Je veux que l’on m’installe

Assis seul comme un roi

Accueillant ses vestales!

Dans ma pipe je brûlerai

Mes souvenirs d’enfance,

Mes rêves inachevés,

Mes restes d’espérance.

            —Jacques Brel, “Le Dernier Repas”

A bit dramatic perhaps, that lyric, but it somehow suits my mood. For tonight, we here at Euromad headquarters are shredding documents, rolling up the carpets, and heading out of town. It’s gotten a little crazy here, what with all the crowds of gawkers, standing outside our offices, trying to catch a glimpse of the research and writing teams that make this website possible.

A crowd of autograph-seekers outside Euromad™ Headquarters

So perhaps it is time to move on to gentler climes, where I, your humble narrator, can return to blessed anonymity. But first, to answer everyone’s question: How did you spend your last day in Paris?

Well, much like any other. Or as much as normalcy as possible, when much of the day consists of packing, gathering together sack upon sack of garbage, and donating clothes to charity. I did manage to fit in one movie: the 1941 Ernst Lubitsch comedy That Uncertain Feeling. It was one I had never heard of—a late entry to the screwball comedy genre in which the wife of a wealthy insurance salesman is seduced by an effete, brilliant, troubled musician, played by effete, brilliant, troubled Burgess Meredith. Yes, I shall miss watching movies in Paris most of all.

Now, I know what you are saying. I can hear it almost in chorus: “But you can watch movies anywhere! Haven’t you heard of Netflix? I mean, I know movies may look better on a bigger screen, but they’re the same movies, after all.” At the risk of being impolite, let me say, that is stupid argument. An understandably stupid argument, but a stupid argument nonetheless. And now, allow me to demonstrate:

“Why are you going to the Louvre while you’re in Paris? You can go the Louvre anywhere!  Why, you can go to the Louvre right here on Euromad™.  Just look!”

Okay, okay—maybe David looks better on the big canvas.

Someone might muster some pathetic argument like, “But in the Louvre they have the original artwork! Well, except for the Mona Lisa. Everyone knows that’s a fake.” Or maybe, “But you can see so much more detail when you see the real artwork in person! When you experience it not in a book, but as it was meant to be seen!” To which I say: “Exactly!” Movies were not made to be watched on a computer screen or even on a jumbo TV screen. They also were not meant to be watched in the comfort of your own home. They were instead designed for darkened theaters, where you can’t pause it to go the bathroom and you can’t quit in the middle and start up again later. They were meant to be watched with groups of strangers and maybe a friend or two, sharing a common experience at a set time. And, yes, they were meant to be projected on a big screen. The soulless, vacuous action flicks and the oh-so-self-important independent (sic) films being made today are shot with home viewing in mind, so go ahead and have at them all you want on your DVD player—or whatever those new machines are that were introduced in America while I have been away. But it’s not the same. In fact, I will go further:

There is nowhere in the world where you can watch movies today except in Paris. Nowhere. What you are getting with your DVDs are crappy photograph reproductions in textbooks. And as for art theaters in America, the general public is not educated enough there to know how to behave. Pretty soon I’ll have Euromad Classic reposted. Check the first entry, and this whole series of blogs will fold back on itself like a snake swallowing its tail.

After the movie, I went out to dinner. Again, nowhere particularly special. I just dined at one of the usual places: Au Bouquet Saint-Paul, I think it’s called. Whatever, it’s the one with green awning between St-Paul and the Monoprix. They do a mean steak-frites.  The steak comes out nice and red, if you order it bloody (or saignant). The frites (a.k.a., French fries) are perfectly crisp and taste strangely like potatoes. And there’s a side salad. I had a nice glass of Bordeux to accompany, and then, for dessert, the mixture pictured above: a glass of Armagnac and a chocolat Liégois, two scoops of chocolate ice cream, smothered in chocolate syrup, and Chantilly cream on top. And at the Bouquet St-Paul, they use Berthillon Ice Cream. Yep. That’s the good stuff under all that cream. Five stars, check it out.

And now it’s back to work packing.

File footage

By the time most of you read of this, my circuitous route should already have taken me back to America, to an undisclosed location at first (don’t tell if you know!) where I will be visiting with New York Girlfriend—er, uh, Undisclosed Location Girlfriend. And from there it’s on to Knoxville.

Is this the end? Probably not. I still have one more damn essay to write about the new Bibliothèque Nationale, and I have a wedding to attend involving two early superstars in the Euromad™ Pantheon of celebrities (and the guests will include one of the website’s most beloved personalities: hint—he’s the only person ever to “guest blog” for us, and it’s looking like the only person who ever will). Rumor has it even ol’ Il Penitente might be crossing paths with me sometime soon as well, perhaps with Il Penitentino, too. So, yes, there’s a good four or five essays worth of unfinished business to be attended to. Probably at the biweekly pace to which my long-suffering readers have become accustomed. So, until next time, wherever and whenever that next time may be, your friend and humble narrator concludes, in the words of Mr. Scott Young:

So I had to say au revoir,

Arriverderci,

Sayonara,

Ciao!

Hasta la vista, baby!

Happy Trails!

            — Red Meat, “The Girl with the Biggest Hair and the Longest Nails”