Premium France Tour
[ photos by dan bourqui ]
 As a child I never had my own bedroom. And I always wanted to be somewhere other than where I was. I'd spin my globe around and around, imagining all the places I would like to visit: Russia, China and its Wall, Cuba with its rich bossa-nova sound, Brazil, home of my grandmother, and Australia, the island of thieves and sinners whose ranks I would some day like to join. But France, France was never one of the places I'd dreamt of. The Eiffel Tower held no interest for me other than that of a means to get closer to God, and if I wanted that I could take a train to the Empire State Building. The Louvre and all its works were nothing more than old, boring paintings, the Mona Lisa a mere woman. I was into comic-book artists like Jack Kirby and John Byrne, not dead men like Michelangelo and DaVinci. I was young and uncultured, unsure of my place in this world. As I got older, I grew an appreciation for the fine arts, and I reconsidered some of the places I wanted to see. Rome, Florence, Barcelona, places that birthed great artists. Still, France didn't even make my top 100 places to visit before I jump off the Grand Canyon. Then Max Dufour asked me to go with him and the Premium Wood team on a little tour of France, and I began to calculate my frequent-flier miles and realized that with his free trip to France on US Airways I'd have earned a free round-trip ticket to anywhere in the world. So begrudgingly I got on a plane boarded for Paris, by way of Pittsburgh.
It was a six-hour flight to Pittsburgh, with a two-and-a-half-hour layover, then seven hours to Paris and finally a one-hour wait to catch a two-hour train to Lyons. I had started at 7:00 a.m. Monday in L.A. and arrived 2:00 p.m. Tuesday in Lyons. I immediately passed out in a hotel room, which reminded me of my bedroom in high school: complete darkness, no windows, no lights, no noise. I stayed there, tucked away for what seemed like days, and when I awoke, night had fallen. I walked out the front doors, and Lyons frowned upon me. I attempted to tape a fake smile upon my face, but it refused to stick.
"Hello, France," I said to the wind. He didn't respond. "Listen, I know you don't like me, but I'm not a big fan of yours either. That's just how things work sometimes. But for the next ten days we're stuck with each other, so let's try and make the best of it."
For a moment the breeze seemed to halt, almost agreeing with my offer of truce. Then the wind really picked up, and rain began to fall from the sky. I got shit on. But I laughed in France's fucking face, and yelled, "Okay, scumbag! That's how you want it, I'm going to piss all over you when you're sleeping." I turned my back on him and went into the hotel to find Max Dufour, Alex Gavin, Pierre Luc, Eric Mercier, ET, Jesse Landen, Mike McKinlay (the only two other non-French-speaking guys on the trip), filmer Dan Mathieu or anyone else that might want to go out and piss on France with me.
If I thought it was fun dealing with the little bit of French the team spoke in Portugal, I was in for a real treat this time. Whereas in Portugal I was versed in the Portuguese and could make jokes and laugh at the other guys with the locals, me, Mike and Jesse were now the butt of every joke, the ones constantly asking, "What did he say? What did he say?" The only positive was that the French in France are even bigger dicks than the French in Canada. Prior to this trip, I was under the impression that all Frenchies hated Americans, which is true, but to my surprise their wrath is not limited to Yankees. The French hate everyone. They hate tourists, they hate anyone that isn't from France, I'm sure they even hate other Frenchies. And they most definitely hate French Canadians almost as much as they hate Americans. I remember watching some Frog's expression as Gavin asked him for directions in his Canadian version of French, and it was like someone had forced the old man's mouth open and latched it onto the tail end of a donkey and filled it with shit. On other occasions I witnessed one of the guys on the team questioning some local, and the Frenchman would cut into a condescending broken English, refusing to speak to the Canadians in French, "Oh my Canadian friend, how can I help you?" Total dicks. This time around, no one minded when I did my mock French act which consists of me saying, "Huh-huh-huh. Wee, wee, wee," and, "French toast," "French fries," "French kiss," in a voice more Swedish Chef than Gerard Depardieu.
Eight hours northwest of Lyons is a town called Nantes. We spent two days there at a hotel called Cu Grand Monarque directly across the street from a gorgeous church, some 200 years old, which went by the name of St. Clement. It was within those rock walls, upon bended knee, that I had a rather long and one-sided conversation with God. It consisted mostly of me fighting to hold back tears and properly  choosing the right words to tell God that he can be a real prick sometimes. I told him that I don't really go for some of the shit he pulls, and I asked him what exactly is his problem? I'm not about to start selling you a bunch of religious propaganda to convince you that there is or isn't a God. Me, I'm generally a friend of God's when it suits me. Just found a dollar: "Thanks, God." Managed to catch my plane: Thank God, just in time." Got hit by a car: "God, why me?" On this particular day I found myself doing something rather odd, chewing God out on behalf of someone other than myself. Someone that actually deserved the attention. I felt that God did my grandmother wrong a few days before I left for France and owed me a major explanation. Like what the fuck? My grandmother is a God-loving/-fearing woman and really, truly has a wholehearted love affair with God going. She attends church two to three times daily. DAILY. Prays incessantly and is constantly discussing some demonstration of God's love. It makes her happy, so I keep my mouth shut. Each February she returns to her homeland of Portugal for a month or so to get some clean air, rebuild her spirits and visit the shrine of Our Lady of Fatima. This year was no different, but get this: This year she flies back on Easter day and of course goes right to church for Easter service, but as she walked the two blocks back to our house, she was struck by a car and nearly killed. She was in the hospital for weeks with a broken hip, leg and wrist. Coming from church! So that was what I was yelling at God about, and do you know what he said to me? The same thing he's been saying to me all my life: nothing. So if any of you hard-core Christian skaters out there have a line on Mr. G-O-D, ask him what's up with that shit because I'm still pretty pissed about it, and he still hasn't returned my calls.
And then I was all alone, inside a tavern whose name I could not pronounce, standing before a bartender that despised me because he knew that his words were wasted on me. If he'd spoken English I'd still find a way to misunderstand him, to offer him a stumped, puzzled look instead of the "Beer, please" that he was looking for. So I looked away. Broke the bond our eyes shared and scanned the room for gentler eyes. Eyes that understood me, eyes that understood French as well, even if it was only two years in high school.  Where was my blond savior with mismatched eyes to explain to this angry man, this man who hated Americans and only wanted to go home and watch the news, to drown his problems in other people's problems, that all I wanted was a goddamn beer. I no longer even cared what brand it was, if it was warm or cold or if it had a half-smoked cigarette floating in it. I just needed something to hold in my hand and give me purpose. Was that so much to ask?
A green sign caught my eye. Heineken. I can say "Heineken." I found his angry eyes again. "Heineken," I tried to say without a ridiculous sweater-in-the-summertime accent that was neither my own nor French.
"No Heineken," he told me.
"He's fucking with me now," I thought. And I let him. I let him win. I let him take out all his hatred for every man that's ever walked in his bar not knowing a lick of French. I handed him my money, made a puppy-dog face and said the only word that made sense at the moment, "Beer." And that's what he brought me. Nothing grand, nothing with a hint of flavor, nothing I'd recommend to my fellow members of the Beer of the Month Club, but it was beer nevertheless, And I drank it down, while adding the sonofabitch bartender to my eternal shit list.
I generally try to be nice to distributors, especially in foreign countries. They have the power to make your life a living hell or allow you to have the greatest time of your life in a foreign country. The French distributor was cool and generally wanted to make our stay a pleasant one, which it was; he Just forgot to mention one minor detail about one of the demos we were scheduled to do. It was no big deal, you know, but the skatepark was located ON THE SIDE OF A FUCKING SNOW-COVERED MOUNTAIN!
You can only imagine how we were all feeling when the sun fell, and we huddled around a charcoal grill for warmth because we were only wearing shorts and T-shirts, while the locals laughed in their overcoats and wool hats.
I woke up the next day thinking I might have some terrible disease. Something awful, like TB or scoliosis or West Nile virus. No. Worse. Those are almost fun diseases. What's the worst disease these days? Not sure. But whatever it is, what I have is worse. A million times worse. Doctors have no way to diagnose it. They have no idea what's wrong with me. Then again, I've never told them there was anything wrong. Why bother? There really isn't anything wrong. I just catch colds everywhere I go, but I think that's normal. Normal for me at least. France was no exception. I coughed. I sweated. My insides were unpleasant to deal with. Do you feel sad for me? Do you pity my poor degenerative body? You should. You should send me flowers. And get-well cards. And balloons. Sends lots of balloons. I love balloons. I love to suck the innards out of them and make myself sound funny for a few seconds. It takes my mind off the fact that I'll be dead soon. Probably not soon. But one day. And then I fear there will be no balloons. I may end up in paradise or a very hot place full of suffering, but I fear neither will have balloons, so, please, send the balloons before it's too late.
Maybe it's the smell of myself that was making me ill. I'm not sure if my anti-shower approach to touring was modeled after the medieval belief that cleansing oneself makes one susceptible to disease and evil spirits, or if it's because I was trying to compete with the French and their superior body odor. Whichever it is, I'd decided before the week's end, just as soon as I felt better, I would shave and perhaps even break down and buy deodorant. Today is Monday. I'll write the word shaver on my foot. Perhaps when I change my socks on Thursday, it will jog my memory. I'm feeling especially weak and disoriented. Perhaps I've been drugged. Maybe this is the big one, Elizabeth. I'm coming for you. Or maybe that cocksucking prick of a bartender poisoned my beer. Whatever was wrong with me was bound to only get worse without meds. I rolled out of bed onto the floor. The room swayed back and forth slowly, I saw a Xerox of everything I tried to focus my eyes on. Crawling to my medicine bag, the fluids decided they wanted out, all of them, at once. First the sweat came like a tidal wave, then my nose pretended it was a broken faucet. What's that? I'm a baby now? I have no control over my mouth? Yes, yes, I'm drooling on the carpet. As long as I don't have to fart. Oh, but I have to fart. And we know what that means when you're sick. My ass pissed into the
back of my jeans, making my penis jealous. It started to drool as well. Little drops only, or at least that's what it felt like. I could have been pissing out two cases worth, I wouldn't have noticed the difference. My medicine bag proved useless, full to the gills with every pill but vitamins or common-cold medicine. When it dawned on me that I would have to somehow stand up, go down three floors of stairs and walk outside and find a pharmacy, I puked. Sometimes life hands you a lit cigarette, and sometimes it tells you to go screw. Luckily, it was kind, and I don't recall how difficult it was to get down the stairs. I do remember how exhausting it was trying pry directions to a drugstore out of the 90-year-old little lady that hid behind the desk in the lobby.
"Pharmacy?" I asked. Her eyes were dead, and she looked through me. "Pharmacia?" I tried. Nothing. Perhaps pantomiming. "Listen, lady. Me," pointing to myself, "need MED-I-CINE," holding imaginary pills up to her and then tossing them back, "or I'm going to die," acting like I'm choking, holding my throat, eyes rolling back in my head. She must have thought I was cute or kidding or who knows what because she smiled a short, quick, less-than-half smile. So I smiled back at her, the kind of smile one gives to someone they want dead after they realize there are no bullets in their gun. And then I nodded to her, tricking her into thinking we understood each other, and I said, "Lady, I am going to shit, piss and puke all over your carpet, and you're going to clean it up. Sound good?" She nodded.
Did I mention the French were bastards? If not, then what do you think of me being locked out of the drugstore just as I reached for its door handle because the employee was going on siesta or whatever the hell they call it in France? For an hour I stood propped up against the glass doors of the store, puking and shooting wet shots of shit into my pants, while the prick ate his sandwich and then proceeded to read the newspaper.
When I recovered a few days later, I returned to the streets with a vengeance. All French were my enemy. They must have been pretty over me as well because one night we went and rode bumper cars. I, of course, hopped in the only car with an American flag attached to it and was mauled from all angles. The next night I had a gun pulled on me. It was rather well timed, so I didn't get too upset about it. I was in the middle of a conversation with Eric Mercier which we started in some club and continued out onto the street as we made our way back to the hotel. He'd asked earlier if I'd ever had a gun pulled on me, and I began to tell him a few of the nearly dozen times I'd been put in such a situation when I was a stupid college kid making runs up to Harlem to buy brick weed in a bright-yellow Charlie Brown/Dan Peterka shirt. Then he'd tell me tales of some of the rougher sides of Montreal he'd dealt with, and as we walked and talked, a man going the other way slammed his left shoulder into mine and kept walking.
"What the fuck is your problem?" I yelled to him. He yelled something in French, then before any of us could decipher what he said, he had a semi-automatic pistol pointed at my face. "Listen, pal. I don't speak French," I kept repeating. "I don't speak French, take it easy. Be cool." Gavin, E.T. and Mercier were trying to talk our way out of the situation in French. It sounded like layers of noise, nothing making any sense. I really thought I was going to get shot in the face, but without warning the guy cocked his head at me, gave me a stern look, then spun around and took off running.
Fuck France.
Instead of packing it in, I decided to treat myself to a little vacation in Amsterdam with Gavin, E.T., Eric Mercier and Dan Mathieu. I had grand plans for Amsterdam, none of which included getting high at a coffee bar and laughing at how the clouds rolled across the sky like dice on a blue-velvet crap table. No, I wanted to put vegetables up a girl's ass. Maybe even a bowling pin, if they had bowling pins in Europe. But despite the picture of endless sexual possibilities that had been developed in my mind, the reality that exists in Amsterdam is a bit more tightly cropped and in focus. When I'd ask any of the glass-encased flesh dolls going rates, things were smooth. "Fifty Euros ($50)."
"Well, I don't want to fuck you," I explained, "I just want to watch." Up to that point our negotiations were moving along nicely.
"Fifty Euros" she said. "I have all kinds of toys, what you want?" Still cool. Then I showed her the apples, oranges, cucumbers, bananas and kiwis I had in an orange plastic sack, and that always seemed to be when they'd trip out and start with the attitude, as if I was the first guy that has ever suggested such a vitamin-rich scenario. I tried to explain that I'd pay whatever price and that she need not even touch me at all, but there was no getting through to any of them with the almighty dollar, so I tried simple reasoning: "I mean, are you a whore or aren't you? I don't think I'm asking for anything immoral, nothing that you won't forget about two seconds after you walk into your one-bedroom apartment to your three kids with my money and free groceries." But these were not women of reason. So I spent my nights seated on a canal bridge, legs dangling free, staring at the red alley lights blink bright and dim as I peeled orange after orange, getting my hands all sticky.
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