Comédie and Guitars

Conventional wisdom would tell us that the best guitar buskers in the world surely ply their trade on the streets of New York City. Or maybe London. Or, if the 2007 film Once is to be believed, Dublin.

But we don’t believe the film Once because the real-life couple that came together after playing a couple in the film ended up breaking up, and if a fictional-turned-non-fictional-movie-relationship can’t last then there’s no hope for the rest of us. I got burned by emotionally invested in Tori Spelling and Dean McDermott, and I’m not going to make that mistake again. All that to say that I have found the city with the greatest guitar buskers in the world and it’s not what you would expect.

You broke my heart, Tori and Dean. You broke my goddamned heart!!!

We arrived in Montpellier, France yesterday around rush hour. Traffic heading into town was abominable, resulting in a FIFTEEN MINUTE delay! C’était horrible!

Montpellier is not a city most Americans (me) have ever heard of, but the French seem to like it just fine. And you know what? They should! It’s a great mix of old and new featuring serpentine cobblestone streets and its own mini Arc d’Triomphe that you’re allowed to drive your car right through! Which hardly seemed legal. In fact, when the navigation told me to drive through it, I argued, “Surely you don’t mean for me to drive through this monument?”

“Don’t I?” purred the GPS, which felt like a very French response, even though the GPS spoke with a British accent. Was GPS putting on airs now that she found herself among the snooty French?

Perhaps.

“Are you sure?”

GPS shrugged. If you’ve never seen a GPS shrug, the movement is subtle but once I saw it, the full wrath of her disgust was palpable.

I took this picture this afternoon.

Now properly chagrined, I decided to place my trust in her and drove right through that arc. I’ve never felt more alive. The triumph, friends, was mine.

“Big deal,” she said when I arrived on the other side, blowing a long stream of cigarette smoke directly into my face through the car vent. Then she said something in French that I couldn’t quite make out but which sounded vaguely antisemitic.

The point is, it was dark by the time we got to the hotel so we didn’t see much of the city before retiring to our handkerchief-sized hotel room. “It’s fine!” I said when Martha complained about its size. Friends, it wasn’t fine. (It still isn’t. I’m writing this from the bottom bunk.)

We woke early enough to get tens of thousands of steps in, but somehow didn’t make it out of the hotel until after 1:00pm. This happens a lot with us. We plan on starting bright and early but then decide that staying in bed looking at our phones would be better than exploring a city we’ve never been in and will likely will never visit again.

Finally, we strolled over to the gorgeous old theater they’ve got here, the Place de la Comédie which, I’ll be honest, puts Joe Rogan’s Mothership Comedy Club to shame. Rather than venture inside, we decided to take advantage of the sunny day and sit at a little café on the square’s border for some light bickering and niçoise salads (mediocre but it’s hard to find good salads here even though the French grow such great produce).

While we ate, an older male guitarist set up in the center of the plaza and began playing jazz standards. Dude was great, even though he threw “Stairway to Heaven” in there. When he was done, another old dude set up in a spot maybe thirty feet away, and he was even better than the first guy! He even did that thing where he wiggled his fingers while sustaining long notes, which is the mark of a virtuoso.

After lunch, we took a long walk through Montpellier’s shopping district. So many glasses shops. So many coiffures. Pizza? These Frenchies know they can’t get away with sub-par pizza this close to Italy. Plus, all the clothing stores in every city we’ve visited so far are offering January sales. I haven’t yet bought anything for myself but Martha bought an adorable dress that I made her return because it was over a hundred euros. (I didn’t make her return the dress. I don’t make her do anything. How could I? She’d kick my ass.)

Then we wandered over to the Jardin des Plantes. Martha has yet to find a park she doesn’t want to visit. I have yet to find a park that I do want to visit. Hence, we visit all the parks. So annoying. I don’t know why this is, but parks now produce a level of anxiety in me that’s tough to unspool. Something about manicured greenery gives me the heebie-jeebies. Is that weird? It feels weird.

Anyway, as we’re strolling through the gardens, we hear another guitar busker. A younger dude this time, sitting beside an older dude. And get this: I think they were trading licks! (That’s a guitar term.) Two guitarists of two generations playing music back and forth and sounding fantastique. They weren’t putting on a show or anything, just hanging out being all musical and shit. It was at that moment that I awarded Montpellier the title of Greatest City for Guitar Buskers In the World!

Later, we met up with an American couple, Carolyn and Roberto, that write a terrific Substack called “Escape Hatch” about their own move to Montpellier. As it turns out, Roberto worked at Martha’s old architectural firm and then it further turns out that I knew Carolyn a little bit during my New York days. Small world, as they say.

We sat down with them for beers and empanadas. They paid for everything, as it should be, since I am a celebrity. We talked about their lives in France, which sound pretty fabulous. They moved here a couple years ago, and love it for its liveliness, safety, culture, Mediterranean climate, and for the fact that it doesn’t get overrun with tourists in the high season since it’s not a well-known tourist destination. One gets the sense, though, that Montpellier will not remain undiscovered for very long. The beach is close and the hotel prices are almost certainly lower than Cannes and the more popular French vacation towns.

We spent a couple hours with Carolyn and Roberto before I realized that it was time for bed. That’s how I generally end evenings. We can be going and drinking and laughing but at a certain point, I will turn to you and say, “I’m going to bed.” Is that rude? Maybe. But it’s truthful. Anyway, after we told them we were going to bed, we returned to our tiny hotel room. I crawled into my bottom bunk and fired up the ol’ computer to write this missive.

Check out Escape Hatch. They’re very good and funny writers and they both look good in glasses, which is trés trés important in France.