I’m back! Back in the US, back home, and back in an electronically connected kind of way. At least for now.

Highlighting the smallness of the train compartment...and the greasiness of my forehead. (Seriously, what is up with my forehead? It's like the Exxon Valdez spill up there.)

Through the magic of pushing ‘F12′ and some other brief keystrokes and about an hour of white text running across a black screen, the computer somehow miraculously looks like it did last week.  I in no way trust that this a permanent situation, but while it is actually working, I’m willing to run with it.

That stated, below is a post I wrote for you on Wednesday morning in a cafe on the Left Bank. I’ll also add some pictures you missed out on due to the unexpected technical difficulties. Anticipate a few days of back posts, and we can talk again ‘real time’ on Wednesday or Thursday.

French Rip Van Winkle

Actually, thanks to the rocking and rolling train from Barcelona to Paris, this is not at all true. Rather, I slept crappy, and although I don’t remember my dreams very clearly, I can only imagine they involved being out on rough seas or on a nauseating ride at an amusement park.

Rather, this title refers to my (henceforth unnoticed) title gaffe the other day. My first instinct was to call it ‘Spanish Sleeping Sickness’ and maybe mention tsetse flies – and you know what they say about trusting your first instincts – but clearly I didn’t, and instead made a reference that I now realize makes no sense.

Day one in Paris, and already the weather is turning foul. Happily, I was having a good hair day.

I was lying there in my train bed last night, mentally reviewing the message Shelley left me that (in essence) ‘Rip Van Winkle is the one who slept forever, and Rumplestiltskin something about taking or killing the lady’s baby,” and maybe she mentioned this (most likely) or maybe I remembered (less likely) but didn’t he also have something to do with spinning golden thread? Or a loom that made golden thread?

 And isn’t there also a weird booze called Rumplemint? What is that? Is it minty? Does it have anything to do with Rumplestiltskin? Two days ago I would’ve suggested it would make you sleep, but now I know that’s wrong. Does it help you make gold? Or is that Goldschlager?

Meanwhile, I started thinking about how it would be nice – but also slow going – to be able to make golden thread. And how do you sell it? By the ounce, I guess, because probably it takes a lot to amount to any kind of weight. Or maybe not. I’ve never handled the thread that goes into making brocade, but the finished product is damn heavy. Perhaps gold thread would be really heavy too?

The Louvre.

Anyway, now it’s clarified: Rip Van Winkle slept a long time, and Rumplestiltskin has something to do with gold thread (maybe) and infanticide (maybe).

So, from there, I started to get confused: What is the story where the parents steal cabbages and vegetables from some lady’s yard? I think she’s a witch? Is that Rapunzel? Curse you, Into the Woods and your musical storyline of mixing together a dozen or more fairytales. Now I’m all confused, and I can’t keep anything straight or remember the details anymore.

Or maybe it’s not Into the Woods fault? Maybe it was all the years I spent touring with the Rolling Stones and the hardcore rock and roll lifestyle? Enough years of heavy drugs and nameless, faceless groupies will do that to a person.

Oh wait. That didn’t actually happen.

Hmmmm….

It takes a serious hike to get to the Eiffel Tower.

In other news, I am now in a very quaint Paris bistro eating a croissant and drinking café au lait and listening to Snoop Doggy Dogg and Eminem. Not a total ambience killer, but definitely an unexpected juxtaposition.

Earlier in the week, I could have sworn the forecast was sunny and low 60s/high 70s…but now it’s low 60’s and rain every day, which fits in with my impressions of Paris. I’ve never been here when it wasn’t raining. On the other hand, maybe I looked up Paris, Texas by accident?

So anyway, we’re killing time because it’s only 10:30am, and we can’t check into the studio apartment we rented until around noon. So there you have it. There’s probably other stuff I meant to tell you, but I can’t think of it right now, largely because I’m tired due to the aforementioned restless night and the drug-induced brain damage that didn’t happen, so it’ll have to wait until tomorrow. Or never. Either way.

Bernard Réquichot's 'Episode de la guerre des nerfs' at the Pompidou.