Went to Paris the other day.
Took me about an hour and a half. By air.
The first time I went there it took me almost ten days. On my thumb, hitchhiking.
It was in 1961 and hitchiking was very common by that time.
"We all" practiced that.
My aim was to visit Mr Picasso. My teacher in art had told me, and showed me pictures,
made by Picasso. Among other ones the Guernica. And off I went to Paris.
I wanted to be an artist. Or an animator. And The Artist was Picasso. I must see him!
When I arrived at Rue des Grands Augustines, the gates were locked.
I rang the bell, and waited. Perhaps he would arrive himself.
Hello Pablo ..!
But no answer, I rang and rang. An old man approached me, passed me,
and told me Pablo was in Mougins, or was it Vallauris, I don´t remember.
Anyhow, I was tired of travelling alone, hitchiking, I met two swedish guys,
we joined and had a nice evening and night in Pigalle.
Then I day I went to see the Louvre, and the Versailles. I passed
Arc de Triomph where a newpaperboy told me Hemmingway had commited suicide.
I bought a paper, went into a boot where you could breath fresh air.
For a couple of centimes.
Then I went home, and began my artstudies.
Now, 52 years later, I am at the gates again.
And the doorbell looks the same, probable even the ironwork.
Picasso is dead, I am soon seventy. And I find the life very strange.
(Animator? I never saw Mr Disney either. Wrote letters, never got answers.)