Now let us travel back and time to the land of Mr. Portable and Jacques the sweet old man. Not so sweet, as it turns out. Before I skipped ahead and died in Picasso's arms and then found myself reborn in a garden of sculpturely delights, I had just finished Tropic of Cancer and was headed back to the hostel in Avignon..

From my journal:

Something had to go wrong eventually. What do they call that again, Murphy's Law? If it can go wrong, it will. Ha.

My reservation at the dorm was only for 2 nights and so this morning I signed on for a third, all in love with the festival and what not. They moved me to room 25 on the second floor. I dropped off my big bag on my bunk and headed out into to eat and blog and watch and read and write. Once again before I knew it it was the middle of the afternoon and the dorms would be closed until 5. Helped myself to a chevre chaud salad avec noix and had a half hour chat all in French with an older couple from Bayonne (France, not New Jersey!) I say I hate the French but like New York or anywhere else I guess you find good people whose masks of pretention and whatever else melt away in the face of conversation. We talked about France, and about America. They were under the impression that the South was full of alcoholic Bush-lovers. I didn't do much to dissuade them of that notion.

I really enjoy speaking French, so I was glad they didnt know a lick of English.

By the time I paid the check the suyn was overhead and I was quite literally dripping with sweat. I headed back to the dorms and went to my room to check on my things. My bag still there and intact I proceeded to unpack it in order to swap out Henry Miller for a new book - I settled for Tom Robbins' Skinny Legs and All, deciding it was high time I complete his library.

Just as I start repacking my bag one of my new roommates walk in, it's Jacques, the cross-eyed sweet old man....fresh from the pool...and holding my missing towel, that unmistakable red striped cloth that's been sitting in the closet at home since before I can even remember.

All in french now, I exclaim, That's my towel!

He turns to me looking insulted and suddenly that sweet old man face of his, cross-eyes and all, takes on an entirely different tone. Suddenly he looks positively deanged, and he huffs and puffs about how it's HIS towel, his ribs rising and falling underneath that emaciated layer of tightly wound skin he's got. After all, he says, I just came back from the pool, with this towel, so it's my towel!

At first I suspected foul play but it soon became clear to me that he didnt even remember yesterday, much less the fact that we shared a room yesterday. That senile bastard. So he's talking on and on all of asudden about Paris and the pool and travelling and I'm just staring at the towel out of the corner of my eye as he's folding it. I pack up my bag, positively fuming, and wondering what to do. There's no convincing him it's mine.

He tells me he's not a thief, that in fact someone stole all of HIS clothes...shows me his empty backpack. But when I think about it he's been wearing the same thing every single day...he probably didnt even bring any other clothes. I feared for my own clothes, leaving them in my bag in the room while I went out at night, since he just saw me repack my entire bag. So, I took all of my worldly possessions with me to the front desk where I was informed that no other beds were available and that I couldn't get a refund if I cancelled.

I went over to the phone and called home for some opinions. The whole time, Jacques is sitting in his usual cigarette smoking spot, watching me. He knows I want the towel back. Something is twisted in his brain, like his eyes. This isn't just paranoia on my part, either. I test it by walking from one place to the other, and his eyes follow me. I decided I was done with this town and with this crazy fucker, I was headed to Arles. I called ahead to the dorm there and had them hold a bed for me, and Jacques watched me as I walked out of the grounds...

But the saga was not complete!

I re-enetered the hostel grounds via a side door in the cafeteria and saw that Jacques had wondered over away from the dorms a bit...It took me no longer than 30 seconds to be in and out and en route to the train station, towel in bag in backpack. Victory!

The adrenaline rush wore off quickly though when I remembered how god awful sweaty and grimy and hot I was, not having showered since the night before. I ended up having to trek on foot all the way to the train station under a 101-degree sun, like a Jew in the goddamn desert, heavy pack on my back and heavy backpack in my hands. I can't even convey how long the walk was, nor can I convey the glorious feeling that rose up in me when the train station rose up in the distance like an oasis. I hopped on a fortuitously late train to Marseilles and was in Arles within 20 minutes.

Trekked to the dorms - this place is a palace compared to the fleabag I was staying in at Avignon.