On arrival I had a lovely man pick me up and take me to see something truly futuristic, sci-fi and wonderful. I love living to see what the future is going to be like and this car, influenced by Takashi Murakami’s Pivo character is fly. There’s a robot who tells you where to go, which car park is cheaper and it can tell what mood you’re in by face mapping. How it will react to road rage, I don’t know. But I want one. It’s electric and groovy. The wheels move and rotate, as does the glass dome bubble lid. The driver sits in the middle, and it takes two passengers either side. J’adore.
In the very leftbank cafe and bookshop, an ICA-type crowd perused cool books and trendy artefacts. Shades, robots, T-shirts, records. By the toilets they took vain pictures in the 60s black and white auto passport booth. Students/wacky musicians came with Nazi caps and peacock feathers. People left their favourite portraits for others to see. I liked the guy who’d put a kitchen funnel on his head.
I then took the train from the Chalayan cave to Pere LaChaise cemetery, my nails were painted black and I felt like smoking. With a loose idea of finding Jim Morrison I wandered through the stacks of mourners, goths, tourists and dead people. Sepultres and Familles names so French, so famous, so classic, iconic, dusty, cool. Famille DepresseVille was my favourite. I found Jim on his yacht, electric and emblazoned with flowers, railings, security guard. I then picked up the trail for Edith Piaf and found an English band on a similar search for Oscar Wilde. We didn’t speak, just romanticised the vision of this classic trail of the dead. Oscar Wilde’s white tomb is covered in lipstick kisses from around the world. I left past the gardens of remembrance where all of those who aren’t visited anymore are thrown into group graves to make room for the new powerful and elite. I’m sure Jarvis Cocker has a site marked out.
I walked to a bread shop and bought a demi baguette, and began to walk down towards le Marais. I never made it, I got lost in the air and found a cafe called Le Caravanne that I fell in love with. I wrote some parts for my novel and called home to see if it was cool for me to stay a little longer. My laptop was on British time, so I nearly missed the train home. I walked back to Gare du Nord past a leopardskin hotel I once stayed in on an Anarchy Trash Tour (as travel editor for Dan Kahuna), and soon I was on my merry way home with a stackful of French Vogues & Numero and estate agent prices.
I’d love to live and write fiction in Paris. The energy is so chic.