My Heart and Soul

Let me preface this story with, again, the fact that I'm am writing this post over THREE years after my trip.

Spring in Paris

I'll start with a quote, "I have only written about those moments that i consider memorable," Roald Dahl wrote this of the second of his autobiographies and I believe it a true statement.


I have been accused of long winded story telling, exhageration, and over-emotional falshoods. I prefer to think in the vein of oral storytelling as most indigenous peoples originally passed down traditions, legends, morals, and faith. The more vivid and intricated details are the better and more memorable the tale. As we all age and those poignant feeling fade, I choose to remember for as long as I can with as much passion as I originally had.

Shadows fade with the sun, and so must I

So this shall end in shadow. One traveler, two bags, three countries, and four hours left in Paris.


My goodbyes were short, as i'm not particularly fond of them, and Christy and Mark were still in bed. Christy had a game that day and needed to stay at home, and I was fully capable and willing to travel into Paris on my own.


The two bags made my last day a little less enjoyable, but I didn't have anywhere to leaves them- enter weird hand blisters-who knew.

For how much love and adoration I have for Notre Dame, it left our fling on a slightly sour note.

Can you see why it's my favorite

My last day in Paris was also Palm Sunday, and I was enthralled that I would get to be present in an actual service there.

Why all these views from the exterior you ask? because I was DENIED entry to the church.

I was told, in crystal clear English (Parlez vous Anglais?  YES, they all know English to some extent, if you're truly desperate.) That I couldn't bring my bags in. Could I leave them outside? (risk them being stolen- sure) No; they would call the police. Could I open the bags and SHOW them all my dirty drawers? No; I still would not be allowed access. I asked for the symbolic palms and if I could take one to sit in meditation out front? No; those were for the patrons attending the service.

There have not been many times I've been emotional in public and I was a bit ashamed to tear up in front of this very brusque french gentleman outside a church service. It did not matter. I found a solitary bench back in the garden and cried.

Spring Spring Spring in Paris

The place was still beautiful, and for that I cried.

I grained my composure, after all, I looked the part of a tourist that day, and emotional outburst in public make strangers uncomfortable.

I began to roam around and though I was already aware of this fact, it struck me yet again that at 9 AM, nothing was open. No stores, shops, very few and random cafes. I decided to get lost one last time.




I enjoyed the love locks and commiserate that many bridges are endangered because of the weight of all the love (check out that double entendre!) I propose a solution: elevate the current fencing and detache from the bridge on separate supports, then reconstruct the feces for the bridge, leaving the old fence for more LOVE

Iconic

So big!

In crossing the Seine, I happened across a family of Americans searching for Notre Dame asking in their best accent if anyone spoke English in French, to which I happily relied in English, gave them directions, enjoyed a few minutes chat with recommendations and knowledge that Christy passed along to me and few suggestions from my previous roaming.

So tired, no coffee, still happy

Note, NOTHING is open before 10 AM. I walked past the beautiful Shakespeare and Co again, and after giving another group of American directions, meandered my way to the Eiffel Tower for another farewell.


I did my best to find another metro entrance, but chose to make my way up to the Trocadero and one last iconic view of Paris. I stopped to enjoy and floating, very New Orleans-esque band that was just so upbeat I had to groove my way past.









I was in funky spirits, and on the point of one of my hysterics that happen whenever I feel too complacent, am facing the finish line of a wild adventure, or the prospect of returning home, that I seemed to have missed the building magic.


My heart was contracting with tension, my breathing was short and shallow, and my vision was lowering a bizarrely blurry shade that made crisp edges fuzzy. If you've never experienced this, I doubt your heart longs for adventure or your soul yearns for the adventure and joyful mishaps of travel. Some prefer adventures that reside in the home and that's OK too.

Fountains outside the Trocadero is their full glory- It's impressive to say the least.

I could've gone swimming

It was like being released after a long day in tight, uncomfortable, professional clothing. It was pure joy. Christy had previously told be about how and certain points in the day all the fountains would start up and the spectacular-ness when it happens; she did not exaggerate. I was able to walk the full length and glory. It was the perfect last view in Paris.

So it ends where it began.

When the fountains set back into their daily routine, I made my way up ALL the steps, gave a passing glance to the dumpsters where I found the chalk boards now backs away in my dragging and unbalanced suitcases- case in point, only use suitcases with wide spread wheels.

I found my metro train to the airport, transfered once and set it for my final glances in the beautiful and cohesive meshing of old and new in France.

Still my favorite despite the turn away.

Little did I know this country had a last gift for me....

Sitting there contended in what I had recently witness, I was aware of an eccentric man who was rambling on to no one in particular and gesticulating in rapid French (not that i'd have know what he was saying even if it was spoken phonetically). He literally chased three passengers into another car, following them shortly after they had regained new seating. It made me giggle a bit (I was on an emotional high).

As the car door shut, from the other end came none other than..... an ACCORDION player!!! It was a strange contrast to the dirty metro, so I closed my eyes, pictured a romantically lit street on a cool Parisian evening, nibbling delicate desserts and sipping coffee after a subtle meal.

It was bliss; the music was heartrendingly wonderful, and I made my way regretfully into the terminal having ended on the perfect end to Paris.

No jam or Nutella allowed through security!? Are they MAD????