For to where is de grave Jim Morrison?

I was talking with Former Field Director Filips the other day and an interesting story came up that I had forgot about from Paris:

I was on my last day in town, my travel companion / older brother has already flown out. It's my first full day alone in 8 months, and my first time doing anything without Pat right by my side. I hadn't really been in a real city for more than a few weeks in months. And of course I speak maybe four words of French- if you count menu items. Needless to say I was a little out of my element.

I was staying in a backpackers hostel in Paris, hanging around and generally impressing people with my Africa stories. At some point this weird, sketchy long greasy hair skeetchball Euro finds his way into the conversation. He says some generally unintelligible things, and one by one people make their excuses and go to bed. Fast forward to the next day and I'm out and about in a botanical garden zen-ing out and absorbing my last dose of order beating out chaos. Who should show up, but the sketchy skeetchball Euro.


I was bored and killing time till my flight, and he was is very insistent in a little-language-incommon sort of way. I wasn't quite sure, but I think he told me he was on a mission to find Jim Morrison's grave and needed a wingman. Why the hell not?

We proceeded to wander around Paris for the next several hours, both completely lost and clueless, asking for directions to a grave yard. At some point we found a graveyard, and asked Monsiour Creepy caretaker where we could find the dead rockstars section. Apparently we wandered our way into the wrong graveyard. At that point I decided to ditch out, because 1) I don't really care about The Doors at all, 2) I still wasn't quite sure whether this guy was a graverobber or what, and 3) I think he may have wanted to eat my skin.

Busy Day.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

"Sometimes the bar, well ... he eats you"

Greatest Hitz

The End of Africa