So, George Bush and Osama Bin Laden Are Hanging Out At a Bar Together in Paris...

From Lyon I made my way back up to Paris for just a few days before making my way to London. I was very excited to stay at Le Village Hostel again, but in the stress of losing my ATM card, had booked my stay there on the blatantly wrong dates, and when I showed up there on my arrival to Paris, they were full. They directed me to another hostel nearby, and thank goodness they did that. Having arrived in Paris in the aftermath of a bad cold and being around people constantly, I was determined to put my headphones in and sit down in the hostel common room with my journal, notebook, and book, and just read and write for the next few evenings. Of course that didn't happen. That never happens. My first night at the hostel, I met the most delightful fellow traveler from the UK. She wasn't much of a traveler actually, she had moved to Paris to attend drama school for miming and clowning, and was staying in hostels until she secured a flat in the city. We hit it off immediately. When you meet someone for the first time, everyone has their mature, intelligent, adult face on, but tiny pieces of weirdness slip through the cracks. If the person you're conversing with detects and amplifies that weirdness, then the whole situation just continues to become more and more weird until all Weirdness breaks loose. Lizzy and I possessed weirdnesses that were compatible on an uncanny level. We had the good fortune also of being in Paris the night of Nuit Blanche, which in French is directly translated as White Night, but really means more like "Sleepless Night," or a night you've been up the whole night. It's a celebration of modern art in Paris where there are exhibitions all over the city of filmography, painting, sculpture, photography, music, even circus and physical performance. I took on Nuit Blanche with Lizzy and a fellow traveler from the hostel, and had an awesome night, spending most of our time at a crazy bar in Northeast Paris called Pointe Ephemere. They had the most ridiculous artwork on the walls, including the heads of George Bush Sr. and Jr. and Osama Bin Laden on the bodies of dancing girl scouts, Mickey and Minnie Mouse warmly welcoming you to the a mushroom cloud in the aftermath of an atomic bomb explosion, and a Mickey Mouse pinup girl posing sexually in front of a large swastika. Excuse my language, but it was a little (a lot) fucked up. After being chased out of this bar for making nearly every painting crooked, our Nuit Blanche crew made our way to the center island of Paris, where the Notre Dame lives, and had a grand old time eating falafel and climbing (falling off) statues and monuments in the area. Right around 2am we decided it was about time to at least head back to the area of the hostel, so we found the nearest metro station (The metro was supposedly open all night for Nuit Blanche) and lazily made our way down into the tunnels, noting finally that except for a few hobos, no one was there. The tunnels were totally empty. The screen readout for the next train was turned off as well, which finally brought us to the conclusion that we were halfway across the city, the metros in fact were NOT running, it was starting to rain, and flagging down a taxi in the rain during Nuit Blanche is nearly impossible. We therefore hoofed out way an hour through the drizzling city, me lamenting the fact that I needed to be awake in approximately two hours to make it to the bus station on time where I would catch a coach to London. Nonetheless, I made it to my coach on time, if a little sleep deprived, and by 8pm that evening, was huddled on Lower Shaw Farm in Wiltshire, visiting my good friend Jake the Juggler, with a cup of tea.