Ménilmontant

At the offices of the Gil Blas the atmosphere
was no longer bearable. I got tired of all
these stories. Often already annoying, but
they wouldn't hesitate to tell them three
times. And still have a good laugh. Well I
didn't. Hence I came up with a plan. No,
a research proposal, made a suggestion
for a story. I would take half a year off
(and thought: or longer ...) and join Study
and Creativity. During that time, I wouldn't
submit any copy, but afterwards come up
with some smooth, substantial stories
(and thought: if not resign from this fucking
magazine). So one day I took the subway to
Ménilmontant.

Tumbleweed

I walked into a side street of the Rue Oberkampf
and immediately saw the building that housed
Study and Creativity. Built in the nineteen forties,
with an attempt to make it more interesting using
protruding bricks. Presumably a former union
building. The idea I had about the organisation
was based on the range of courses they offered.
But maybe I'd gotten on the wrong track by:
sculpture, bridge, gardening, meditation.
After having passed the porter, I opened a
pair of swinging doors, and stood in ... yeah ...
what was it? A mix of a bar and a cafeteria.
I thought the people were mostly dropouts and
pensioners. I found it not too early for a pastis
and ordered one at the bar. Now I had to forget
that I was a journalist. Don't start questioning
the bartender. Rather talk about the weather ...
or better ... I looked out the window and said,
look there ... Why? said the mustache behind the
bar. That tumbleweed over there, I said. He wasn't
interested at all. Beh ... just some weed.

Croque-monsieur

Do you come for a particular course? No ...
maybe ... I asked if courses started quarterly,
or that you could join meanwhile. I wouldn't
know ... probably decided by the course leader,
said the bartender. He turned up the volume
of some local radio station to overcome the
banging coming from the adjacent space.
Is that a course as well? I wanted to know.
Carpentry, bicycle repair ... he glanced at the
schedule ... gardening ... and free table tennis.
Inside?, I wondered. he opened a door and
let me look inside. Yes ... but the gardeners
of course will go outside. He pointed to a
tiny courtyard and guided me back to the bar.
I wanted another pastis ... and do you have
something to eat? A croque-monsieur ... maybe?
he suggested.

Chess

Then the courses had ended or had a break
and the carpenters and bicycle repairmen
came in. Two of them took a bottle of wine,
hard-boiled eggs, garlic sausage and apples,
out of their bags. They had tasted enough
croque-monsieurs. Through the swinging
doors entered another group. So to hear
the Spanish course. Busco un disco ... ¿Hay
quantas paradas en la calle de Madrid?
They were still practicing. That made it a
more mixed company. More women than
men. A couple of Algerians, who had been
playing table tennis. I sat down at the reading
table and browsed through La Parisienne.
The Gil Blas was there as well. An older man
with a gray goatee was also sitting at the
reading table. Clearly in for a chat. I asked
him if he played chess.

Pastis

A little ... he said. In the opening I lost
a pawn, but as a result I had more space,
which I unfortunately didn't use very well,
because after some exchanges I got a
Bishop behind. Another pastis gave me
the lucidity to reach a draw by perpetual
check. The goatee was rather disappointed.
I offered him a drink, but he said no.
The carpentry course leader, who had
been watching, wanted to put back a
few pieces. I didn't want to analyze, but
maybe he wanted to play a game? No,
he was exhausted ... Have a drink then?
Yeah, he loved to drink a pastis. After
a while, the journalist in me, couldn't
hold back from asking: What does it pay
over here? Hundred francs per hour.
That much? Moreover, he wasn't a very
talkative type.

Jean-Luc Godard

I'd better sit with those cigarette rolling
bicycle repair men. Now they were drinking
beer. I asked who was the course leader.
They did it together. I introduced myself:
Guy ... The smallest of the two, balding,
wearing Jean-Luc Godard type like glasses,
said Jules ... He wore jeans and a stained
army jacket. In one of the pockets he had a
huge adjustable wrench. The other ... Laurent ...
taller, sturdier, blond ... wearing soul pants
and an Air Force shirt, had his self rolled
cigarette hung in his mouth until it almost
burned his lips. Is it giving much trouble,
such a course?, I wanted to know. No, said
Laurent, after two or three weeks half of them
doesn't show up anymore and the rest is
doing their very best. Perhaps you wanna join
our course? asked Jules.

Guy de Maupassant

Guess not, rather the Spanish course, I blurted out
(a couple of nice women in that course). Or maybe
I could lead a course myself. In what? asked Laurent.
Shit, why did I come up with that? Make up something ...
maybe in music ... for about a year I'd tried to play
the saxophone. According to Jules I had to contact
Aline, who was in charge of the courses. That woman
with that sculpted head ... with the gardeners over
there ... Hey Aline , do you have a moment ... Guy here ...
named after Maupassant ... But she didn't react.
On the one hand ... pity, because she was really
something, on the other hand it gave me more time
to think over that music plan. Of course I stayed a
little longer. This looked like a promising start.

La Parisienne

A few days later, while practicing the saxophone,
I got a better idea. I mused ... organic, small-scale
agriculture and livestock farming ... something like
that. Really out on the land. I made an appointment
with the administrator and Aline. But they'd rather
stick to gardening. The plan was too vague and
more importantly, it would top their budget. Yet,
I had more cards up my sleeve. At the reading table
I'd seen that the institute also issued a magazine.
Maybe I could contact the editor. To call up people
to attend a meeting, I wrote an first-class article,
if I may say so myself, and the 'press group' as the
editors called themselves, would publish it. And the
meeting could be held in their building ... but they
wouldn't spend a dime on anything. I was so
pleased, I also sent the piece to La Parisienne.
For the first meeting I had booked a room on the
first floor. I had about two weeks to come up with
a coherent story. By the time I started to get a
bit worried the article was, to my surprise,
published in La Parisienne.

Billiards

More than twenty people showed up, so
I had to ask if there was a bigger room
available. There was. My opening speech
completely fell through, but no one seemed
to notice. A lively discussion followed.
In the end I had even a few ideas how to
carry on. Luckily I had been so clever to
plan the meeting in the evening. By the
way Aline was not present. Some nice
women showed up, but not her caliber.
The bar closed at eleven. About half of
the people came along to have a drink in
a pub. Jules and Laurent, who to my surprise
were also at the meeting, suggested to go to
Le Lion d'Or, a pub where they played billiards.
And there they came up with something they
hadn't mentioned at all during the meeting:
workshops ... also small-scale. Recycling of
redundant stuff. A workshop annex second-hand
shop would be much easier to finance than a
farm. The difficulties to acquire a piece of land ...

Marx Dormoy

At the second meeting there were only
fourteen of us. At the fourth eight or nine.
Including one Agnès, who was staring at
me with a kind of loyal dog eyes. Afterward
always to le Lion D'Or. I played billiards too.
Then turned that Laurent, Jules and a
third player, Jean also played bridge.
We played until dawn at my place. Drank
all my beer, wine and Southern Comfort.
While I was struggling to find organic
farmers in the vicinity and visited allotment
complexes, Jules and Laurent had found a
workshop. A dirt cheap basement somewhere
on Marx Dormoy. On the day of the grand
opening we had to pull a plastic bag over
Agnès her head because she was starting to
hyperventilate. The original group, myself
including had shrunk to five people. Jean
repaired electronics and rehearsed with his
reggae band over there, but didn't want to
attend meetings and stuff.

Hammer and sickle

After long searching I finally found
a barely used allotment complex,
beyond Enghien ... at St. Prix.
Eventually only Agnès and I were
turning over the soil. I agreed to
work one day a week in the workshop.
I believe that I mounted a rear light
and a dynamo, but no more than that.
I rehearsed once with the reggae band.
But after they sneered about my
saxophone as ... that horn, I never
showed up again. On the other hand
I became the workshop's treasurer.
I had opened a bank account with the
ominous name Hammer and Sickle.
Not that any financial transaction
went through the account. Laurent
did it all straight cash.

Games competition

The name Hammer and Sickle was coined
by Jules, who turned out to be an ex-Maoist
political scientist. Laurent was a former
electro technical draftsman, just like Jean.
Agnès had been a nurse, somewhere in Créteil.
They all were living on benefits. The guys
had a games competition with some friends.
Just about all the mind games, billiards,
pinball and to my surprise even golf. Agnès
had left her staff housing and stayed now
at Jules. Yeah ... although I believe that
he had something going with the girl next
door, a painter. Actually it seemed more
like Agnès was falling in love with me.

Organic farming

A man with a horse-drawn wagon, with a couple
of crates filled with leeks and kale, a simple
flat wagon, on the way to a market. He asked
us if we wanted a ride. We had worked manure
into the soil, though we had our doubts,
because had the animals that produced the
manure been fed organically? We had already
agreed not to go into biological dynamic
farming. Lunar phases and stuff. Agnès and
I sat close together beside the driver. No,
not a gorgeous sunset, rainbow or lightning,
but still romantic enough. But was I gonna
write about this? Not too much about myself.
Maybe I had to focus on that Jules character.
There was something about him. I came up
with the idea to go on a trip. Although it
was winter, but a friend of my mother was
building an herbal health farm somewhere in
Les Landes, that is to say, he was having
it built. They told us I could camp out
there. There wasn't more than a basement,
but there also was a shed and bags filled
with straw, where you could sleep on.

Southward

I wasn't gonna ask Agnès to come along,
but as soon as she had heard about it,
she'd talked Jules into it and gave me
the deeply sad eyes look, so that I caved.
Laurent and Jean weren't that keen on
travelling. Especially not in the winter ...
that is ... Laurent said. So the three of
us went. Hitchhiking course. It wasn't too
cold. But that devilish Jules on the last
moment decided to take the train. I stood
somewhere near the Porte d'Orleans, with a
backpack, sax case in one hand, Agnès in the
other. Left way too late and didn't even make
it to Poitiers. In Bordeaux we spent three days
in a hotel. We hadn't taken the end-of-year
holiday into account. Christmas time ...
travelling could get problematic. Jules
experienced that as well. The first day he
got to Bordeaux and stayed overnight in the
waiting room. Got stuck in Morcenx the next
day. From there he had to take the bus, but
there was a strike. Out of solidarity even
the taxi drivers were on strike. So he had
to walk. A short distance he got a ride from a
lumberjack. Then walk again ... very long walk.

Morue salée à la Portugaise

We arrived a couple of days later. Jules
had camped in a kind of hut he had made
out ​​of material found on the construction
site. The temperature had dropped below
zero. I had told him that the construction
workers had the key to the shed. But because
of the holidays and the frost there were no
workers. Luckily the draw well hadn't been
frozen yet. He had lived on oranges. We had
to make the hut a little bigger so the three
of us could sleep there. When the workers
showed up, they felt pity for us and shared
their morue salée à la Portugaise with us.
Potatoes, stock fish and egg. On top olive
oil, parsley ... squeezed half a lemon ...
delicious. And we could move into the more
comfortable shed. In a box we found some
cooking equipment and a kerosene lamp.

Small-scale economy

A couple of roof tiles were put aside
above a fireplace. We immediately went
gathering wood. We heard that two miles
down the road was a place where each day
a van stopped and you could buy fresh bread.
The next day, we went there. The house
over there was the center of the community.
This was really small-scale economy. They
sold fishhooks, local farmers exchanged
things. For instance eggs for honey. And
they served local Armagnac. Bread had to
be ordered and could be picked up the next
day. We really loved the Armagnac, and we
were offered some dry sausages. The nearest
store was at least ten miles away. The bus
stopped there and they told us that the
next day the strike would end.

Mimizan plage

I had some time alone with Agnès, when
Jules went to Mimizan to rent a bicycle.
He returned with tins of sardines, baked
beans, cucumbers and bottles of wine.
And we cooked our first meal in the shed.
In the bus he had heard that there was
farm nearby where you could buy wine in
two-gallon demijohns. The opening in the
roof wasn't big enough to ventilate the
smoke, so that after a couple of days,
we smelled like smoked mackerel. By
the way, do you know how much firewood
you need every day? Of course there wasn't
a toilet, so we sat behind a tree ...
Luckily Jules also bought toilet paper.

Impompé poudené poudenasca

From time to time I practiced my saxophone.
Agnès and Jules saw nothing better to do then
going for new demijohns of wine. I imagine
me playing that saxophone ... must have sound
horrible to them ... impompé poudené poudenasca
... impompé ... Once they came back ... middle
of the night. Sloshed, injured, because they'd
fallen in a ditch, while I sat there waiting
with my sardines bean stew . At night Agnès
still zipped her sleeping bag onto mine, but
during the day she was always with Jules.
For me time to do some bird watching in the
dunes. I couldn't figure out that Jules guy.
On the one hand he could charm people, and
then again he rebuffed them . I don't think
he was very fond of me​​. And he made me feel
a bit uncomfortable. Especially when he started
arguing. One time I was talking about what sense
it made about something. Sense ... he said, is
a concept, a word, a people thing. The world
already rotated perfectly when there was no
mankind. And will continue to do so when there
are no more people. So let's make the best of it.
His motto was : what ever ... That made me sick.
That way you could nip any discussion.

Hossegor

The next time they went for wine, again
they returned in the middle of the night.
A fisherman that was roasting a large
squid, had invited them. Singing, arm
in arm they came in. I was already in my
sleeping bag. But when the fisherman,
his wife and their son, came to visit us,
Jules left on the bike. He was rude ...
had a hangover ... he said. It turned out
that the son had a hotel in Hossegor and
invited us to stay a few days. When we
told Jules, he said that he wasn't coming
along. He had been to Contis-Plage and
had met some of the construction workers
and was going to play cards with them the
day after tomorrow. And then he had to
return the rented bike so we better see
each other again in Bordeaux. He pretty
much had it in that shed and so did we.

San Sebastian

The relative luxury in Hossegor was
quite welcome after all that primitive
stuff. Together with Agnès in a bathtub.
But when we met again in Bordeaux and
Jules wanted to return to Paris, while
I suggested to Agnès to travel on to
Spain, she wanted to go back with him
to Paris. So we said goodbye at the train
station and I found a bus to Spain. But
there was a tick fog in the Pyrenees and
the bus got off the road into a fortunately
not very deep abyss. So I ended up with a
neck brace in a hospital in San Sebastian.

Le Lion d'Or

Back in Paris, I heard that both his neighbor
as Agnès were staying at Jules. He asked me
to stay over as well. All right. But the next
day he snorted: and now it is enough ... you
all leave! I wasn't going to ask Agnès to come
and stay with me. So she stayed overnight at
Laurent, but that was such a bad experience,
that Jules allowed her to come back. We kept
working at the allotment in St. Prix. And I
couldn't resist picking up playing bridge with
them. Despite those irritating Zappa-like
remarks of Jules and Laurent ... that taking
the piss out of everything. Jean had no part
in that, he had Indonesian ancestors and was
polite, even a bit shy. He was by far the best
in playing bridge and billiards. He asked me
to join the billiards team. They used a type
of handicap. With low average scoring, you
needed less cannons. Playing a game with
spectators was far more difficult than just
for fun. There was one woman in the team.
Yvette, Jean's blonde girlfriend. She was
pretty good at the game as well. Only Jules
was a lousy player. We usually had a good
time there in Le Lion d'Or. Often playing
bridge afterwards. Also more difficult with
people looking over your shoulders into your
cards. Especially if they coughed, when you
only touched a particular card.

Montpellier

In the spring I was ready for a new trip.
A fellow passenger on the Spanish bus, one
Bertrand from Montpellier had suggested
that I could stay at his place, when his
hip would be operated on, if I occasionally
visited him in hospital. His hip was worn
out working at a road construction company.
Working with jackhammers, asphalt saws,
those things. Except Agnès of course, Jules,
Yvette and even Laurent wanted to come along.
But this time by train and no saxophone. So
Jules and Laurent decided to go hitchhiking.
There I was with Agnès and Yvette at the
Gare de Lyon. Yvette quite another character
than Agnès. Self-confident, feminist ... and
freelance reporter for La Parisienne. Turned
out that I had misunderstood Bertrand. Not
his place, but a room with his parents. In
a small apartment house dwelt the father
and mother of Bertrand and a sister with
her husband and children. I suggested
we took a hotel room, but the family
insisted we stayed there. I said that two
more friends were coming. No problem.

The Heptones

That is to say ... if the five of us had
no problem staying in a small room.
Laurent immediately wanted to go
home. I knew it. He wasn't a traveler
at all, a real Parisian. He knew that
very well. In a Zappa style: Having a
shit on a strange loo ... a bit difficult
for me. But I was able to talk him out of
the idea going back to Paris. Meanwhile
Jules sat watching television with the
family and was doing magic tricks for
the kids. Of course we visited Bertrand
regularly, but we thought we shouldn't
stay longer than five days. We didn't
want to be a burden for these people,
so during the daytime we explored
Montpellier. We sat in cafés, restaurants
... sunbathed in parks, shopped, visited
the Lunaret Zoo. We even went rowing
on one of the étangs. And to a reggae
concert ... The Heptones. Laurent had
bought some weed from one of the band
members, so we were really in the mood.

Mont de Marsan

And back in Paris things seemed to go
smoothly. We found a farmer in Marolle
en Brie who wanted to give the biological
approach a go. And some new people were
interested. Fortunately, cause I was gonna
stop. Emile, the drummer in Jean's reggae
band had inherited a substantial amount
and bought an old bakery in Mont de Marsan.
There was room enough for two more residents.
I was quick to seize my chance. Who else?
No, not Agnès ... but Yvette. When Jean
was there we could have a game of bridge.
I hardly played the saxophone anymore and
was more and more trying to play Emile's
drums. Occasionally I worked in the bakery,
but not very often. Emile was trying to
talk me into a trip to Kathmandu.

The Big Dipper

And he taught me and Yvette to make
horoscopes. New Year's eve Jules and
Laurent behaved as party crashers.
They didn't believe we had no TV.
When I showed them the progress
I've made as a drummer, Laurent
said: would you mind stop banging
on those drums. I knew I had to
avoid mentioning the name Buddha
in Jules' presence, but Emile was
quickly silenced with: buddhism,
new age ... my ass. And Laurent
knew about horoscopes: yes, and
I am the Big Dipper. When we ran
out of booze, they said: fine, thank
you ... and goodbye. I haven't seen
them since. Of course I never
returned to the Gil Blas.

What ever

The last thing I heard from Paris, through Jean,
is that Laurent was building a high sleeper in
a room Agnès had found in a squatted monastery.
And together with Jules, Jean had been working
on a job in Colmar, installing an oven and stoves
in an apartment of an ex-girlfriend of Jules.
But Jules was gonna give up the alternative
lifestyle. He was gonna shut down the workshop.
And had bought a Citroën BX, anticipating the
IT-career he was gonna pursue. What ever ...