Kevin’s right. I really should make a short film or two before I go after my first big-time feature job. I’d learn an incredible lot by directing a short, and I could still go to L.A. afterwards.

Mark Netter called from Albertville, France, to invite me to go skiing the 26th and 27th. I’m tempted.

[Translated from Spanish] I’m over the clouds. Called Tomi from Washington airport. I still don’t know what I’m going to do, but I don’t care any more. There’s no point worrying about my career, or about money. What I want is adventure. Whatever comes next, I’m ready for it. From now on I won’t worry about anything.

[Translated from Spanish] It’s a big city, Madrid.

When I arrived a thick snow was falling. I checked into a pension close to the Puerta del Sol, took a shower to forget the planes and buses and the lost night, got dressed as if I’d just woken up, and spent the day at the Prado. At the end of the day I called the only person I knew in Madrid: Ricardo from NYU.

We met for drinks. I hadn’t really known Ricardo in New York, but after an hour, he invited me to stay at his house, and to join him and his crew in the south on a documentary they’re shooting for Spanish TV. So, pretty much everything I’d hoped for.

Yet somehow, after a night of drinking and carousing with Ricardo and his friends, the whole plan of moving to Madrid no longer seemed like so much fun. It’s not Madrid’s fault. I think I’m just burnt out on traveling. Arriving in yet another new city where I don’t know anybody and have no reason to be here, this time, didn’t feel like the right kind of adventure. It just made me feel tired. Or then again, maybe I just stayed at that nightclub too long.

I called Mark Netter in Albertville and said: “Let’s go skiing!” Bought a train ticket to Paris.

[Paris] Shared an overnight sleeper with two Spaniards and an Argentine. When I returned from the cafeteria car, the beds were made and the old man was telling stories about his experiences in the Civil War and in Matthausen concentration camp. A moving train at night is an incredible place to hear stories. Like a campfire. I hardly slept.

Spent the day with Patrick. Now I’m waiting for Lobna’s 5 pm phone call.

When the train pulled into Paris Austerlitz station this morning, I was so happy to arrive, to be here. The atmosphere of the city engulfed me; I suddenly knew that this was where I belonged. Don’t know why, can’t explain it, but Paris holds more drama for me than Salamanca or Madrid ever did. I want to stay a while. I want to live here a little.

The immediate problem will be finding an apartment. Patrick is already on the case.

5:05 pm Yeah! She just called. Here goes nothing…

Survived a very sportif first day of skiing here at Valmorel with Mark Netter and his mother’s hairdresser Jean-Claude, who grew up skiing here before they put in the lifts in the ’70s. Jean-Claude and his friend Bud from Albany have been skiing every day for weeks. He said: “We have been here so long, we are starting to miss our wives.”

They took us down the hard intermediate slopes. Jean-Claude is at least 50 but he can ski circles around any of us. I’m in pain. Nothing like skiing to make you realize how out of shape you are.

[Paris] Another glorious day. Yesterday was like spring, the first nice day of the year, and everybody was out and about. Patrick and I sat on the wall overlooking the Seine around the corner from his apartment, drinking coffee and going through apartment listings.

Patrick’s life is so idyllically Parisian I can hardly stand it. Every five minutes something happens that’s like a scene from a French movie, all perfectly framed and lit and everything. He stops a girl in the street and she gives him a light; or he slams on the brakes and jumps out to check out a big rusty sheet of metal that someone left propped up on the sidewalk that he thinks might make a perfect tabletop. And there’s the Seine in the background, or an old man with a cane, or a troop of schoolgirls or something, just to remove any doubt of where you are. I love this city.

Called Tomi from a phone booth. It was good to hear her voice. “Ah yes, Paris,” she sighed. “Of course, it’s a heartless and materialistic society, but it takes you a while to realize that because it’s so beautiful.” She was deeply envious that I’m moving here.

I told her Patrick’s suggestion that I buy an apartment instead of renting one. She just laughed.

Florence made Moroccan soup for dinner and we watched West Side Story on TV dubbed into French.

My first night in 1 rue du Four, Paris XI. What a glorious feeling, after six months of living out of a suitcase, to be someplace I can call home. Patrick has been at my side every step of the way. It was his phone, his car, his French that saw me through. He’s been taking care of me in the best way. I think this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

I’m in Paris. I’m here. I live here. Wow.

The plumber came and fixed the toilet. The first time I’d used it, the contents that I flushed came back up through the shower drain – not a pretty sight. It turned out he’d actually warned me not to use the toilet, because it was missing a part that he’d forgotten to bring with him, but not understanding French I’d somehow failed to pick up on this minor detail. How embarrassing. Anyway, now it works, supposedly.

Also, today the phone started working. It was quite a thrill.

A DHL package arrived from Broderbund. DHL and AT&T are my only link to the world I’ve left behind.

I need a girlfriend.

I need to learn French.

I need to start writing something.

Other than that, things are just fine. Phone works. Toilet works. No complaints.

I’ve been playing this Gainsbourg record over and over, the one Florence gave me. Black trombone.

I can’t wait for my Outbound power supply to arrive from the US so I can start using my computer. (That’s my excuse.)

Friday the 13th! Dangerous!! Great potential for good and for evil. Have to walk carefully.

Packet of mail arrived from NY containing among other things a letter from Ben Normark. I wrote him one back. Oh, and a $79,000 check from Broderbund.

Went to Activision to see the Super Nintendo version of Prince. Wow! It was like a brand new game. For the first time I felt firsthand what it’s really like to play Prince of Persia, when you’re not the author and don’t already know by rote what’s lurking around every corner.

Lunch with Dominique. His boss and another guy pressed me really hard – they’re eager to acquire the U.S. and European rights to Super NES Prince and they hoped I could help swing their case with Broderbund. They said they’d guarantee 150,000 units. Not Bad!

Jamil called to say: “Where were you Saturday night? It was great… I got home six pm Sunday.”

Went for a drink with Patrick.

“When you go back to the U.S.,” he said, “you’re gonna be happy. It may take a while. It may take six months. You’ll be speaking the good French, you’ll know all the names of the streets and where is the Louvre exactly, and you’re gonna be really happy to leave.”