late, are out late and enjoy being in the city more so than Americans. We just don't socialize to the degree they do in Europe. Perhaps it's the proximity of your neighbors that compels civility (or destruction in the case of the Yugoslavian states). In any case, much of the cities dining and entertaining establishments can be found open at night, even in the train station apparently.

Still, this very civil propensity worked against me as I could barely see the establishment let alone get near it. I didn't see many Americans in line as before so assume they were either traveling Europeans or Parisians with a peculiar predilection for train station fast food a la Paris. For a moment out of time I found it all exceeding interesting.

My stomach reasserted itself and my general dissatisfaction over my poor planning returned. Galvanized to new action I located the front entrance and decided to step outside for some air. It was either that or collapse from starvation or nausea from the trains hot breaks and assorted vented fluids that seemed to permeate the air.

Gagging from the Stink

Upon stepping into the "air" my olfactory process was immediately assaulted by the rank stench of urine and a hovering cloud of car exhaust. The latter was from a loitering column of taxis and the former was, ostensibly, from a poor inebriated wretch engaged in holding up the far wall. Neither affliction could be said to be original to Paris. I know that in the category of Best Toilet in a Major City, Coit Tower in my hometown of San Francisco would give a strong performance.

Gagging induced a return to mobility and while swatting flies I spied a magazine vender on the sidewalk closing up. A brainchild (or perhaps a "brain-dropping") of desperation propelled me in his direction. My inspired idea was postulated on the possibility that no longer being engaged in hocking his wears, he may be interested in one more "sale." At this point I could be persuaded to unfairness in my general direction.

My experience with individuals throughout Europe over my 11 year residence is broadly good. From Edinborough to Naples there were more smiles and laughter (another post on European laughter to follow) than there was indigenous "stink-eye." In no way, dear reader, should you construe this instance to belong to the above generality. The gentleman who manned the news stand was at first suspicious of my proposition rendered in broken French. At least he didn’t run away. I did wish he would have, though.

I politely explained my dilemma as best I could. All the while I got the impression I was becoming the subject of a non-specific sense of pity. What the hell, at this point I couldn’t care less.   What I thought was pity for my situation was actually the onset of an avuncular lecture on global economics.

French Economic Powerhouse...really?

It had never crossed my mind that despite an exchange rate of almost 6 Franks to the Dollar that, because of the strong and resilient French economy, the US market would eventually collapse. You see, he didn’t want to be left holding a devalued clutch of US currency. Wait…what? Hey was he…no, he was absolutely serious. That was my second “stun” of the day.  In retrospect, maybe he was talking about 2011. Me not being clairvoyant I can’t be sure.

If desperation has a cousin it must be the sunken eyed look of abject dejection. I had never had such bad run of luck in my young life. Perhaps if I had taken to heart the teachings of Kahlil Gibran I could have found some joy in the silliness of my situation. Alas, more like Tennyson, I was finding only unhappiness. What to do next?

Please stay tuned for part 3 of “Piss Poor in a Puddle of Pee”