The train ride into Paris was interesting, to say the least. I originally told myself that I would take out my typewriter and start writing during the ride, but that notion was quickly dismissed when I was seated next to a fairly large German woman who spoke no English and seemed content to take up not only all of her seat, but a third of mine, as well. Fortunately, I was not claustrophobic and spent the time (as aversive as it was) with my face all but pressed to my window, watching the countryside roll by. She was friendly enough and attempted conversation, but my knowledge of the German language was scant at best, and for the most part, our conversation consisted of little more than her speaking and me nodding my head, pretending I knew what was being said.

Needless to say, I was a bit over-zealous to get off the train when we finally reached our destination, a small station about two miles west of Montmartre. I tipped my hat to my riding partner, gathered my belongings (consisting of no more than a single bag and my typewriter), and hired a buggy to take me into Montmartre.

My father's "village of sin" was, in my mind, far from it. Certainly, it had its fair share of loiterers, riff-raff, drunks, and scoundrels, but what city in modern Europe did not? The streets were alive with clamor and music, the taverns full with lively occupants, and I was even greeted by a trio of ladies on a street corner. Their attire was slightly more revealing than I was used to, and a few of their choices in words were -- well, rather risqué, but they seemed of the polite sort.

I took everything in with an optimistic stride and continued until, with the help of a few random individuals, I came to a particular housing complex, "Chambres La Journée." I was informed that the complex, although one of the older ones in Montmartre, was one of the most reliable in landowning and it's placement (directly in the center of the bustling village) seemed the perfect place for a starting writer to be.

It took little haggling to secure the room I wanted; a fairly large one that was well away from ground level, with a window and a view. I didn't quite understand why it came at such a cheap rental price, and upon inquiring, the landowner merely stated that I would have a rather loud group of neighbors upstairs, something to which I wasn't exactly disappointed in. I'd never had trouble sleeping through ruckus in the past, anyway.

She showed me to my room that, although lacking the cleanliness and strength of decoration that my home in London had possessed, was all that I had hoped it to be. The main room was large and broke off into the bedroom to the left. From the bedroom, a balcony extended out to the side of the main building. A small kitchenette was attached to the main room's southwest corner to the far left of the door, and directly north of the doorway was a large window which opened out over the Montmartre city streets.

I was immediately taken with the view my window afforded and, upon receiving my key from the landlady and seeing her safely out the door, the paneled opening was my first point of inspection. Below, a single street stretched around the side of the building and that street was met with a paved sidewalk. The sidewalk itself led north and was shrouded in well-kept trees. Following that walkway with my gaze, it was only then that I noted the peculiar trio of buildings directly in front of my room. The first of the three was a large building that, if looked at correctly, gave an astonishing resemblance to an elephant. I passed it off as a trick of lighting and turned to the next two buildings that, upon further inspection, proved to be one large one. The top portion was a fully functioning windmill with a large sign across it that read "Moulin Rouge." The building below it was far less extravagant; it was simply enormous.

My father had mentioned "Moulin Rouge" prior to my leaving London, describing it as Paris' worst and most infamous bordello, a hive for the creatures of the Bohemian underworld. He proceeded to tell me that I would end up wasting my life at the Moulin Rouge with a can-can dancer, but the warning had fallen on deaf ears.

Paris' worst and most infamous bordello, sitting basically in my backyard. Although no particular amount of excitement was instilled in me at such a realization, it did provide a small amount of curiosity, as well as hope that my strategic location midst true Bohemians would help stimulate me as a writer.

I remained poised at the window for all of perhaps ten minutes, watching scattered individuals bustle along the street below me in thoughtful silence, until with a painful jolt back into reality, my stomach rumbled. I'd been out of London for but a day, and had barely managed to secure my home and I was already nearly out of funds. Such a realization brought me about to the fact that I'd need to write just to eat and with that drive firmly implanted in the back of my mind, it took little further motivation to push me away from the window and to the small table in the main room at which I'd set my typewriter.

A few minutes later found me stationed pensively before the polished Underwood, fingers settling on the keys in thought. I had come to write about truth, beauty, freedom, and that which I believe in above all things. Love.

There was only one problem. I'd never been in love.

I was pondering that drawback when, with a reverberating crack and a cloud of dust, a hole about three feet in diameter was broken in the center of my ceiling. Reasonably startled, I staggered back out of my seat just in time to witness the sight of a body toppling through the newly created hole. The frame belonged to a large Argentinean who, at the time, happened to be dressed in a bright red jumpsuit that looked as if it came directly out of a circus arena. During the fall, he must have gotten tangled in electric wires, for he never quite hit my floor. Instead, he dangled upside down, eyes closed as though he was dead.

My mouth must have fallen agape at the sight, because when I went to open it to speak something, it was already nearly touching my chest. Stammering, I had nearly managed to question the man's well being when my front door opened with a great deal of force, its handle slamming into the wall adjacent it.

Startled again, I jumped, attention pivoting on the cause of the door's opening. What I saw merely drew more startled silence from me. Standing in my doorway, looking quite ridiculous, stood a dwarf of a man that happened to be wearing an outfit even more distracting than that of the Argentinean's. He was dressed as a nun.

The dwarf spoke before I could question his presence, cutting me off with a rather high-pitched, lisped voice that only added to the absurdity of the moment.

"How do you do?" he asked, raising a small cane with a hand and twirling it before his face in a rather amazing display of dexterity. "My name is Henri de Raymond Toulouse-Lautrec Montfa." The cane was set to the floor and, with its help, he maneuvered himself within my apartment entirely, crossing to the Argentinean whom he promptly patted on the chest, causing another cloud of dust to raise. The Argentinean didn't stir.

"I'm terribly sorry about all this," the dwarf continued to explain. "We were just upstairs rehearsing a play." He ventured from there to tell me that the play itself was very modern, titled Spectacular, Spectacular.

"...and it's set in Switzerland!" The short man concluded, apparently proud to be a member of such a production.

I was still trying to process all of the information, a hesitant glance turning on the seemingly dead Argentinean.

The dwarf must have read into my discomfort and hurried to set my mind at ease by informing me that the Argentinean (who actually wasn't dead, but asleep) suffered from a sickness called narcolepsy.

"Perfectly fine one moment, then," he explained, then, with an overly animated imitation of snoring, continued. "-- suddenly unconscious the next."

Eventually coming to terms with the onslaught of information, I took a reluctant step toward the sleeping Argentinean and was almost hit on the head with a glass that fell from the hole in the ceiling overhead.

"How is he?" A voice exclaimed from above me. The voice itself startled me into recoiling, a motion that brought me out of the way of the falling glass mere instants before it hit the ground and shattered. Mouth agape, I tilted my head upward to find three faces looming in the hole, peering down on the Argentinean.

The first of the three, I admit, I could not distinguish to be male or female. His dark hair was cropped short around the chin, but was easily long enough to belong to a female, and his feminine features were covered in poorly applied make-up. The fact that he sported several gaudy necklaces only furthered my confusion and it wasn't until he spoke that I could make an educated guess to his gender, that being male.

"Wonderful," he muttered in disgust. "Now that the narcoleptic Argentinean is unconscious... Therefore the scenario will not be finished in time to present to the financier tomorrow!"

A second voice shifted my attention first to the next head to the left of the make-up wearing man. An older man with glasses and an enormous, graying beard was staring at me with a discomforting, drunken grin, but his lips weren't moving. It couldn't have been him.

My gaze wandered at that to the third and final of the strange Bohemians, a skinny man whose head happened to be completely bald. Although dressed the most "normal" out of the entire bunch, his head, as well as the quadruple-lensed glasses that he wore certainly made him stand out. They were all strange.

"Right, Toulouse," the bald man chimed in, apparently addressing the dwarf. "I still have to finish the music."

Patiently, the dwarf shook his head up toward the trio. "Well, just find someone to read the part."

The gaudily dressed make-up wearer seemed exasperated at such a notion. "Oh, where in heaven's name are we going to find someone to read the role of a young, sensitive, Swiss, poet goat-herder?"

At such a question, all eyes turned on me. All I could do was gawk.