Sunday, July 13, 2014

RIVIERA BOUND

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We are like children, we’re painted on canvases
Picking up shades as we go
We start off with just so, brushed on by people we know
Watch your technique as you go


Fewer things are more beautiful than a train ride through Provence.  On this cloudy day, the sun is trying it’s best to give us a glimpse of blue skies, but the clouds are giving her a run for her money.  Vineyards on the left of you, and Mediterranean Sea on the right.  I haven’t seen the sun yet since being in France.  It rained last night during the show in that beautiful amphitheater.  I stepped in a puddle of, I don’t know what, trying to capture photos of every corridor, in hopes of getting my Game of Thrones tour on.  No one else thought of Game of Thrones.  It was magnificent however, and incredibly romantic.  Our dressing rooms were situated just over the point where you would issue the lions, or tigers, or whatever killing contraption used by the Romans for their entertainment.  Instead of a pit now lies a stage with a few apartment buildings as the back drop.  Can you imagine living there? All of that music every night?   The houses are even closer than the Greek theater’s homes – practically on top of each other.

But oh when Gregory Porter graced us with his presence.  My goodness that man has the voice of an angel.  His band was epic. So many family members from Philadelphia there with other acts. Jazz Festivals are always a homecoming.  Philadelphia, being the hub of musicians, maybe not all the way true, but damn near close.  It’s not a game in these musician-filled streets.  Philly puts out.

Once I got to the train station in Lyon and had to curse out someone in French, I knew I was really on vacation.  Don’t be mean or rude because you don’t think I speak your language.  We don’t do that in the States….mostly because we’d probably never speak to anyone if we chastised everyone with an accent.  But my accent is cute…salope….and you’re standing in the doorway so get out the gotdamn way, she says in her perfectly ghetto French.




I’m heading to Nice to meet up with a girl I met almost 20 years ago now.  My first trip to France solo.  These two big bootied sandy looking white girls rolled up on me. Their accent was as thick as their thighs.
Her: “Hello, where are you from.”
Me: “I’m from California”   - this is when my French was pretty terrible.
Her: “I am black like you.”
It was love at first sight.  Over the years I’ve sent her some of the best matching Indian hair you can get.  France was lacking on their weave options in the 90’s.  My girl was giving them Mariah Carey/ Leona Lewis so I couldn’t let her go out without a fight.  She’s from Oran….I know, where?  I never new myself.  But her mama is so fine, plenty of men would fall to be at her MILF feet.  They took me in, took me to all of their homes (Antibes, Paris, Marrakesh), took my mama in,  and have just been pretty awesome people over the years.  She now has 2 kids, her hilarious husband and she balls the fuck out.  I can’t wait to see her.

I can see a little bit of sun and blue skies peeking through. 

Step back and admire my view
Can I use the colors I choose?
Do I have some say what you use?
Can I get some green with my blues?







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