|Posted by jan oskar hansen on November 9, 2011 at 3:10 PM|
Once in Paris, I was going to a venue reading poetry, the hotelier told me to take
the subway as it was easy. After being a fender for busy people I found my train
and suffocated. First stop, I ran off and found myself at a strange part of the city,
sweating and shaking like d drunk who had been on a bender for a fortnight.
Phobia! I didn´t even know I had one, my pipe dream of being a u-boat captain
had sunk in a hole of terror. My instinct, when lost in a strange place, is to find
the nearest tavern/bars, there are many taverns in Paris it was easy to find one.
I had Pernod, not that I like this drink, but after all I was in France; to blend in
I wore a black beret given to me by a relative of my wife who runs a hat factory
in Lyon, and I had had garlic bread for breakfast. But was unable to lift the glass,
my left hand wouldn´t let me, the right hand blankly refused and pretended to
be lame. Finally hiding, behind the Guardian- an English newspaper for people
who see themselves as liberal socialists-. I gulped down the horrid drink. It did
wonders. So I ordered a whisky, I was a hero, nothing could scare me as I walked
bravely out into busy streets full of people who looked at me as if they had
not seen a beret before, and looked for a taxi.