A Graphic Evening In Paris

It is no secret that I am an avid fan of one of Chowk’s famous world travelers with his inimitable dexterity at capturing fantastic images using the simple medium of photography. When waiting for airplanes or trapped in long lines at airline counters, I often pass the ordeal by logging in to Chowk’s Gallery section and admiring the delightful pictures of faraway places, interesting subjects, awe-inspiring monuments, and majestic vistas.

Not too long ago, I was in Paris on a business trip and, having concluded some difficult but very successful negotiations, I was really feeling adventurously confident. If my shutter clicking role model could be witty and humorous, why couldn't I take pictures of exotic places as a determined gesture of pleasant reinforcement of my own meager talents? It’s not exactly that he is painting those gaze-riveting pictures with a paintbrush while wearing a beret and a moustache!

Intoxicated with the courage from imbibing the false wine fermented from my own bath water, I went forth from my hotel on the Champs Ali Zai. I believe this famous Paris promenade is named after the greatest boxer of all time with that noblest of Muslim names. I took the metro headed north. Soon I ventured out of the Gare Du Nord train station and into the cultural ghetto of South Indian shops and restaurants that frame both sides of the adjoining street.

I was looking for a camera that would be worthy of my ambition as well as a technological enhancement to my own questionable artistic talent. The intelligent Indian shopkeeper did not disappoint me. He brought out the latest, state-of-the-art, made in India, all-digital Tata Nanomatic III, with all the impressive stats that only a knowledgeable salesperson could spurt out without taking an intervening breath. Yes, this baby had zoom in, zoom out, autofocus, auto enhancement, and most impressive of all, more pixels than there are zits on a sex-starved virgin’s face. After negotiating the price down to 30 Euros, I took full possession of the expensive contraption and headed out into the lovely Paris afternoon to seek my objective.

Had I researched my purchase more diligently, I would have discovered that, although marketed as a reliable device for years of productive delight, the Tata Nanomatic had cornered the disposable digital camera market. Not by design, but by the misfortune of poor craftsmanship and even less precise attention to quality, the Nanomatic was prone to failure after a single memorable click. Of course, at that time I was blissfully ignorant of my faux pas and full of zest for the immediate challenge of mounting an image of Pairs on a screen of pixels.

I returned to my hotel to freshen up and stopped at an inviting local restaurant to feast on an early dinner of la merde de l’escargot accompanied by a demi de piss de la vache. The dinner actually sounded more elegant in French but, as in most things French, in reality and taste it was not worth the price or the effort. I walked over to the Seine, that lovely serpentine body of water that defines this city more than any other element, except for the persistent aroma of urine that permeates this city as a testament to the drinking excesses of Parisians and their thirst for immediate relief. Crossing the river I found the perfect object for my photographic ambition - La Tour Eiffell. Standing over a thousand feet high, the Eiffel Tower would be the perfect image for me to capture on my newly acquired camera. Nothing symbolizes Paris more than this monument, and if I could capture this edifice with the delightfully blue sky as a background, I too would obtain the obligatory “amazing,� “wonderful,� and “brilliant� adulations when I would post this masterpiece on Chowk’s gallery of glimmering images.

Aiming my Nanomatic at the intimidating superstructure, I nervously struggled to frame the entire image into the picture. I could get the impressive base or the towering summit, but not the whole tower. I asked myself what would my distinguished role model do to overcome this frustrating predicament? Of course, if the object doesn’t cooperate, the artist needs to adjust and, therefore, I tried several positions ranging from squatting to missionary to a reclining Buddha.

As I resumed the squatting posture, which seemed to offer the most promising results, I performed a rare scouting maneuver that caused a noisy interlude and tore a hole in the obscurity of the posterity of my elegantly-tailored trousers. Needless to say, the expensive meal and the potent beverage had made their impact on my otherwise impeccable demeanor. To make it worse, the shock of the commotion caused me to lose my balance and I fell backwards with my face towards the sky and legs pointing to opposing suburbs of the City of Lights. To further demonstrate my utter stupidity, I pressed the camera’s button, thinking that somehow this desperate act would break my fall and save me from further embarrassment.

I did not immediately notice the passing Parisienne, in the very short skirt, hovering above me, just as I clicked the camera. The Nanomatic’s flash had come on automatically and distracted her stroll in the direction of the river. She started yelling at me in the worst manners of a Gasconne in pain. She grabbed the camera from my hand and took a look at what I had captured. Before I could dust off the dirt from my behind, I was pleasantly gazing at the most dazzling, most beautiful, most revealing, and sharpest upskirt shot that I had ever seen. I thought to myself “Eat your heart out; you vagabond of the Silk Road!� There was no silk, no cotton, not even a vinyl thong thingy to obstruct the perfect view that I had managed to paint on the canvas of the Nanomatic.

Just as I was basking in the sunshine of my own glory, the irate woman called over a passing gendarme and a fast and furious French conversation ensued. I heard what sounded like several “Je voulez le poulet� statements. The policeman reviewed my masterpiece over and over and over until he turned to me. Just as he was addressing me, the virulent vixen threw my Nanomatic into the Seine and my heart sank deeper than the camera finding its way down to meet the discarded heap of French history.

“Monsieur, ze mademoiselle, she is very angry. She was trying to find ‘appiness while taking a walk along the Seine and your ‘orrible act of taking ‘er picture is tantamount to ‘arassment.� Regardless of his menacing approach, I felt confident that it was her word against mine – that of a distinguished businessman, fluent in multiple languages, and attired in the latest fashion in comparison to a short skirted, sans culotte miniscule, albeit very attractive, young Parisienne. In any semi-civilized society she would be subjected to immediate flogging by at least three bearded guardians of feminine morality. But this was France, where they make love to frogs and then chew on their legs, literally. But I was still hopeful that my powers of persuasion and dubious charm, even in French, would prevail.

As I peeked through the metal bars on my depressing cell’s sole window, I realized that the extravagant meal followed by an even less rational purchase of the high-tech camera, not to mention my lack of negotiating skills, at least in French, were all responsible for ruining an otherwise wonderful evening in Paris. Let the Michelangelos of the Silk Road paint the sky while lying on their backs, let the recorders of civilization wander from China to Chad, from Ukraine to Uruguay, from Poland to Philippines clicking away at faces, places, and things. I am forever doomed to a black and white life of a writer without visual effects.

Apparently, while negotiating with the excited gendarme, I had spoken in French and said “You, sir, have dimmed my last evening in Paris.� Somewhere, thanks to my Southern accent, even while speaking French, “dernier� became “derriere� and “baisser� became “baiser� and the policeman thought I had told him “to kiss my ass this evening in Paris.�