The French Memoir

I guess, as an American, or as a person in general, I have a copious amount of assumptions and notions and ideas of what France is supposed to be like. It’s not that I want to have these ideas or assumptions, but they are like a badly ordered sandwich in a Spanish cafeteria. The fact that I didn’t want ham in the first place doesn’t matter – it’s there.

The language is beautiful, the food is French, they have a Riviera and an Eiffel Tower. They smoke constantly, wear berets and striped black and white shirts as they sit in a coffee shop on a rue with a view of the tower – and the people are straight assholes. The French are assholes. Come on, the French are assholes.

-this was the sandwich I ordered as I landed in the terrorist ridden land of Marseille.

I landed and got the hell out of Marseille – they do have a nice fish market and many, many fishing boats….and slums and trash and terrorists. It just doesn’t do it for me, and I didn’t even give it a chance, but I was headed for a much warmer place, a much friendlier place, a place where smart French sailors escape to, and smarter French women elope to- I was headed for a Nice place. Nice, France.

“You can buy your ticket over in that machine. The tickets are in that machine,” a silly French asshole said as he pointed to a yellow ATM-looking machine. The machine said that it took Visas – great! I have a visa. Hell, I have two visas and a great credit score. I smoothly slid the plastic out of my leather wallet and proudly stuck it into the damn thing – easy, peasy, lemon squeezy….until it turned sour. The machine would not take my American Visa. I didn’t even know visas, or credit cards for that matter, could be assigned a nationality. But, then again, the French are assholes. In a situation like that, one cannot dilly dally with an ignorant French ticket machine (if my visa is American then that machine is French). One has to saddle up and take matters into their own hands. I had a sunset to catch in Nice.

This is where a couple of new characters enter the story. I’m not even sure if you, the reader, know the already existing characters. Well, undoubtedly you know that I, Jonesy Black, am a character.

“Am I on the right blog? Who’s Jonesy Black?,” you quietly whisper to yourself as your brow scrunches, your eyes squint, and your mouth hangs slightly ajar as your confusion begins to paralyze your motor skills and ability to function normally – wipe the drool from your chin. Soló bromeando, amigos – only joking, friends.

….Surely, you know that I, C.M. Stassel, am a character. It would be witless of you to think otherwise. There is another character called Alex, he is an already existing character. However, like I mentioned before, this is where two new characters enter. As I struggled to decipher the French words on the screen, and Alex viciously beat the machine with his elbow, knee and foot two Irish men approached us. They were very friendly and somewhat helpful, but what caught my eye – and I’m certain every other eye at the bus stop – was their attire. They both wore nice grey, wool coats with green under vests and white collared shirts, and, oddly enough, matching glasses. They were similar to the model that Phil Jackson wears – and if you don’t know who Phil is google “Lakers”, and then google “Zen Master”, and then google “just knows more than the average human being”. Please do this before you continue reading – not because knowing who Phil Jackson is adds anything to your enjoyment or understanding of this story, but because it would just help me sleep a little better at night knowing that, now, because of me, more people in this world know who Phil Jackson is. I know it sounds selfish, but if you could oblige me on this one request I would be very appreciative.

Back to the bus stop. These two Irish scholars wore the same exact glasses and sported indistinguishable beards. Now, let’s first be sure that we all understand something - these men did not look silly or foolish in any way – it could have been a very nice style had they been ALONE. When you walk around with a person who wears the exact same style as you it begins to look very funny, somewhat curious, and a little creepy. (Only Jojo and I can wear the same glasses and pull it off).

This type of style selfsameness happens all too often in the big city of Madrid. Today I was walking out of the metro where I found a group of boys with identical flattops, hightop adidas, tight jeans, sports jackets, and double ear-piercings – all smoking a cigarette. Something like that ceases to look like a group of friends and becomes an act, or a freakshow, or just plain silly – why have I said “silly” so many times thus far. I enjoy walking into a bar to find my friends sitting there all looking equally battle worn and very different.

It’s good when one of your friends is wearing a #99 Gretzky jersey, and then another one of them, called Dino, is rawring in the back, while three more are playing acey-deucey for money, and another is chugging srichacha – then one more enters the building screaming about a refrigerator or some nonsense, while three more argue about the last time they ate “toma toma” and saw a white-haired Mexican. One almost dies, but he’s too strong and lives. One is called Aha River, two are speaking lordly, and a third just pissed his bed from playing too much King Cobra Cash Cab. Meanwhile, TDUBC just cut a new track and two more are hitchhiking across the USA as they embark on their new comedy tour entitled “Hard and Harder” featuring Dip & Shit. All the while every single one of us is able to meet at 6pm at the Goat Hill for founder’s hour. And then import hour. And, finally, happy hour. Yes, it is good when things are like that.

Forgive me, but that was a tangent I could not avoid.

These two identical Irishmen explained to us how the bus and train systems work in France, and then they were off. At that point we needed to get to the train and take it North to Nice. We had two options – take a small bus to a small train station and then transfer to a larger train at the Marseille train station or take a big, blue bus to the main station directly. With no idea the cost of either, and a daunting line forming for the blue bus we opted for the smaller bus. What happened next was the result of either miscommunication or confusion, or perhaps a combination of both. We were granted entrance to the small bus (yes, I know how that sounds) by a stocky, little French man with a very villainous mustache – for free. We didn’t have to pay. Then with the inability to use our Visas at the small train station we simply boarded the train. We quietly sat in our seats looking out our window into the French Riviera – something that everyone should do. When the train arrived at the main station we nonchalantly exited the train. Also, without paying. Now, at the main station we thought our visas would surely work – they didn’t. The locomotive going to Nice was blowing smoke from its pipes as its conductor blew his whistle signifying the final boarding. One should not be careless or tentative when making decisions that greatly affect their future. We boarded the train – ticketless.

One would think that at this point in the story someone would approach us inquiring about our tickets. Well, we road that train for two hours, and nothing of the sort ever happened. We had made it to Nice - for free. How or why wasn’t important. We were in Nice. We were on the French Riviera – I wasn’t searching for answers to questions about trains. I was more concerned with what bottle of wine I was going to drink on the beach as I basked in the French sun on the Riviera. It just seemed more logical to worry about something like that.

(My tune might have been a little different had I known that it was a two hundred euro fine to ride the train without a ticket. Like a cat I always land on my feet.)

The sun had set and we were fed. The meal on the first night was delicious, but not memorable. Not French enough to mention. We drank wine on the pebble stoned beaches of Nice. We had rock-skipping contests and mingled and flirted with other beach-goers. Then we headed into the old town. A local bar was our destination. We took tequila shots and ordered an expensive bier – not for the image or to seem lavish, but because all the biers in that tourist packed bar were expensive. Scanning the crowd, I was plagued with indecision as to what my next move would be. Then, from behind me I heard the familiar sounds of…Espanol (you thought I was going to say English). To my delight three lovely Spanish girls were sitting at the bar drinking the same expensive bier I was drinking. They looked lonely. They looked bored. I knew their language.

We talked about California as I invited them to my chateau in Costa Mesa. They laughed, they blushed, they had a great time. I’m learning how to joke around in Spanish. It’s all about being simple with what you are trying to say – timing is everything. We drank with the three amigas for a while longer then they had to head back to their apartment. They were students in France. We headed back to the hostel and konked out.

One sleeps sounder on the French Riviera. We were up at ten. I missed the free cereal that our hospital provided, but I was too tired and hungover to eat, anyways.

We went straight to the Mediterranean. I unclothed myself and sprinted into the crystal, clear blue water. I floated belly up on the Blue Coast for about half an hour before I decided to go in. The water was warm and it felt like a dream. It was incredibly salty so it made it easy to float. I felt like the Baloo of the French Riviera. I slowly crawled out of the ocean and onto a nice bed of soft, flat stones. I laid in silence as the Mediterranean sun leisurely dried my body. Licking my salty lips, I was calm and quiet. I breathed heavily and peacefully. Everything is better on the French Riviera.

I went for one more swim and then it was time to grab a quick bite to eat and explore the rest of the city.

We headed for the other side of the port. A lone pirate ship sailed out of the harbor – I couldn’t help but think of the ship that I one day would own. These seas would know my name soon enough.

I had a tank top on and a tuna and Brie sandwich in my hand. We sat on a bench and looked out into the harbor as we ate our sandwiches. The tuna was incredibly cold and the Brie was…well, Brie has always been my favorite. The tuna, the Brie, even the benches are better in the Riviera.

Fed and content, we continued walking. We came to a nude beach. We stopped. What else were we to do? Taking in the beautiful view of the…ocean and the boats, we descended the stairs leading to the cove.

The women. All types. There were French women. There were large women. There were small women. There were clothed women. There were nude women. The cove was filled with contrast. A toned and fit blonde bombshell lay, topless, next to a hefty and floatable ginger, also topless. It’s not polite to stare in any venue, but it’s especially not polite to stare at a nude beach – good luck with that. Nude beaches are better on the Riviera.

The contrast continued, as directly in front of this nude beach stood a crumbling, disintegrating skeleton of a building – the decomposition over the years had left three cement planks, each one higher than the next. It was the perfect spot to jump into the French Riviera. However, this building stood on an island. Its only access was a foot and a half wide, six-foot long bridge - and we had no idea how to get to this bridge.

French groms came to our rescue. They agreed to show us how to get to the island. We left our stuff on the beach - a round, English/Spanish speaking Frenchie in a sexy one piece agreed to keep an eye on it for us. We waded out to the grommets, who were situated on an algae covered spot just around the bend. This next part might not sound believable, but then again I’m just the writer.

We waded through a pool of water – beware of the family of squid. Then we had to shimmy up a rusted construction beam – had I been cut or scraped or poked or drawn any sort of blood on this beam I surely would have contracted tetanus, or perhaps cancer, or elephantitus. However, to get to the top one must persevere.

Once past the rusted beam, I stood on a skinny wall with a metal bridge in front of me. However, the bridge had lost its bridge over the years. The bridge was bridgeless. All that remained was one beam of the skeleton and a handrail. I carefully crossed the confused and weathered bridge to the next leg of our journey to the top. It was a ramp leading to a fence. The bottom of the fence had been curled up, obviously by human hands. It was my task to slide my 86 kg body under this fence, with its razor sharp points and unpredictable shape. Of course it was easy for the small, little French grommets. I won’t let this suspense last. I made it under the bridge, unscathed.

We then had to hop through a busted down door, and vault ourselves onto the roof of a small cement laundry room, and then up to a veranda that overlooked the small bridge that would take us to the Promised Land. The problem was that the veranda stood 10 feet above the bridge.

The little ones went first. The technique was to hang yourself off of the veranda directly over the bridge and then drop. A simple technique with a high margin of error – rocks and boulders and a very little amount of water were lay below. One slip, or misstep could earn you a broken leg, and an extended stay in France.

I scaled the handrail and sat on the edge of the veranda. Firmly grasping the bottom horizontal pole of the guardrail I eased myself off the side of the veranda. Next, I slowly moved my hands from the rail to the edge of the cement veranda – in order to decrease the size of the drop.

As I hang off the edge a French grom yells directions at me in broken English. “Left”, he yells. I shimmy to the left until my feet are perfectly lined up with the bridge. The time is now – the bridge will be there. Butterflies consume my stomach as thoughts of slipping run through my head. I let go. I drop. I firmly hit the bridge and stick the dismount. “I have arrived,” David yelled as Goliath fell to the ground with blood running from his eye. I felt biblical at that point.

The winds fiercely blew as I ascended the twisting staircase straight to the third plank. I was born on the third day of November and if, ever, I was going to walk a plank it would be the third plank. It would be this plank. I breathed deep as the Riviera water shimmered in the distance.

I went to the edge to hang ten. The butterflies returned, but I always welcome them. It took me a while to finally jump. I had the opportunity to jump with a cruise ship in the distance. “Jump when the boat enters the harbor. Its engine shakes the water,” one of the little ones said.

“Like a Jacuzzi?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

I didn’t jump with the ship. I wasn’t ready. The third plank was 16 meters high, which roughly translates to 55feet.

As I sat on my plank with my legs crossed a man started to swim out to the island. He was a French man. He got to the base of the island and began to climb up it. The groms yelled at him that it was not possible to make it up that way. He simply smiled and kept climbing. Next thing I know he’s up on the third plank with me. He walks past me to the edge. I ask him if he’s done this before. “Once,” he replies with a smile. He takes his mark and sprints off the edge. Is he dead? Nah, he’s fine. He’s French, but he’s fine. Now I’m ready to jump. Now it’s easy.

I take my lead. GOING. I plant my foot on the plank’s edge and jolt myself into the air. Weightless and happy I fly. The butterflies really kick in. I give out a final “YEW!” as I hit the water. What a jump.

I walked the third plank one more time before we headed out. As I walked back through the nude beach I felt like a big name, a star player, I felt like I had just won the fight. The nudists stared at me, this time – and I was fully clothed.

The night had not even begun. We showered and changed, then headed out for a real French dinner.

Le Fondou. French Fondou. Cheese and meat fondou, with bruschetta on the side, and complimentary sangria. All this food for 12 euros each – and I was told France was expensive. I cannot recommend the Fondou in France enough. I don’t often recommend things, but le fondou is one thing that I must insist upon. It was completely out of this world. Words can’t do it justice. It’s easy to find – it’s in France. It’s in Nice, France at a place called Le Fondou. Look it up. Google it. Call your French friend. Call any friend. Just find Le Fondou and feast upon its delicious French cuisine.

We went back to the beach that night, once again equipped with a bottle of wine, each. We made friends with a group of 20 French students. We drank and smoked while two guys played guitar and sang. I spent the majority of the night conversing with a very cute Dutch girl. She was studying in Nice. She was funny and outgoing. Her name escapes me at the moment, but we had a great time. It was a real French night on the Riviera. We spoke Spanish, while they tried to speak English. It didn’t matter. The wine is a language in itself – and the Riviera doesn’t really require words.

Everything is better on the Riviera. I went to Monaco for a couple of hours but I’m not going to mention it – I hate Monaco.

Nice, France. Everything is better on the RIVIERA, and the French weren’t assholes. They were actually very helpful and friendly.

Nicely,

C.M. Stassel