20-06-2015
I woke up at 6.30 am to the sound of the sea breeze. For a moment my disorientated self thought I was in Desaru, but then I remembered that it was my phone alarm. As I ate my morning oatmeal, I read a lovely lovely long text from Nat reminding me to never be someone else, because it wastes the person I am. No wonder she is so beautiful there must be rays of sunshine beaming out of her!
My journey:
Wuthering heights Wutheringheights SleepWutheringheights StrawberriesPretzelSleep Wutheringheights
We decided to meet the Wongs, so we took a long walk to Shakespeare and Company. I thought it was a bar until we got there and I realised it is the quaintest bookstore and basically my brain transposed into architecture.
Along the way we saw many street artists: twisting wire into jewellery, doing portraiture, painting landscapes or selling roses.
At Shakespeare and Company, the walls are lined with books of every shape and size. Outside, there are two second hand book carts, and chalk written descriptions of the man who owned the shop, who is a self proclaimed Don Quixote and romantic and to whom Russian authors are more familiar than his neighbours and who is spending his life in search of his love interest who is a fictional character in a book. It reminded me of 'The history of love' by Nicole Krauss.
Written on one wall was a quote that was wormed it's way into one of my favourites:
The wongs brought us to their real French living quarters - a tiny door on a street that opens up to a court yard and houses that sit on top of rickety wooden spiral staircases. Emily and I laughed ourselves silly in her room because she DIDN'T BRING A DRESS and she accidentally bumped me on the head and all this doesn't make sense on paper but I could laugh with her for centuries.
On the way home, we stopped to see a large group of Spanish tourists dancing to a busker's music. Others joined in and I was content to watch, and send thumbs up to the grinning old man beside me. He spoke French and no English, and I spoke English and no French, but through the haze of his cigarette smoke his eyes were kind and congenial and he made us understand that he was from an island south of France, and we told him we were from Singapore, and he put his hand on his heart and pointed to himself, and put his hand on his heart again.
21-06-2015
I woke up in a cloud - this bed is just heaven. We went to the Musee D'Orsay today, meandering around the ground floor sculptures before getting to the paintings. Hannah explained that the painting of Olympia, a sort of parody of the famous painting of Venus , except it was a painting of a prostitute not a goddess. "When our artists give us Venuses, they correct nature, they lie. Édouard Manet asked himself why lie, why not tell the truth; he introduced us to Olympia, this fille of our time, whom you meet on the sidewalks" - Émile Zola.
Hannah and I went up to see the Impressionists then - focusing of course on Monet. The beautiful beautiful light and movement. I loved in particular the painting of his wife and son walking through poppy fields. I imagined them walking together, Monet striding ahead. and then turning back to call to his wife and child, and seeing them glide through the bright red flowers, the golden sun kissing the petals, her hair, his cheeks, and Monet's heart feeling so full, so, so content, so uplifted with love that it spilled out in a painting, rushed hurried strokes to capture that moment.
I also loved his painting of the bridge - I imagined him finding that secret spot as a young man, finding solace in it as he untwisted and navigated the vagaries of life, and then bringing his lover there - their first kiss on it's bank, another secret to it's treasure of secrets,and later, bringing his new born child to wade in it's shallows, feet pattering across the bridge, and finally, in his old age, at it's banks, painting the haven that had been part of his life's every season. (all this is fictionalised - I later found out that he planted the garden later in life)
Later, when I revisited the impressionist gallery with Emily, we listened to Dustin O Halloran to provide audio serenity and compliment the paintings before us - I highly recommend it...music for each gallery!
We met at 12 'o clock for lunch, but there was no sign of Hannah, so we split up to see the other galleries.
Emily and I continued on to the the Post-impressionists, including Van Gogh. His paintings all seemed to have a surreal, melty quality to them, as if he saw the world through omnipresent heatwaves.
By 3 o clock, Emily and I had finished the galleries on naturalism, Nabis, Symbolism, Noveau Art and met Dad, Auntie Rachel and Rebecca at the statue of Atlas and his globe - but still no Hannah! Dad assumed she had gone to meet her Yale NUS friends who were in Paris too, and so after a little while of waiting, we walked out of the museum and through a park where there was a man singing 'Summertime' as the sun came out over the dusty pavement and made the Monet-clouds scintillate. One thing I love about Monet was that his shadows are not monochrome - they are blue, pink, green...multi-hued, multi-purposed, complex. Just like humans, as many as the shades of a palette, and as complex as the nuances of a shadow.
We also saw a very charismatic street dance performance, whose members twisted this way and that and moved their bodies in ways I thought impossible!
Finally, finally, with dusty feet, the Arc de Triumphe, where an un-named soldier is buried.
Emily and I tried to take more pictures in the blustery wind, and succeeded after much laughter and hair-over-face.
Still no Hannah!!!
More walking, and then we gave up and took the metro to the Eiffel tower, stopping in a cafe for lunch where we finally got wifi - and Hannah appeared! She had been lost for 6.5 hours apparently, and yet she had also walked to the arc de triumphe!
We climbed the Eiffel tower together, and watched dusk settle over Paris.
22-06-2015
As we walked to the Louvre today, we passed a beggar on the street, asking for money to buy food. Dad had a spare bread roll in his bag which he had saved from breakfast, and so I gave it to the man, who smiled and said 'thank you'. His hands were soft.
Merci. I love how the French use this word for thank you because it sounds like the English word 'mercy' - when God does not give us the suffering or punishment we deserve, and instead gives us angels and blessings to guide us through the rough world. Thank you thank you thank you.
There were queues and queues before the Louvre, and we whiled away time listening to Dad talk about the Mona Lisa and talking to an American lady from Texas who was in the line in front of us.
The Louvre was too big, too cramped, too noisy, too wallsandwallsofartthatIcouldn'tunderstand for me to enjoy it.
We returned to the hotel for a while as I had a tummy ache, and then went to the Notre Dame. It's architecture is beautiful beautiful. Gothic and mysterious pillars and dark bricks, and the brilliant iridescence of stained glass. But the ultimate best thing was hearing the catholic priest sing, a strong tenor, and the swell of his answering congregation: a stream of faithfulness.
The pool of Holy water was surrounded by this inscription; 'I am the way that finds the traveller.' Interesting paronomasia.
I didn't feel to well so I stayed in while Dad and Hannah went for dinner and finished off Wuthering heights
23-06-2015
We woke early to get to Saint-Chapelle, to see it's beautiful stained glass windows, but we still got caught in a really long queue. Still, it was a blessing in disguise because Dad spotted Arsene Wenger, manager of Arsenal FC, coming out of the Palais du Justice! He called his name and Arsene turned around, and Dad caught him on camera, before he waved back - Dad's highlight of the whole trip apparently, even thought he is a Manchester United fan!
Saint-Chapelle is breath-taking. Every window panelled with stained glass, and although initially it triggers awe simply because of the beauty of the light stricken glass, you soon realise that their beauty is beyond aesthetic - there is a story that weaves every window together, the story of the Bible, from genesis to apocalypse.
Dad returned early to the hotel to check us out, and Hannah and I bought two beautiful croissants and set off the the Luxembourg gardens. It was gloriously sunny, and that packet of flaky, buttery promise in my bag was enough to make any day golden even if the sky were full of the most dismal clouds.
The Luxembourg gardens, though a fair walk away, were beautiful, There were shady tree covered paths leading to bright open spaces filled with flowers and a big pond with miniature sailing boats skimming it's surface.
Hannah helped a grandfather save his fly-away child's buggy that was almost swept down the stairs by a particularly strong gust of wind.
We searched for a cafe to get hot chocolate to go with our croissants (we do things properly - no croissants without hot chocolate, not on out last day in Paris!) When we found a cafe, hannah, meaning to get us each cup (i.e 2 cups) ordered, very confidently, 'TROIS hot chocoalte', and before she realised her mistake, the boy had whisked away to prepare THREE cups.
Hannah drank the extra (O happy mistake?) as we unwrapped the crinkly paper of our croissants and ate them overlooking the gardens under God's great blue sky.
We spent so much time watching the almost paradise of the gardens that we had only 10 minutes to get back to the hotel, and so we raced through the streets of Paris, me holding my bag as it thumped against my hip, and taking off my earrings as they swung against my neck.
We got back in time to get to the train station for our ride home. We sat next to a very typically English family, a mother who filed her nails and painted them bright pink, and occasionally said things like 'The Sun gives you four letters (in a crossword) now THAT'S what i call extravagant!'. her husband sat doing the mentioned crossword, her son had a gun earring and put his feet on chairs much to his mother's chagrin, and her brother (?) who told us that they live near Wales but 'keep the Welsh out'.
We were chugging along quite normally, when the train began to slow and eventually stop. We were there for 45 minutes with this series of announcements.
1: There is something on the tracks, which they were trying to identify. (Probably some cows, I thought)
2: There was a demonstration and there would be a delay (So not cows I suppose)
3: The demonstrators had set some things on fire in the channel tunnel (Fire?!)
4: The things were tyres and we were heading back to Paris.
(At this the mother said 'James dear, you said this morning, you said, "This has been a great holiday but too short!" See, be careful what you wish for!'' The brother (?) said 'Typical French' and we began sliding back)
My journey:
Paris - Calais -London -Paris
There was pandemonium at the train station, everyone was demanding answers to questions and no one had answers but everyone had questions. There was a scramble to book flights and hotels and Dad JUST managed to get an Air France flight back to heathrow the next day - the earliest available flight, with all the budget flights snapped up by those delayed in the station.
We had been the first train turned back.
God is so good, keeping us safe from the protest and finding us a flight home. Thank you Jesus.
Emily and Auntie Rachel are still in Paris and let us stay. God is so good and so sovereign.
Dear Father God,
You hold the whole WORLD in your hands, and see kingdoms, politics, economies, refugees, protestors. You see whole decades, centuries and millenia pass by like falling leaves. You see all and you see me and my family.
Thank you for being such a kind God. A God who does not simply demand offering but who cares for us and shepherds his flock. You knew we would need a home, and you provided one. You knew there would be protestors, and you protected us. You have been so good, and so careful in stitching this day together.
I commit my days, years and every breath to your masterful plan.
Amen.
24-06-2015
Woke in Auntie Rachel's apartment and got ready to find the fourth best croissant in all of Paris, by Anthony Bosson in Le Sentiel. We had to walk quite a way to get there, and by the time we arrived we were so hungry that we ate quite a lot MORE than croissants.
But oh, my, the croissants. Buttery, light and airy, golden brown... hunger satisfied, heart rested, talking to my best friend and hearing the shop assistant issue a sunny 'Bonjour!' to anyone who entered the shop.
Dad, Hannah and I took the Metro to Montmatre - the most romantic place in Paris in my opinion. Cobbled streets, artists painting portraits, colourful poky old shops. We went into the Sacre Crue Basilica and then headed back to catch our flight.
Before we left, we stopped in the St Severin Church, and saw stained glass that looked like a sunset had shattered into a window.
Thank you God.
At Heathrow, we tried to get a car from Thrifty Dollar, but because it was so late, they had only a very small one and a very expensive one left so we returned to the airport in a shuttle-van driven by Mohammad, a really lovely and helpful man. Dad did that thing that always amazes me, where he strikes up amiable conversation with anyone anywhere. Good thing too, because Mohammad told us he only talks to passengers who talk to him first. He was very funny, and also very wise, reminding us:
Don't abuse life.
We managed to get a car from Enterprise, and drove along a salmon and blue sunset towards home. I tried to keep awake to keep Dad talking - and therefore awake as he drove at almost midnight after a long day of travelling, but I fell asleep somewhere along the M11 and woke up to Mum opening the door of 106 Ixworth highstreet.
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