My Paris Obsession: Tuesday's Reflection

I seem to be in the midst of a mild obsession.

An obsession with Paris.

Earlier this year while browsing in a small local shop, I found a metal sculpture of the Eiffel Tower. I had been looking for one to install in the small garden at the side of our house. I call that garden "Paris." In my mind I imagine French doors of a chic Paris apartment opening onto a private courtyard garden only big enough for a bistro table and two chairs and some pots of lavender. A perfect space to enjoy a glass of wine while reading a charming novel about a bookstore in Paris.  

Also, all winter I have been reading in brief snatches a lovely book called Paris in Winter, An illustrated Memoir by Minnesota writer and artist, David Coggins. (See here.) If you are a regular reader of this blog, perhaps you are experiencing deja vu, for I described my fascination with this book and my Paris fantasies in an earlier post. (January 31, 2019) Well, the fantasy continues.

The book is a series of vignettes about the Coggins' family annual New Year's trip to Paris --the food, the antique shops, the walks, the museums, the new friends and the celebrity sightings. For brief moments, while waiting for the pot on the stove to boil or as a bridge from working at my desk on the garret (alas, not in Paris!) to fixing dinner, I have immersed myself in a French version of the fine art of living. 

I finished reading this book one night when I couldn't sleep. I got out of bed and moved into the living room where I wrapped myself in my most luxurious shawl, which, I might add, traveled to Paris with me--my one and only trip there--and finished the book.

                "Do you think we will ever have a room of our
                own in Paris?" I ask.
                "I don't think so."
                "Why not?"
                "You don't want to live here. It wouldn't be the same."
                                                                           p. 263

No, I don't want to live in Paris, but I do want to live in the fantasy for awhile. And so the daydreaming and the reading continue. 

This weekend I finished reading Marcel's Letters, A Font and the Search For One Man's Fate by another Minnesota writer, Carolyn Porter. Porter while browsing in an antique shop finds some letters written in French during WWII. This purchase leads her not only to design a new font, but also to search for the writer of these letters and his family and learn his story. This becomes Porter's obsession; one that is truly fascinating to read. Eventually, of course, she travels to Paris.

Not done with my Paris obsession, I browse my Paris bookshelf. Along with small souvenirs of Notre Dame and the Eiffel Tower, a sweet painting I bought from an artist on a Paris street, and a map folded and attached inside a little book that I bought at an antique show in Ohio, I have a stack of books to keep me entertained during this long winter.

I decide to reread A Writer's Paris, A Guided Journey for the Creative Mind by Eric Maisel (See here.) who advises running off to Paris to write. I won't be doing that, but I can pretend.
                 Write wherever you find yourself, whether in
                 a cafe or the Louve, whether on a park bench
                 or sitting in a blissfully empty gallery at the
                 d'Orsay. 

Write wherever you find yourself.
Exercise your imagination wherever you find yourself.
Be the person you were created to be wherever you are. No matter how much snow is piled around you. 
And that is enough. 

An Invitation
What is your current obsession? And what are you doing about it? I would love to know. 

Fantasy Time When It Is Cold: Thursday's Reflection

Yes, it is cold here, but no problem, for I've decided to go to Paris.
At least vicariously.

Now I know it is not Arizona or Florida warm there in the winter, but when I checked this morning, it will be 37 with light snow today. I happen to love winter, so this sounds quite divine to me. What could be better than strolling along Saint-Germain-des-Pres, stopping for hot chocolate and a croissant at some charming cafe. Of course, I have a chic scarf wrapped around my neck and beautiful leather boots, and a sleek coat in a sunset color. And I speak impeccable French.

A cold winter day is the perfect time for fantasy. 

And so, as I dream of Paris, I browse through a charming book by Minnesota artist, David Coggins. Paris in Winter, An Illustrated Memoir combines ink and watercolor drawings with vignettes about his family's annual New Year's sojourns to Paris. 

           

            

            Museums are like churches. At least old Paris

            museums. The light is dim, floors throw back

            footsteps and the air is rarified if warmer. Most

            people go to museums and churches for the same

            reason--to be uplifted, to be comforted. (p. 91)

            Days are clear and mild, with spells of light

            rain and chill to remind us it's winter. The blue

            skies are welcome, but don't seem quite right. 

            Paris in winter is most itself when the sky is low

            and gray and sun nowhere to be found. Streets

            are more wistful and private, colors are deeper,

            wine better. (p. 170)

            We cross the Seine on the Pond des Arts. It's

            midnight. The hour changes and the Eiffel Tower

            lights up. We walk along the river next to the

            Louvre and cross back over on Point Royal. 

            Down rue du Bac to rue de l'University looking

            in the antique shops. We go into the cafe and sit

            down in one of the red banquettes.

                "Yes, I know," the waiter says, "Two Cognacs."

             (p. 211)

Alas, that is not my life, but I intend to take to heart what Coggins says about his book, "I hope people may be inspired to go out and find their own pleasures, find their own Paris...what speaks to you."

So this year I intend to find my own Paris in the life I have here. I have a head start because I work in a garret with books tumbling all around me. I own many scarves, even one I bought in Paris when we spent two glorious fall weeks there several years ago, and in the summer I sit at a bistro table in the side garden I call "Paris."

I know there is more Paris in my life just waiting for me to notice or to notice with new eyes. A cafe, a museum, a book store, a stroll along the river, a small theatre, the Cathedral, a gem of a house on a side street, an antique shop with gold-gilt treasures in the window. 

My version of Paris awaits. 

An Invitation

Where will you find Paris or perhaps another place and time that beckons you? I would love to know. 

In Honor of Paris: Tuesday's Reflection

Four years ago we were in Paris--a dream trip. Even though we were only there for two weeks and even though I don't speak any French, since then I have felt a bit Parisian. I feel that way about other places I have been fortunate to visit. I am a bit Tanzanian and a little bit Thai with some English Cotswold's thrown in. I am Boston and Door County and Des Moines and Key West. I am Cleveland and Chicago and Montauk Point at the end of Long Island. I am Florence and Santa Fe, San Francisco and Singapore. I am St Paul. I am even some of the places I have never been--Provence and Edinburgh, Alaska and Istanbul. 

And so when something terrible happens, no matter where it is in the world, I am changed. I may not always be aware of the wound to my being, but little by little, damage is done. Therefore, it is important for me to sit still, to breathe in calm and hope and love, and to pray for my brethren wherever they are. We are all one. 

An Offering

May our eyes remain open even in the face of tragedy.
May we not become disheartened.
May we find in the dissolution
         of our apathy and denial,
         the cup of the broken heart.
May we discover the gift of the fire burning
          in the inner chamber of our being---
          burning great and bright enough
          to transform any poison.
May we offer the power of our sorrow to the service
          of something greater than ourselves.
May our guilt not rise up to form
          yet another defensive wall.
May the suffering purify and not paralyze us.
May we endure; may sorrow bond us and not separate us.
May we realize the greatness of our sorrow
         and not from its touch or its flame.
May clarity be our ally and wisdom our support.
May our wrath be cleansing, cutting through
         the confusion of denial and greed.
May we not be afraid to see or speak our truth.
May the bleakness of the wasteland be dispelled.
May the soul's journey be revealed
         and the true hunger fed.
May we be forgiven for what we have forgotten
         and blessed with the remembrance
         of who we really are.
                               ---The Terma Collective

An Invitation
What can you offer the people of Paris, the world? I would love to know. 
  

Our Last Day in Paris: True Confessions

I confess, I was ready to be home. Or at least that is what I thought at the time. The previous night a head cold hit me and with it came a desire for my own bed, my closet with different clothes, and a washing machine and dryer with English instructions. Oh, another entitled American tourist! The previous nearly two weeks, however, I rarely thought of home. I enjoyed the fullness of each day, the wonder of what we would see and experience next, and the voyeurism that comes with being a stranger in a foreign country. 
     Until that moment I had not been bothered by sitting in a cafe next to someone smoking or by not being able to eavesdrop on what I knew must be a fascinating conversation because I couldn't speak French. I had actually enjoyed using a few French words and phrases and was even considering taking a conversational French class. Up until that moment I had been in the moment, soaking in the famous French light made famous by Monet, adapting to the slow pace of cafe' time and later evening meals, and appreciating the ongoing parade of beautiful women wearing exquisite clothes. I must dress better at home, I told myself, and incorporate a bit of French style into my everyday routine. It had all been good. C'est bon. What an amazing trip this had been, and we would be leaving knowing we had barely scratched the surface of the city, but at that moment, blowing my nose, I didn't just want to go home. I wanted to BE home. 
     It seems to me that the last day of vacation actually occurs prior to the last day of vacation. Vacation ends when one begins to worry about exceeding the airline baggage weight limit, when one checks the calendar for appointments the first days home or when one just can't go into one more museum.
     On our last day of Paris we went to the Louvre. True, that was probably not the best plan for a final activity, but that's how it worked out. We arrived before 9 a.m. and the line wasn't too bad. The crowds in front of Mona Lisa weren't even that thick, but we were just done. Not even Rick Steves' usual stellar museum tour could entice us to stay. We'll start with the Louvre on the next trip. We were done.
      Instead, we headed back to our nearby apartment, stopping at the boulangerie across from the apartment, the oldest bakery in Paris we had been told, and bought crudités and poulet baguette sandwiches and Diet Cokes (not wine--I was even weary of wine!). We decided to get our books and go to the Palais Royal Courtyards only steps away from our historic apartment building. Rick Steves describes it this way: "This is where in-the-know Parisians come to take a quiet break, walk their poodles and kids, or enjoy a rendezvous--amid flowers and surrounded by a serene arcade and a handful of historic restaurants. Bring a picnic and create your own quiet break, or have a drink at one of the outdoor cafe's at the courtyard's northern end. This is Paris." 

     As I started planning this trip, I read this quote: "Until you've wasted time in a city, you can't pretend to know it well." (Julian Green) This is what I actually needed--not to go home, but to waste some time. To take a time-out to read and write in my journal. To doze in the sunshine. To enjoy a midday pause. To join Parisians and tourists alike and to pretend that I really and truly live here--can't you tell? At that moment I returned to the present and was able to fully delight in the pleasures of Paris on the last day. 


NOTE: My last post on my previous blog, sacredsixties.blogspot.com was written soon after we returned from our trip to Paris. I continue to learn from those sweet days there and am grateful for the chance to revisit them and share with you.