I didn't want to go alone---I didn't want to go wander Paris by myself on a normal Thursday afternoon, but other plans didn't seem to be happening, so I pulled out my Paris par arrondissement, checked a few streets, and left.
I went to Notre Dame, which can be found technically in the fourth arrondissement, but it's really the Ile de Cité, right in the middle of everything. I bought a sandwich along the way and paused by the Seine to eat it. A tourist came up to me. "Is that Notre Dame?" she asked, pointing. "Oui," I responded automatically. "Yes?" she asked. I nodded. She left. Jeez, I thought. No wonder Parisiens are evil to tourists. They are rude, and they don't speak French. You are in Paris, I thought toward her as she walked off. Speak French, or at least make an effort.
I slowly wandered over to the cathedral itself, tried to take a picture, and realized that my memory card was still in the computer, back home. I put away the camera. Oh well, I thought. I'll be coming back.
As soon as I walked into the cathedral, I knew at once why I'd come alone, and why I'd left my memory card at home. Because I had to come here to listen to my own thoughts; tumbling and uncertain, half English and half French, questioning and wondering constantly. In many ways, I thought, I didn't want to come alone, but I didn't want to have to keep my own company.
The cathedral soared above me -- sometimes I think all of the cathedrals are the same, but that is part of the beauty, that they are all so old, and so beautiful, and each one a thousand hands spent a thousand hours creating it -- and how! I noticed a sign that priests would be on hand for confessions, every afternoon. For some reason, I thought, maybe I should go. But to say what?
"Je ne suis pas catholique, et je ne crois pas en Dieu."
I wondered how many hail marys I'd be assigned for that. How could I explain to a Priest that it's just that I can't stand the word "god", and the ins and outs of my various beliefs -- in French? And why, exactly, did that idea of confession pull so strongly?
I can't answer that, even now.
I wandered down the corridor, can I even call it that, with the ceilings at least ten times my height or more? Slowly, listening to the classical music broadcasting softly. Even with all the tourists shuffling along, there was a certain calm. The confession booths have been upgraded to offices, I noticed. No one was there. They weren't back from lunch yet.
The tourist visit is just a loop, but as the crowd shuffled back towards the door, I slipped to the side and took a seat in the sanctuary, looking towards the high altar, and with eyes wide open, asked, as I always do, for courage and strength. Unexpectedly, I found my eyes filled with tears, imagining a large hand covering my back.
"This will be the most difficult year of my life."
The voice was back,the same one that told me I was going to Paris to get lost. At least it added, "but also the most rewarding." Well, that's good, I guess?
I don't know how to be lost, I thought. You don't have to, came the response. You already are.
I left, quiet and introspective, and went wandering looking for a reasonably priced café, where I could sit for awhile and have an espresso with my thoughts.
Fast forward to today: a stunningly gorgeous sunny day, but legitimately cool and I should have worn a different outfit -- but never mind that. On the bus home to Paris from Reims, the golden afternoon sun warming my face, sleepy after an after deux verres du champagne (two glasses) nap. The French countryside -- what green country! -- rolls on by and I think how funny, we could be anywhere right now, anywhere at all in the countryside and it could look just like this, but we're not, we're in France, Europe, and when you look on a map it's so damn far away from Colorado, or even New York, or Asheville.
Oh, I thought, staring at this beautiful world going by, the blue sky above. This is what it's like to be lost; to have utterly no idea what's coming next, what it may look like, and to have no other place whatsoever to be except for exactly where you are. To have no real place to call "home" besides where you've left those you love, and to only be here, wherever the hell here is.
A plus, mes amis.
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