Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp Read Online Free PDF Page A

streets lurch off at crazy angles so impossible to follow any route. Left sunglasses at home to increase perceived unavailability to marriage-denying spouse. Overheard several “Belmondo” comments in line while waiting to pay exorbitant cover charge, but nightclubbing Parisians too cool for blatant celebrity toadying. Thousands of hours of acute suffering and scab picking represented by profusion of piercings flaunted by the younger jazz lovers. Damn, I should have worn an earring or two.
    Trendy cellar jazz club jammed with sweaty, gyrating bodies of every race. Toxic air poisoned by 10,000 Gauloises. Powerful din generated by quartet of North Africans apparently confusing jazz with heavy metal. As usual, I was many decades too late for the golden age. Sidney Bechet and Edith Piaf where are you I thought as I bought first round of drinks from cute waitress in low-cut top. A pichet of red wine, plus a virgin diablo menthe for the expectant mother, who gave me a look of heart-shriveling reproach. I’m used to it. Excused myself to go to the men’s room and discovered the “toilet” was just a smelly hole in the floor. What a culture!
    Joined throngs in dancing frenetically to throbbing beat, though François fears genuine enjoyment of this activity will forever elude me. Prospect of letting myself go virtually nil. Product of thousands of years of natural selection leading to inhibited tight-ass honky in impact-cushioning shoes. Next generation of same already in the oven. Sat out some dances and attempted conversation over noise with Babette while Alphonse chatted up wife in French. Both are biology majors. Both offspring of surgeons and both planning to go into the family business.
    “ What are you doing in Paris?” shouted Babette.
    Good question. My interrogator has sparkling blue-green eyes, kissable lips, and a slender Welsh nose that’s pure nasal fascination.
    “ We’re on our honeymoon,” I replied. Someone kicked me under the table.
    “ How romantic!”
    “ Yes, it’s a trial marriage,” I elaborated, feeling the wine. “Very popular now in San Francisco. That’s where we’re from. Kids pair off in high school and get married. No more going steady. That is so déclassé.”
    “ Extraordinary,” commented Babette. “You Americans are so progressive. And when you graduate will you be getting a divorce?”
    “ I hope not. Especially now with the baby on the way.” I dodged another kick.
    At that moment a shapely redhead, apparently inebriated and perspiring heavily, grabbed me by the shirt, uttered something in a sexy whisper (all I caught was “Belmondo”), and dragged me out to the dance floor. In a cellar jammed with multi-pierced hipsters this tight-assed imposteur was in demand!
     
    WEDNESDAY, May 19 — Middle of the night. Someone close by is playing an accordion. Old melodies, squeezed out softly and mournfully like a lonely whisper in the dark. I’ve heard it other nights too. The sad tunes creep into your being and rouse you gently, like the soundtrack to a dream. You lie there and listen, wondering about all that Deep Stuff that can worry a guy in the dark in a foreign city. Sometimes the music pauses and I imagine the player lighting a cigarette. And then it resumes with an even sadder song that really breaks your heart. So you roll over, and try not to cry, and wonder how it’s all going to turn out.
    When I awoke I was startled to find that I had remembered all of my French numbers from un to cent. I may not be as hopelessly ill prepared for life in this country as I imagined. I think the secret is not to try to get your mind around the vast bulk of the French language, but to carve off small bits and concentrate only on those. Today, for example, I propose to learn all the ways to say “Unhand my wife, you cad!”
    For breakfast I made hot Scottish oatmeal with warm French cream, which My Love accepted coolly. She is annoyed that I refuse to remove my wedding ring and blabbed