Typical second day, six time zones away from home. I'm awake at 6am with way too much energy. Being Sunday in France, I feel like I should be attending mass, but I would likely make a fool of myself. Last time I was at a catholic service I was nanny for the organist of the Vienna boys choir, living in Austria. Services were at the royal Hapsburg chapel and in Latin, so lots if people were lost.
I'm tempted to head out early, but I know what's coming, so I let the cool 54F temps lure me back to bed. I wake again at 11am. Headache, dizzy, wobbly tummy and general feeling of tenderness. This is always the moment when I temporarily feel sad that I'm traveling alone :-( I go for a bio yogurt and orange ginger Nuun tab to rehydrate. I'd quite like a coffee, but that would mean having to go outside and pretending to speak French. Maybe a bit of gentle reading and I'll be ready. A bike awaits after all.
The flat is littered with images of Lance Armstrong at the moment. It's a bit creepy. Whatever else you may think of him, his face apparently sells magazines. I'd like to study the Tour de France routes I'll be attending in just a few days, so I know exactly when the cyclists will be whizzing past my accommodation. I'm thinking of my friend Jon doing the l'Etape du Tour today, an opp for non pro cyclists to ride a stage of the TdF. Good luck JG! Beautiful weather here in Paris this morning. Hope he gets on well.
I opt out of bike related reading, however and research the best parks on the Left Bank. The Luxembourg Gardens look to be a straight shot toward the river, so I need to work out a bike station nearby. That way I can wander Boulevard Saint-Germain afterward, and perhaps walk back to the apartment via the Latin Quarter. I haven't been in that part of town since I was a college student, visiting my dear friend Cy who was studying in Toulouse. How I'd LOVE it if she were here this week!!!
I notice several Parisians outside reading the Sunday papers on their sunny wrought iron balconies. So, after staring at them with much romantic fascination, I take it as an indication that the weather has now ripened and I need to get over myself and motivate. I'm reluctant
to emerge from the crisp white linens on this unusually comfortable bed, but needs must.
And with a grand cat like stretch I'm up. A bustling city undoubtedly awaits, tho you'd never know it with the peaceful courtyard below. This is urban living at it's pinnacle, the kind that offers a glorious haven inside, but still a small enough residence to draw you out to mix with your neighbors at a nearby cafe.
Oh PHOOEY! The absence of a micro chip in my visa card means no velib bike for me. I'm on foot today, could have worn a skirt. LOVING the church bells however. Think I'll take the back roads then, through the cemetery. And I'm off.
I'm thinking a map would be a good idea about now. I did have a look at one this morning when I was planning my cycling route. I always seem to know which way is north, so I
should be fine. I move at my usual A type pace even tho the point of the day is fresh air and rest. In no time I'm at the Luxembourg Gardens and thankful for my Merrells. I've passed no fewer than 40 wonderful corner cafes and can't figure out why I haven't stopped. But I'm a walker, not an eater.
I plant myself at the first playground, to recharge with the sounds of children playing. At home my two youngest and I have this thing we do where they give me a big hug 'to recharge.' When they think I've refueled they give a 'ding.' It really does work!
I'm rather unimpressed by my lack of enthusiasm for learning French 20 years ago. I could feel very at home here. I'm more tidy than the Italians and far less habitual than the Germans. That leaves the French and English, who are one and the same (altho don't try and convince them of that.) Except for that ever confusing issue of public politeness, of course. Given that I'm American, I'd get slotted in with the French on that issue. There are too many don't-ever-ask-that question rules among the British for me to remember. In truth, I suppose my politics align more with the Dutch than any other European nation. But good luck ever understanding that language!
I'm in my amber Oakley's today, still I'm wishing for my stronger contact lenses. Everything is a blur. A beautiful blur :-) I wish I didn't lack the courage for indiscreet photography, it would make my portfolio and this blog far more interesting. All the pretty people sitting in the park cafes, the cherub faced children balancing bright pink and green scoops of creme glacee you'll just have to imagine. This, however, is worth a snap.
There are tiny motor boats on the pond beyond the lawn, like Central Park. I find a rare open chair for some quality people watching and realize that I'm getting hungry. I can hear someone tuning a piano in the distance, which strikes me as somehow out of context. The sky is such an even blue I'm almost in tears. For some reason color has always moved me on a deep emotional level. The color orange is reason enough for me to like God. I wonder if the blue others see in their minds rivals mine. If so, how come it doesn't make them cry?
Hunger calls again, so I get up and walk. Seems the pantheon is somewhere nearby. Nothing can rival Rome's version, I know. But there's something alluring about a monument to all gods.
I decide that the tombs of Voltaire and Marie Curie are worth the €8. The brochure writers are absolutely right, "Greek purity with Gothic lightness." I enjoy the enormous pendulum demonstrating the rotation of the earth at the center, and then wander downstairs to find the dead people.
Even tho this is the cleanest and largest crypt I've ever seen, and has ceilings far higher than my home, I feel that familiar tinge of claustrophobia and realize that I've let my protein levels drop too far. Surely there will be a restaurant to my liking on the road toward Notre Dame, altho I'm loving the buffet table of languages before me. I'm such a rainbow girl and I still mourn all the years I spent pursuing conservative Christianity. Shame they feel the need to be so exclusive.
Just five minutes walking toward the river and I can already see the famous single spire.
Everything is so much closer than I remember. Perhaps it's the warm weather. Simultaneously it flashes in my head that my daughter has asked for a red beret and that I must eat. Le Bistrot des Tartes tempts, but I pass at the sighting of the perfect bejeweled topper for my baby girl.
Next I know I'm in a wildly long but moving line to enter Our Lady's cathedral. Out of habit I pull on sleeves and wrap a sarong round my shorts. Since entrance is free, I drop €2 into the slot for a candle and pray for the safety of cyclists everywhere and for wisdom as I begin to craft a program for the residents of Greenwich to educate them on sharing the roads. I wonder if there's a patron saint of cyclists? The Velo Saint :-) I'm so out of the saint loop. Funny that I have a little bike round my neck instead of a cross on this trip.
Despite the undoubtedly pre-adolescent boy screeching his sneakers across the smooth church floors, oh, and the thousands of, let's call them pilgrims streaming thru the aisles, there's a certain hush inside. I remain in a posture of prayer/rest even when the words in my head stop. I'm mentally transported to the cathedral in Chichester where I once knelt to worship on weekends when I was digging Paleolithic dirt at the Boxgrove archaeological site. It's that same Peace.
I finally notice the breathtaking stained glass windows that looked down upon me so many years before. A soprano voice teases the air and I feel light headed as the elegant columns pull my gaze heavenward. I could live here. I do live here. I am alive here. A familiar presence unexpectedly washes over me as I walk past a tiny marble Madonna and child on my way out. Rare to have such a rush in tourist churches. Still, God is here.
Emerging into the sunlight and church bells I must regain my bearings. Food. Yes. I work my way toward the Latin quarter. I can't say no to falafel, the definition of yum on a park bench near the Cluny Museum at the Sore Bun ;-)
I few squizzles thru the back streets and I'm right back at the Luxembourg Gardens. I drop €.50 into the little wooden box next to the woman cranking the calliope at the gate, and turn into the park grounds. I appreciated her last time I passed, and I'm glad to be back in my neighborhood.
Back thru the chestnut trees and, what's this? Public ping pong tables? No way! I'm too timid to take a photo, sorry. I hurry home and breathe a deep sigh of satisfaction for my day out. The little man inside my computer has just informed me that "It's 8 o'clock." Any moment now I'll begin to fade, despite the golden afternoon sunlight.
Tomorrow I'm taking the TGV to Pau and on to a campsite in Lasseaube. So, I may be offline for several days. If you watch the Tour de France, think of me. I'll be in the crowds cheering on the riders. CAN NOT WAIT!
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