{Paris}[12th April 1970]

[Redbook1:140-142][19700412:1015]{Paris}[12th April 1970]

Saturday 12th April 1970  10.15.

            I am feeling rather depressed here in Paris.  I expect it will pass; it is probably something to do with having been slightly ill; but that doesn't alter it here, and now.  I know that I shouldn't be depressed, but there it is.  I am.

            Actually it's not surprising really.  I am dumped in a foreign city, one of the largest in the world, whose inhabitants all speak a language which is not yet my thinking language; I am two hundred miles from home, I have no friends here (just two cousins whom I've hardly met before and the elderly family in which I am staying), I know no one who speaks English well, I have nothing to do but sightsee and learn French for six weeks, and already I am bored stiff!

            I am writing my novel as usual, but it seems a bit of a waste.  In two weeks time -- at the most -- I shall have seen all there is worth seeing of Paris as a physical structure and of Paris as Art and Dead Culture.  If I meet someone English whom I like I shall probably be alright for the next two weeks, but that is unlikely to say the least.

            I need new horizons, of people as well as – indeed, more than – country.  I feel cooped up in this structurally beautiful -- in parts -- city.  I want to be on the move, but at the same time I want to be getting to know more people, especially of my own age, and more interesting people.  Poor old L, the son, is very kind except when he feels called to justify La France -- when he is quite preposterously rude, mostly without factual basis -- but his horizons are, as far as I can see, pretty limited.  He is not very bright -- which sounds awful, but it makes a difference when you are talking different languages.  The same goes for the rest of the family really; though as [my cousin] N said, they are very ‘gentil’.

            But I digress.

            I want to get out, so get out I will.  I shall put on my best clothes -- this in about a week’s time -- my best expendable clothes, stow a few vital belongings in shoulder bags etc., take some money(!),  and go for a practice hitch-hike out of Paris.   They are all rather depressingly sure that it doesn't work in France; we shall see.  If it does work I’ll go further a little later, perhaps across the border, perhaps sleep out one day/night; if it doesn't, then, damn it, I'll go by train!

            And if that doesn't work, (i.e. to rid me of my depression), I’m flaming well going home.

            I think that the fact that I couldn't take the food was the last straw.

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