I had just finished a modeling shoot in Antwerp, Belgium and packed
up my equipment and wanted to take a hot bath, the damp chill never left
me while in Antwerp. I ordered a few beers turned on my iPod and
listened to a few tunes from home while the water ran in the tub. It
was a welcome site because the tub had jets that massaged as you soaked.
The
window open I could hear the business of Antwerp carrying on beneath my
window, I was a few stories up and right downtown near the train
station. The hotel did not have hot water for most of my stay, in fact
most of the time it was barely luke warm. One step in and I realized
the water had not even reached room temperature and was forming goose
bumps on my arms before my feet had fully landed on the tub floor!
Great I thought, while the photographic shoot went well and the model is
now a dear friend, my stay in Antwerp was less then desirable given the
water situation the several hundred Euros that were stolen from my room
and the lack of really good food.
Somewhat disgusted I went to bed shivering in the night anticipating my drive to Paris the next morning.
The
drive went well a few snow storms in the French farm lands, a few side
stops to photograph an old home or two. Because of weather the 4~5 hour
drive took 6~7 hours but that was ok. I was heading into one of the
most art rich cities in the world and I eagerly took in every building,
every bit of architecture on the way. My hostel was recommended to me
by a friend and I had no idea what to expect. I had exchanged email a
few times with the owner Marie Poirier getting reservations settled in.
I arrived in Paris and the city was exactly as I had pictured it!
My
GPS unit directed me to an underground parking structure and after a
week and a half in the car alone I started calling it the GPS lady, she
spoke and I followed direction from her, she got me to my destinations
every time without fault. Grabbing my suitcase and camera equipment, a
backpack designed and purchased specifically for this trip weighing in
at about 40lbs. I slung it on my shoulders and with GPS lady in hand I
headed up the several flights of stairs to the surface. My last few
steps I leaned back a bit and the weight of my backpack, which had my
laptop, encased in it between my back and the camera equipment had
pulled me back to the point where I could not maintain balance.
Backward I fell on my back tumbling over and over passing a French
fellow on the way down, nearly ramming him as if I were a bowling ball
going down a lane. “Pardon me” I remember uttering as I landed on the
floor just behind him. He looked and then returned to typing on his
cell phone and off he went.
Regaining composure… a bit bruised
and embarrassed but ok. I needed to find my hostel a cold beer and take a
really long hot shower… god I missed the hot water! Finally emerging
at the surface I held GPS lady in my hand I let her guide me through the
streets of Paris to my destination. There it was in front of me, the
Hostel called Les Marronniers a coffee shop on the corner modern and new
all glass windows bustling with activity and right next to it was the
giant wood door of my hostel. A key pad next to the door had a message
taped to it… “Today’s code is ####” a four digit code that presumably
let you in. Secure I thought…
I typed the code in and the door
clicked open. I entered a small court and followed my way up the
stairs, signs every where… directing me to my place of refuge from the
day. There it was a sign on the door Les Marronniers. I pushed the
door open to find a large woman standing there waiting to greet me "I am
Marie Poirier. You are the photographer” she said… I replied “yes my
name is Karl.” She welcomed me to the hostel and directed me to the
living and dining area of the room we were in. “There are four rooms in
this side of the hostel and three rooms on the other side”. She said.
“I am the cooker and we eat dinner at 7:00pm and breakfast at 7:00am if
you are here you will eat if you are not here by then you will have to
find to eat somewhere else” she continued in broken English. “Your room
and the restroom are over here” We walked back out the main door and
across the large landing into a door directly across from the first.
She pointed out the restroom (shared between all guests) and in the same
room was the laundry room. Separate from the restroom by a thin
curtain. “Your room is down here” she said as she turned down a very
narrow hall that she could barely fit thorough. It was not that the
hall was narrow it was that there were antiques, paintings and other
treasures stacked up floor to ceiling all the way down the hall. We
passed two other doors “rooms five and six” she said. And we ended up
at the door at the very end of the hall; she unlocked it and went in.
“Here you are Mr. Photographer” she said… and then continuing, “As you
requested you have the only room with a private shower and toilet, room
seven”.
“Dinner is at 7:00 we will see you there, wee? “Yes, I need to shower first” I said…
Ahhh
the feeling of hot water! The shower was very small but the feeling of
hot water and soap! I took a shower for what seemed like an hour,
though I know it was shorter then this. I cleaned up and tossed a load
of my cloths in the washer before walking into the main dining area. As
I walked through the main door there was a woman cooking steak in a
very small kitchen to my left. To my right was mademoiselle Poirier in
her small office and as I walked forward into the dining area the table
was set perfectly though it was a mish-mash of mixed table wear every
piece at each setting was there.
The living room was to my right
and had a couple of people in it sitting watching some new program on
TV, talking about the “strike” that was about to happen. One fellow
turned and saw me coming in, he looked and sounded as if he was from
India, he was here in Paris doing bio-research he told me right away.
“And you must be the photographer!” he stated. “Yes my name is Karl” I
replied. An older woman, who was from Africa and spoke only her native
language and French shook my hand, smiled but said nothing. An American
woman introduced her self after coming from one the four rooms off the
back wall. Fussing with her hair she was older, late fifties, I am
Sandra Beckom, she said. Marie now in the living area spoke up in a
proud voice “She is the wife of an important American Congressman”, Mrs.
Beckom then spoke… “My husband is here on official business but I just
love this place that Marie has created. I stay here when ever we come
to Paris, my husband has his duties to fill and this is much more home
like”, she continued. About that time the woman from the kitchen
indicated that dinner was going to be served and those of us that were
there made our way to the table. I sat near an end with my back to the
door and a French fellow walked out of another room and sat to the right
of me. The Indian fellow sat at the end of the table to my left and
with the woman from Africa. Two more came in from my side of the hostel
and sat across from me. The wife of the congressman told Marie that
she would be sitting but would not be eating as she had a function to be
at and would eat there with her husband.
I was formally
introduced to the entire group by Marie as “The Photographer” and as
soon as I could I inserted my name… “Umm, my name is Karl, Karl Denton…”
it did not seem to matter…
The French fellow turned and shook
my hand, “Nice to meet you, I am like you in a way going around
recording history”. I must have had a puzzled look on my face… he spoke
very good English but had a very thick French accent. “You are a
photographer, are you not?” he said quickly. “Yes” was my reply. “Then
you record history, you are one that documents what things are
happening on any given day”, I am just like you but I travel the world
recording the music of tribes or civilizations that are beginning to be
influenced by the outside world. I record history because once the
music is changed it is changed for ever” he went on. “The American
music influence is far greater then most think and my research for the
university is to record as much as possible before that influence
happens.” I thought his job was one that was extremely interesting but
after the day I had I was losing my attention span quickly and just as
that thought left my head the Indian fellow spoke up about the
government in America and at that moment as if it was a cue the
Congressman’s wife got up and quietly walked out nodding to us with a
smile as she left.
The conversation got a bit more heated as time
went on and we filled our selves with Maries cooking and wine. While
in Antwerp, I had purchased several cigars for my time in Europe and as I
was not allowed to smoke in the rental car I was looking forward to
having one that evening. Despite having given up cigarettes nearly 15
years ago I did enjoy a good cigar a few times a year. Just after
dessert I indicated that I needed to walk and this was a good time as
the fellow from India was getting much more stern in his voice and
appearance. I stood up and excused myself, pulled a cigar out of my
shirt pocket and indicated that I was going out for a walk.
Making
my way to the door I pushed it open and was hit with a very cold
breeze, it snapped new life into me. I walked next door to the café
that was now a bit quieter. A few tables with a couples sitting close
talking sipping on coffee. I made my way in and sat at a table on the
side of the café that was slow. A young woman came over and asked if I
need anything and I asked for a beer, I also asked if I could smoke my
cigar in the café, she said “of course” and handed me an ash tray. She
then went off to fetch my beer and returned. You are the American
photographer? She asked “Yes I am I replied.” With broken English she
asked to sit and talk a bit… “I want to learn as much English as I can
someday. I am going to school for art and want to make a trip to the
US” she continued as she slowly sat at the table across from me. She
was a small woman standing only about 5 feet tall with shoulder length
black hair and brown eyes. I asked if the cigar smoke bothered her and
she replied “Not at all I enjoy a cigar once and a while too” she
motioned to me for mine and mesmerized I handed it to her. She enjoyed a
few puffs and handed it back to me as her boss called her to service
some new customers. She asked if it would be ok to come back and talk
for a while… I said “of course!”
When she came back over to the
table, the beer and warmth of the café must have set in, she sat down in
front of me and smiled “you are staying next door?” she asked. “How
long are you here for?” “Why have you come to Paris?” She blushed “I
know too many questions” she continued… I love talking to people from
many countries. Though I want to visit America I will probably never do
it because of the cost, I must finish my degree and then there are
bills to pay, there are always bill to pay” she said. We sat talking
for what seemed hours and hours me answering her questions, telling her
about my adventure driving from Germany to Belgium then Belgium to
Paris. “What kind of music do you like” she blurted out. “Well I am
old rocker at heart, so I guess rock and roll” I answered. “Me too” she
replied. “I am going to a concert of the color purple… oh what is the
words, my English…” frustrated she stood up and proceeded to play an air
guitar while making the sounds… duh, duh, duh…. duh, duh, dada” and
then it clicked! And I joined in with her. The two of us playing air
guitar and blurting out the sounds that made up the song Smoke on the
water by Deep Purple. We were the spectacle of the moment as other
patrons turned to look at us. “You are going to see Deep Purple?” I
asked. Yes she sad tomorrow night they are having a revival band
playing there songs… that is the name of them Deep Purple! I love this
old music… the French do not know how to rock and roll you know” she
exclaimed.
By this time her boss had started placing chairs on
the table tops as we were the only ones left in the café. I told her
that it was wonderful meeting her but I think that I should be going. I
still had nearly a half a cigar left so I walked out side wearing my
blue jean jacket and stood smoking while I watched her clean the area we
were just in and placing the chairs on table tops… every once and a
while she would glance out the window and see me still standing there
and smile. Then it hit me that at some point I told her which room I was
in…and my mind started to fantasize…
This cute little French waitress who likes smoking cigars, rock and roll music and air guitar… hmmm.
The
weather in Paris was very cold while I was there and all I had was my
jean jacket. I finished my cigar catching a few more glances of the
waitress looking back and put my cigar out and headed to my room. She
never told her name and I never told her mine and as I walked up stairs I
thought what a shame to have such a connection and not know the name of
the other person… then I felt the soft warm hand of a small woman in
mine. “The code you know it is posted on the door… such security we
have here in Paris” she said as she giggled about it. “Do you mind if
we continue our conversation?” She asked “not at all I, but I need to
take a hot shower and clean up a bit” I replied. She looked at me with a
stern face, “talk quieter I know Marie and she does not like it when
guests bring others to the rooms.” I whispered “ok…” and unlocked the
door. After turning on a dim table lamp I said that she could make
herself comfortable and I would be in the shower for just a few
moments. I indicated that I had a few beers in a cooler and she was
welcome to one if she liked. She just nodded and lay down on the bed,
rested her head on the pillow.
I reached into the shower and
turned on the water so it would get hot. When I turned around to look
at the figure lying on the bed she had turned toward me and was watching
as I undressed. There was no door on the restroom and even in the
shower you were visible to the entire room, so there was no point in
worrying about it. As I slipped my shirt off her eyebrows rose a bit
and I realized she had noticed I had piercings. She whispered “I like
them” and continued watching me slip my shorts off then as quick as she
could rose to her feet and proceeded to do the same. “I think I will
shower with you” she said in a quiet voice moving in slow deliberate
fashion. I looked back at this incredibly small shower and then at me…
then at her… she looked up and said “it will make it much more fun
showering so close, yes?” I stepped into the hot water raining down
from the spout and immersed my self in water. I opened my eyes to see
this tiny little frame with breasts the perfect size to fit in a
champagne glass and a small delicate waist swaying as she moved toward
the shower. She lifted her hand and I helped her up the single step to
the shower basin. The shower measured barely 2 feet square and our
bodies fit perfectly next to each other in this tiny space. The French
waitress looked up at me and whispered “we will enjoy this moment in
time; it will be with us forever.” I reached over and took the soap in
my hand and began to rub her shoulders, as she turned her back toward me
she took my hands and moved them to her breasts, lifting up her head to
give me a kiss, we stood there for a bit of time tasting each others
mouth, lips, even our noses and ears were to be tasted… It was if we
knew this would be the only time we would ever be together, ever know
the other…
My hands moved over her beautiful breasts and my
fingers found her nipples becoming more erect and full with every
passing second. One hand slowly reaching for her hip and turning her,
so she now faced me. Her tiny body pressed against mine the soap I had
spread on her was now a full body lubricant. We could not help but feel
our bodies rubbing against each other and as we did we both became more
aroused more tuned in to the other. The warmth of the hot water
filling the entire room with steam in the chilly air. I took her bottom
in my hands and pressed her against my body even more tightly. The
firmness of her bottom was incredible she had the perfect bottom, the
perfectly round bottom that fit in my hands as if they had been designed
to do nothing but hold her perfectly round bottom.
For some
reason, for just a split second I glanced up and smiled, she asked "what
is it?” "What are you smiling at?" I pointed toward the wall with
windows from floor to ceiling, it seems we had attracted an audience as
the room had no window coverings and the dim light from both the night
stand and restroom provided a perfect lighting situation for those who
could see from across the street. We had become a spectacle again but
this time it was for several hundred people… our observers in a moment
of spontaneity, when they realized we were looking back started to
cheer, clapping from both men and woman, young and old alike. Though it
was nearly midnight the hostel was sitting on the very corner of a buss
stop that ported people from this famous park the Luxembourg Gardens
near one of Paris’s most known universities. We had become the night’s
entertainment the most sensuous show in Paris.
She looked up at
me and smiled a deep smile and I knew we should move over to the bed
where we would not be so observed. As I turned off the shower our
bodies still dripping wet we moved toward the bed and I was barley able
to turn off the light in the restroom. The room went a bit darker and
the crowd in unison started to hum some song I had never heard. Though
she was still giggling a bit about every thing I asked what is this?
“They are humming the French song of love. There is no name for it and
we are not sure when it really started but the story goes like this…
long ago a sailor returning home had missed his wife so terribly that he
started anew with her by making love to her in the moon light. His
shipmates hummed this song as the ship went out to sea again without
him, when anyone in France knows real lovemaking is going on the humming
starts, it is in our blood, we can’t help it” I looked at her and
smiled the humming very quiet and respectful as if these people knew
this would be the one time we would be together, would be the most
intense moment we would share. “Not to worry to be honest I find the
humming to be very rhythmic, very erotic.”
We spent the next
several hours exploring every inch of each other, tasting, feeling,
touching every spot on each others bodies. Her breasts in my hands,
rolling her nipples between my lips my tongue tasting them… she playing
with my piercings and seemingly fond of them. We spent the next several
hours exploring every inch of each other, made love to each other as
though it would be the last time, though it was the first. The entire
time that slow rhythmic hum in the background. We finally fell to the
bed about 3:00 in the morning both exhausted beyond anything we had
experienced before. The French waitress lay next to me, my arm around
her tiny hips holding her as close as I could. She was looking into my
eyes barely able to hold them open… I gave her a kiss and told her
“sweet dreams… we will remember this moment for the rest of our lives.
It will be the most sensual, loving thing either of us will ever do.”
With that she finally fell asleep and though I still heard the rhythmic
beat of the French song of love I did not realize that the onlookers had
dispersed hours ago. I looked at her beautiful body now in the
moonlight, finding my fingers running over her soft skin as I too fell
asleep.
I woke to the sound of the hustle and bustle of the
street noise the next morning, she was gone. Her taste still in the air
she must have just left. The side of the bed she was on was still
warm. I got up and looked out the window and saw her riding off on a
scooter, looking back only once… that smile on her face, her tiny frame
getting even smaller as she rode away.
I had to move to another
hotel that same morning to photograph a strike by the folks that work
the transit system and never got a chance to go back to the café. I
never new her name and she never knew mine. We made love as thought we
would never see one another again. We explored the other so we would
have a permanent imprint in our minds of what the other tasted, smelled
and felt like.
The quiet hum of the French song of love still rings in my ears and when the noise around me calms down
I can taste her in the air.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The hostel is real, click here and then the main photo to have a look a look around Les Marronniers
Below the text are images taken at Les Marronniers.
Marie
Poirier (her actual name) and all of the characters in this story are
real though I chose to leave there names out, the congressman's wife has
had her name changed.
The French waitress is real and we did play air guitar in the cafe' to the tune of Smoke on the Water by Deep Purple.
And
I did contact Marie about two months after my stay in the hostel to see
if she would find out the waitresses name for me so I could send her a
Deep Purple CD... She had quit the cafe' and moved on to a new job
shortly after my visit to the hostel.
I have had this story in my head since March of 2007 and could not do anything else today but type it...
