|
North Beach. It can make your head spin. Stand on the corner of Columbus
and Broadway on a Friday night with sex shows in one direction and pasta
and pretty people in the other, and you can feel your equilibrium go.
From Washington Square: A Little Piece of Heaven |
| Something New |
 By
Louis Martin
I arrived back in Shanghai in early January. Daytime temperatures were down around freezing, nigh time temperatures dipped lower. My life as a "refugee" was not quite over. For two weeks I lived at "Captain International Youth Hostel" on Yan An between the Bund and the Old Chinese City in Shanghai. I picked it because its location was ideal for finding an apartment in the Old Chinese City, where I had lived before. It had been four months since I had left Shanghai, largely because of a visa problem. The first thing I noticed heading south on Sichuan, then west on Fangbang to the Bank of China, was that the pace of construction had not abated. As before, I found myself stepping over broken concrete where sidewalks were being replaced and skirting piles of construction materials and staring up at the scaffolding on buildings that were either rising out of nothing or being remodeled or given a face-lift. "Expo 2010" was coming and the Chinese, always conscious of "face," wanted to present a good one. |
| Refugee |
 By
Louis Martin
After three months on the streets of Paris, I became a refugee on the run. I went here, I went there, calling no place home. I was alive, however, and ever busy devising the next step. Strange! I must have thought there was a future. I went to Spain again to visit my daughter for a few weeks, then I went back to Paris for a day to move some of my stuff to a cheaper locker on rue Cardinet. Lockers in Paris are not cheap. The cheaper one now costs 64 euros per month, down from 90. But there wasn't a good alternative; it was too expensive to move my stuff to another city. The airlines are charging an arm and a leg for everything. Then I flew to San Francisco. Or actually I flew to Dublin, then to Chicago, then to San Francisco. These days on economy class it is nearly impossible to get a direct flight.... |
| dans
le rue à paris, épisode 2 |
|  By
Louis Martin
"Having
been kicked, insulted—called a "bitch" for some
reason, rather than a bastard—and robbed by the Arab guys
in Pigalle, I decided it was time for a break. I took the
night train from Gare Austerlitz in Paris to Latour de Carol
in southern France. My daughter picked me up and we crossed
the border into Spain. In Puigcerda near the border and in
the Pyreness Mountains I relaxed for a few weeks, walked around
the lake, watching the leaves turn yellow and brown, then
fall off the trees. The colors were as beautiful as fire at
night but also depressing. It was the season of dying. I returned
to Paris only partly refreshed. On my first night out on the
street again there were five incidents. Four were minor, such
as blocking my way on the center island of rues Clichy and
Rochechouart....
|
| dans
le rue à paris, épisode 1 |
 By
Louis Martin
At 5 o'clock in the morning the rats come out. At 6 the
pigeons drop from the trees and the roofs of buildings and
the rats go back into the shrubbery of the center island
of Boulevard Clichy. It is the pigeons' turn to to pick
over the garbage. At 7 the city workers show up for cleanup.
By 8 the area has been picked over in various ways and a
few tourists show up out of nowhere. It will be hours before
the sex shops open for business but the day has begun. How
do I know all this? I
am hanging out there every other day—or should I say
night?—as a cost-saving measure. I can only afford
to stay in a hostel every other day. At least I am in Montmartre,
a nice part of Paris, once frequented by artists and now,
with the Moulin Rouge just up the street, coveted by tourists.
I don't know how long this will go on. "Business,"
I read, has begun to recover. Buy my business has not.... |
| Picking
Up the Pieces in Paris, Part 2 |
|  By
Louis Martin
"You
have a wonderful resume," she said. "Your teaching
demonstration was the best I've seen; it was really vivid.
But," she added, "you're too old." She
was the young Chinese girl who was interviewing me for a job
teaching English. She had been impressed by the masters and
doctorate degrees from Stanford University in a way that I
no longer was; and she noted that I had not just the TESOL
certificate but the "advanced" one. Many of the
teachers they hire don't have the teaching certificate—it's
not a "fixed" requirement—and some don't even
have four-year college degree. Mei you wenti, not
a problem, so it seems, if you're under 30 and female. "I
wonder what Lao Zi would think?" I asked. "Huh?"
she asked. "Nothing," I said. I'm not ancient but
I'm not a youngster anymore. I have taught in Shanghai before
... |
| Cockroaches,
Speaking in Tongues |
 By
Louis Martin
When the cockroaches in New York City heard about Jesus
Day in Texas, they declared Bush Day in the sewers of Manhattan....
Bush is out of office but the Bushmen are still there, dreaming
up the next war and the funding scheme that will benefit
their business associates.... If you were robbed on the
street and you knew who did it, would you not go to the
police to report the crime? In politics the robbery is considered
to be "water under the bridge"—unrecoverable.
Bu hao, not good! Why not go after the real estate
industy and its accessories, the assessors? Simple answer:
They are th biggest contributors to political campaign funds....
Cheney the sportsman? Seventy pen-raised pheasants left
dead on the ground on a single day—beaks in the dust,
eyes glazed, buck-shot broken legs and wings, drops of blood
on downy feathers ... |
| Xing |
|  By
Louis Martin
Xing
Xing comes by today. She wants help with her visa paperwork
for Paris. She is a first-year university student, and like
a lot of university students, wants to visit that great city
in the Summer when she is out of school. Also, Paris and Shanghai
are officially sister cities; they have a connection. This
does not interest her so much as it does me. I am always looking
for connections, anything that links one thing to another
and makes more sense of them. And did I mention that both
Shanghai and Paris are officially sister cities of San Francisco?
That turns me on because these are some of my favorite places
on earth. But back to Xing Xing and her trip....
|
| Coffee
and Donuts, Glory Days ... |
 By
Louis Martin
"The girls?"
I asked. It was Monday afternoon. I was sitting at a booth
at a "coffee bar" on Hangkou Lu (road) near the
Bund in Shanghai practicing Chinese with Xiao Ping, a waiter
there. As a young woman walked towards the fancy doors at
the rear, he casually remarked, "The girls are starting
to come in." We
were talking about the word for culture, wenhua
in Chinese. I guess the girls were part of that. Actually,
I was not surprised. One of the street pimps had pointed
out the place a few days earlier and I had put it on my
list of curiosities. Xiao Ping is 23 and has been in Shanghai
for two years. But he says he hasn't seen much of it. He
works seven days a week, 12 hours a day. "Sometimes
I smile, sometimes I cry," he says. I ask him if he
has a girl friend. He says he has many. But then I realize
he doesn't mean the same thing by girlfriend that I do....
|
| Zenme
Shuo ...? |
|  By
Louis Martin
It
was a very tiring day of travel: San Francisco to Beijing,
then Beijing to Shanghai. Security was even worse than usual.
Because I bought my tickets at the last minute, I was targeted
by airport security. I guess terrorists also buy their tickets
at the last minute. They took everything out of my carry-on
luggage and confiscated the cork screw I had bought in San
Francisco. The last time it was my Swiss army knife, which
I had had for twenty years and which had, among its many useful
tools, a cork screw. I could I get a new cork screw pretty
easily but the Swiss army knife was beyond my means these
days. "Screw the bastards," I muttered under my
breath.... |
| On
Just About Everything |
 By
Louis Martin
"You touched
me," she screamed. I was standing in the narrow passageway
between the door and the bar trying to get out but being
blocked by the manager. It was a setup. I had not touched
her; she had grabbed my hands and placed them on her. The
idea was this: I had had a lap dance with her and now owed
the club, named Cabaret, 85 Euros. Times were desperate,
I guess. "Ce n'est pas raisonnable," I said to
the manager. "You touched me," she said again
like an injured party in a dispute. She was a tall, rather
odd-looking black woman. I had gone in for 10 Euros that
included a drink to "see the show." There wasn't
any. Or I guess she was the show. When she asked me if I
would buy her a drink, I said no. When the drink came anyway,
I decided there was a problem and got up to leave.... |
| Picking
Up The Piece In Paris |
|  By
Louis Martin
I
am sitting at the Royal Custine in Paris. The bar is long
and clean; it is well polished. I am not royal but I have
begun to feel like a person again. I begin to remember things,
piece by piece, my mind wandering over the fragmented remains
of the last three months in Shanghai, China. "Ladies, shut
up," shouted "Senior Academic Teacher" Blaire Greasly at a
group of students laughing in the hall. Blaire was an ex-military
guy from Australia and seemed to like his title a lot. He
put it on every document he wrote and personally signed it.
Unfortunately most of these documents showed up on the desks
of the English teachers at Shanghai Jiao Tong University and
amounted to new orders or rules and regulations. No behavior
seemed to be beyond the scope of Blaire's rules. On might
think giving a test would be a simple matter but not when
Blaire got involved.... |
| Teacher,
Teacher: Yi, Er, San, Si
... |
 By
Louis Martin
"Teacher, teacher," my students said when they discovered
that I did not know how to count in Chinese. The drilling
began immediately: Yi, er, san, si, wu, liu, qi, ba,
jiu, shi ... I had come to China to teach English at
a summer camp in Shanghai. I needed a break from Paris,
I needed to get away from the "girls" in Pigalle. Shanghai
seemed like a fine escape. There would be fewer language
problems in Shanghai, as my knowledge of Chinese was extremely
limited, unlike my knowledge of French, which always seemed
to be getting me in trouble. We had just come back from
a field trip to Shen Shan (Shan means mountain)
where it had been extremely hot. The kids had been dripping
with perspiration, their clothing soaked.... |
| Le
Bon Moment en Pigalle |
|  By
Louis Martin
"Don't
say I'm nice,"
she said angrily, then looked away. I said I meant it. She had
just told me how things worked at the Le X-Oh.
It was one of those small girly places off the main drag in
Pigalle. I liked this one better than the others. There were
more "girls" and it was friendlier. You could buy
a drink and talk, and there wasn't the pressure to go in the
back for "sex." She had been working the trade for
eight years, she said. She rotated between London and Paris:
six months in London, where she was from, then six months in
Paris. Her name was Somali. She was a British citizen of African
descent. She was actually promoting her friend to me, who did
not speak English. She told me the prices and informed me that
her friend would go home with me if I wanted. "How much?"
I asked.... |
| Diamonds,
Reality & Spare Change |
 By
Louis Martin
It was Friday. I got off BART at Powell & Market and walked
a block up to Ellis, then over to Les Joulins Jazz Bistro.
At the far end of the long bar stood Reuben, the manager.
He looked exhausted. The cause? Alfie Javier Almonza, his
new son, born October 9, 2007. The kid is doing well but
exhausting both the parents. I told him there was hope:
In just a year or two he and his wife would be sleeping
again. I knew; I had been through it. Between sets I had
a quick conversation with musicians Charles and Valencia,
then split for Le Central. I had too many places I wanted
to go tonight and was rushing. Why the rush? Maybe I was
making up for lost time, lost sleep; too many babes, too
many babies. Slow down, I told myself, then rushed off.
Dave and Will are there at Le Central tending bar. We fall
into a conversation about Fernet, the San Francisco bartenders'
drink.... |
| Camping
Out In San Francisco |
|  By
Louis Martin
So much for Treasure
Island RV Park, I decided. I would "camp out" in San Francisco
for a week or two and see how it went. It was Friday night
and first I hit Les Joulins Jazz Bistro, Cafe Claude, Cafe
Bastille, and Enrico's. I must have had the feeling that I
was going out of circulation for awhile to hit all those places.
Then I headed down to Ocean Beach, which I thought might be
a safe starter. Past the Cliff House I wandered down the hill
to the big parking lots below. I pulled into the second of
the two lots, the bigger one. I turned off the engine and
just sat for awhile in the dark. There were other vehicles
in the lot and a couple of blazing fires out on the beach.
I could see figures illumintated by the flames. I am sitting
there ... |
| In
Limbo: South City |
 By
Louis Martin
... So it was I said good-bye to Paris for awhile. A few
days later, on Halloween, I found myself headed back to
San Francisco, or more precisely, South San Francisco. I
had given up my apartment in The City when I went to Paris,
so was planning to stay in South San Francisco until I found
another place or went back to Paris. Since I have an RV
that I have practically never used, I thought this would
be a good opportunity to put it to use. I rented space in
Treasure Island RV Park, not on Treasure
Island, which might have been interesting, but in South
San Francisco. But that is not to say that Treasure Island
RV Park in South San Francisco is not without interest.
It is in fact a curious place, partly due to its location.
Located not in the "industrial" part of the city that everyone
driving up 101 to San Francisco is familiar with, but up
in the hills ... |
| Sidewalk
Cafe—For Enrico |
|  By
Louis Martin
"How
was Paris?" I could hear Jen's question even before
I'm off the plane in San Francisco. She's was picking me up
at the airport. I probably should have refused her offer but
hadn't. "Paris is Paris," I would say, delaying the
answer for awhile. But I can hear the response to that: "Paris
is Paris? That's all you've got to say?" "It
is a mixture of all the species," I would then say, hoping
to delay things, "it is a chaos, a throng where everybody
hunts for pleasure and hardly anybody finds it, at least so
far as I could see." "That
doesn't sound like you. Who wrote that? It's eloquent; you're
not." I was stung by the insensitivity of her remark. But
she was right. "Voltaire," I confess. "Voltaire?"
"Yes,
Voltaire. I had a drink at his old hangout, Le Procope.... |
| Snowman |
 By
Joe Smith
Many women cut their hair or begin painting their toenails
when they break up with their boyfriends. My old friend
Misty changes a letter in her name at the conclusion of
a romance. She would hate to hear her old name on the lips
of a new beau. There are exceptions to this practice of
hers. She has on occasion made a double-switch in letters,
or even taken what she calls a mulligan, leaving her name
the same for the next paramour. But such exceptions are
rare. “I’ve had lovers who were bald before,” she says,
“and lovers who were married. But I never had one who was
both at the same time. Or so … so … what’s the word? Proficient.”
Apparently her latest flame was a bone fide chopstick lover.
Fork lovers, according to her, shovel sex in ... |
| On the Edge: Shanghai 2007 |
|
 By Louis Martin
I had come to Shanghai for the dim sum. I was told by my Chinese friends in San Francisco that Shanghai has the best dim sum in the world. My plan was to spend a week tracking down dim sum, savoring its exquisite flavor, photographing it in its many forms, and taking careful notes so that I could write about it like an expert, thereby justifying my trip. That was the plan, anyway.
My first afternoon in Shanghai found me going for a walk. I may have been thinking dim sum when I started out but by the end of the walk, starting on Maoming Road, and venturing north up to Nanjing Road, then west on Nanjing, dim sum was not in my mind. The thought of dim sum had been replaced by the thought of something non-edible: architecture.... |
| Illumination |
 By
Joe Smith
“I’m glad I’m in here,” Arnie smiles, “rather than out there.”
The shattered lens of his eyeglasses breaks up the flash
of lightning into several distinct bolts. I wonder how many
his retina records, if he sees something resembling a lightning
kaleidoscope. It’s easy to comprehend his happiness at being
in my kitchen during the thunderstorm. The baseball cap
he always wears is lined with aluminum foil to protect his
brain from electromagnetic radiation. Arnie started taking
this precaution some years ago, not long after he learned
that he had a radio in his mouth. Or, more exactly, a radio
tooth, a silver filling in a molar that somehow worked like
a crystal set. Without earphones, of
course.... |
| Sidewalk
Cafe: La Vie Nocturne |
|  By
Louis Martin
Tengo una hija que viva en Puigcerda. Now I have
found a place I like in Paris: Au Rendez Vous des Amis.
They don't throw the customers out after a glass of wine.
Some customers look like they have been sitting there since
the execution of Louis XVI wondering if he got what
he deserved or not. Mais il est froid et venteux a Paris.
I decide to pay the daughter a visit. The subway gets me to
Gare Austerlizt. Le tren will get me to
Latour de Carol on the border. I get a sleeper but
I am not a sleeper this evening. I drift in and out, dans
et hors. "Vin rouge," I say in my dreams
but le serveur hears "vin blanc." Rouge
does not sound like blanc to me, but it seems that
unless pronunciation is perfect, he does not understand me.
She aussi. Je ne parle pas français parfait.
Je n'essaye pas même.... |
| Sidewalk
Cafe: Hanging Out In Paris |
 By
Louis Martin
Before I leave for Paris I get the news: Enrico's has closed.
I walk over to North Beach just to check it out. The sign
says THANKS FOR 50 GREAT YEARS!
WHAT? THAT IS HOW IT ALL ENDS? It is hard
to believe. It is the best of the best in San Francisco.
It IS San Francisco. I can think of dozens of places that
should close before Enrico's. HUNDREDS.
THOUSANDS. There is nothing like Enrico's,
never will be again. It is, or was, a one-of-a-kind place.
It was not a copy of some other place that made money so
an investor said okay, give it a try. It was born in the
mind of a man of many talents, Enrico Banducchi, who came
to San Francisco at the age of 13 to study violin ... |
| Honest
Food & CitiCrimes |
|  By
Louis Martin
CitiApartments, CitiBombardments, Skyline Realty, Flytrap
Reality, CitiSuites, CitiCrimes, CitiCiti, CitiTitti, CitiWealth,
CitiFilth ... and out of this dank maze of aliases, like primitive
man poking his head from the cave, one name emerges ... Lembi.
Name makes you cringe? Okay, let's reverse it before we go
on and discuss his Brother In Greed: Ibmel. Ibmel relies on
your fear. Ibmel counts on it. Ibmel has dog's teeth smeared
with blood. Ibmel is an arse swarming with flies. Ibmel would
like to rob and murder you but he knows that's risky. He'd
also like to rob the bank but that would take guts. So instead
Ibmel buys your apartment, cuts what services ... |
| Chindogu |
 By
Joe Smith
The
sun has finally emerged after days of rain. Charlie
and I pace the bluffs, our eyes peeled to catch the
telltale spumes of whales headed south to tepid Mexican
bays to reproduce.
“You figure they’re like us?” he asks. “You figure their baby-making equipment
shrivels up and retreats inside those great, lumbering bodies when the water’s
icy cold? The humpback baritones sing soprano?”
Our rubber boots squelch in the mud. The earth is saturated, the bluff's a marsh.
And despite the brilliant sunshine, the sea is gray, as though it had sucked
up all the gray from the rain it could hold....
|
| Time
Of Your Life In San Francisco |
|
 By
Louis Martin
I
don't know what it means. It's just a fun thing to do.
While presidents drop bombs and lovers thrash out the details
of their relationships and businesses scramble for mindshare
and marketshare and any other kind of share they can get
their hands on, I just go walking. No one gets put down
with deadly force, no one is forced to "commit", and I'm
never richer for it. But walking is my form of fun and
it makes me feel free. For an hour or so I'm a Pacific
breeze fresh ashore, visting my favorite city.... |
|
|
Winning feels good, especially after losing. I have recently been
on a losing streak. But all things come in cycles, even as the lout knows.
Faith tells you and the lout that you've hit bottom and will soon rise
again.
From San Francisco Cocktail
|
