Sorry for not posting for a while… Exhaustion and dilly dallying and lots of bread have piled up to a state of “fatigué” but I hope that it’s “passé.” (Lame French misusage as usual).
Rolland Garros, touristy sight seeing like Arc de Triomphe and the Eiffel Tower, eating out and eating in, and…
Mornings in Paris.
Mornings are beautiful. Mornings are new. Fresh eyes and feet moving along the cobblestones and up the fire escape ladders, the balconies… windows with tapestries fluttering through open doors. They really do exist- the romantic apartment escapes into a world unknown. I have a loop playing in my head of a brief clip framed by a metro window – the curtain was red, violet, waving at the top floor. That was on the way to Rolland Garros.
Rolland Garros- chic and fun and riotous. During the mixed doubles match, the fun came from the four rows of bleachers. We were so close to the courts, we were a little scared of getting hit by a stray ball. Fortunately, that didn’t happen to us, but it did happen to some! One of the coaches kept yelling, “ALLEZ KATARENA! et Nadeya!” every time they switched sides or had a brief pause between games. The other mixed doubles team kept in good spirits, but Katarena’s partner jokingly interjected the proper pronunciation of his name. The coach would also clap in a beat that the rest of the crowd eventually picked up, especially with the excitement of his girl’s winning towards the end of the match.
This little girl caught my eye before the match. Well, most French children catch my eye before anything else. Like this little boy walking down the slopes of Montmartre this morning:
Which brings me to Montmartre.
Montmartre is twisted and beautiful.
Maybe it was the morning, maybe it was my art history professor’s casual and absolute knowledge of everything we saw- the cabarnets like the Moulin Rouge and Le Lapin Agile; the site of artistic genius like Van Gogh’s apartment and Picasso’s studio during his blue and red period (Les Demoiselles D’Avignon- which I saw at MoMA- brilliant in person); but mostly the organic streets of Montmartre.
Just as the leaves spill over the iron bars, the streets and apartments seem to spill over. Every turn is a different angle, every angle is a different incline, every vanishing point has a greater one: one that ends in the entire horizon of Paris.
At Sacre Coeur – the holiest church in the world (to me).
My heart was filled tenfold at this sight. Though I miss my family – (How I wish my mother were here to taste the fine fine food!) and Peter very, very much (to be in the most romantic city in the world without him is a bit disheartening), I am filled by the light of God these mornings.
Grace and beauty in the history and anachronistic placement of myself among all.
Just outside Picasso’s studio, a little spirit from Hayao Miyazaki’s Princess Mononoke film points me back to Picasso. I love being surrounded by the anachronistic amalgamation of art permeating the streets of Paris.