I woke up this afternoon. Completely guilt free! What a luxury that was.

Although, completely justifiable from basically having an all nighter. Funny how I have to “justify” sleeping in late.

The first thing we decided to do was take a walk to the Luxembourg Gardens, yeah what a big walk — all five minutes of it. Immediately started swooning over the place. The usual heart palpitations, along with increased heart rate.

Of all the 16 times {okay, not really 16, it’s 11 but 16 is my lucky number so I felt like I needed to use it, so let’s just pretend it’s 16} I’ve been to Paris, you’d think I’d be used to it. Might be a little immune to some of the reactions of virgin touristes. But non. I’m not over it and I never will be, People. Ever.

Like I’ve said before. Paris lives in me. You know, all my super important lives here. I contemplated what Marie I possibly could have been today, but all the important ones TC rattled off met their end by the guillotine. I’d prefer to believe my end was not met by losing my head. Preferably any limb for that matter.

For the record, he really did go through every single Marie, along with a brief historical background. Along with making me feel like a total ignoramus the majority of the day.

He’d point to something and be all, why look there’s where Napoleon won the battle of such and such – what a short lived victory that was. Or he’d pull this crap on me, For the love of God, how could you have been a French major and you don’t even know all the kings Marie de Medici gave birth to!

Of course, I was like, wtf is the deal with this Medici family, their name is on like 9 statues in a one mile radius. Which TC just shook his head in response to and my personal favorite? When he looked at me, sighed and said, your brother would know if he were here.

He quickly went on to assure me that he was talking about Brother and not Brother #2. But, it’s true .

Brother is the smarty out of the three of us and the one with the most natural talent. I’m proud of him for this. Plus, it really lets me off the hook. When you’re known as the dumb one of the family, my goodness! What a relief! Everyone’s then pleasantly surprised when you do do well scholastically and then never let down when you don’t. Not to mention I never really had to do any homework in high school that I didn’t want to do.

I remember once, my junior year, I was totally lost in Chemistry {shocker, I know}. I had this huge packet due that was being counted as a test grade and reallyyyy needed a good score to help bring my grade up. So I sent TC into the office armed with it to fax to Brother.

TC called me to ask what in the hell I thought I was doing having Brother do my work for me. He did his whole rant of, how could you stoop so low, how will you ever learn and so forth. Until I pointed out the obvious, my grade sucks, I don’t get it, I probably never will and this will take Brother 10 minutes, he can explain it to me later.

TC’s response? On second thought, that’s a damn good idea. After that he never objected to Brother completing any work for me, in fact, he yelled at him once for not helping me with AP Bio in a timely fashion.

I had assumed our Garden visite would be relaxing, but I forgot, this is TC I’m with. He somehow has turned unnaturally helpful and friendly here. It’s rather bizarre. Particularly with anyone trying to take a picture of someone else. Well, let me clarify.

He’s friendly and then pawns me off to take the picture. People, no joke here, I took eight pics of my fellow Gardenites today.

Do you know how long eight pictures takes to take? It’s actually a rather long time. Because you have some peeps who want multiple photos, or want to wait for their uncle twice removed who is sauntering over form the other side of the Sénat building.

It was so bad, that I had someone come up to me who thought it was my f-ing job to take pictures in the Luxembourg Gardens! I straight up got offered five Euros for a photo op! From an Asian. The Asians always offer a good price.

Please laugh at that. I’m attempting to be funny. This is no way meant to degrade Asians. If you’re Asian and reading this, it’s actually meant to be a compliment that you make more money than us Caucasians. I mean, we already know that ya’ll are way smarter than us and school our asses on any standardized test.

And WHY are we called Caucasian anyway? I’ve never understood why there’s “asian” in the word. I hope I’m not making a further ass out of myself here. Oh, well, I probably am. I digress.

I think I might need to start thinking about a career move. Let’s see. Stand around in Paris all day and take pictures of other people at five Euros a pop. Um. That sounds like a great idea to me. TC, my cheerleader numero uno, assured me that there’s no way I could ever do that without having to be scantily clad, or have people thinking I was talking about the other kind of pictures, in which case you need to charge way more than five GD Euros.

 

But don’t worry, I wasn’t deterred by my future career being shot down. A quick look ahead of me to see the Eiffel Tower peeking out above some clouds and behind me, to the sight Le Panthéon, and I was filled with renewed hope that all is possible.

All possibilities are possible. This is what yoga has taught me. And more importantly, that I have come to truly believe and know inside of myself. And yes, I will always preach the yoga. It can save the world. It’s okay, you can totally roll your eyes at that one — TC does all the time.

As we were leaving the Gardens, we heard all this commotion. Imagine this — a grève. I swear. The French are constantly having some sort of strike against some sort of thing. Seriously. They strike for any and every reason.

I tried to convince TC that we wanted to avoid the grève at all costs, but being the crazy he is, he wanted a picture. Meaning: he wanted to send me into the lion’s den. But I wouldn’t take anything less than 10 Euros for it, so off he went. To my dismay.

To my further dismay, someone thought he was an actual government officiel clad in street clothes to blend in and spy on the enemy. TC, baffled and not knowing what to say, since he’s terrified to try and speak French, gave facial expressions and hand gestures in response.

Not a good idea, People. Being the dutiful daughter that I am, I had to run interference, with TC insisting that they should know he used to be a very important American officiel and he fully supports their cause. I left out the beginning and just opted for the support.

Post grève we crossed the street and walked the short distance to Le Panthéon. No sooner had I opened the doors, did TC proclaim, a line! A GD line! But I don’t wait in lines! WE ARE OUT.

Do we need to wonder any further where my distaste for waiting in lines comes from? People. It was such a moment of clarity — so much made sense from that line outburst of his. So much.

Secretly, I was glad about the Panthéon, because Eglise Saint Geneviève was calling out to me. Walking through those doors just took my breath away. Instantly enveloped with such a sense of peace and love and wait for it … yes, the holiness.

I sat down feeling as though it was still July and I had never left. Maybe I hadn’t? Those smarty sciencey physicists peeps claim we can be in more than once place at the same time. I really try not to think about this, because then I get too caught up in where else I might be {and omg, what am I doing there?!} or might want to be instead of physical me right here right now, however.

It makes me feel better knowing maybe somehow a little part of me did remain there. Let’s just generalize this to all the places that move my soul. And maybe, in some way, we do leave a piece of ourselves everywhere we go … an imprint of sorts. I think that’s why we can feel the energies of places … it’s those who have come before.

I could have stayed the rest of the afternoon and evening at Saint Geneviève. Not moving. Lost in prayer. There’s just something that makes me want to pray and pray and pray and then pray some more while I’m here. I just feel so connected, so loved in these churches … so moved. Called to something greater … to God.

TC wasn’t having any of it. I wasn’t fooled. He lit a candle for my Pop and Granny Cha and Pepe {I’m telling you, Pepster is counted as a full fledged family member, not a dog}. He said some prayers, too.

Mainly involving that we would be able to meet Paavo so he could fawn all over him again. TC has a man crush. Big time. Paavo Jarvi.

This is what TC looks like when you just whisper Paavo to him and this is what I look like in concern for his serious crushing. He’s such a groupie. But it’s okay, because I’m a Paris groupie. See. We’re groupies together.

TC, a dedicated season subscriber to the CSO, was devastated when he left. At his going away gala, TC promised to come hear him in Paris, with me {another round of ammo I used to make ce voyage happen}.

Our original dates for this trip were actually later in April, but I checked Paavo’s schedule and this was the only concert we’d be able to catch him.

I couldn’t believe that 30 minutes prior to any performance, tickets become 10 Euros. Score for us! Double score, that they still had available seats behind the orchestra. Being able to actually see the entire orchestra perform so closely, as well as Paavo conducting was incredible.

There’s so much you miss otherwise … the little nuances, the communications and connections happening between conductor and player. The entire first half was just spellbinding. Something by Rachmaninoff. No doubt TC would yell at me right now if he knew I said that, but I can’t keep any classical music straight. It all kinda sounds the same, as in could be by the same person.

You play me Mozart and Wagner and Rachmaninoff and I won’t be able to tell the difference. Again, much to my father’s horror. But. I love the music, so that has to count for something, right? Omg, do you think some peeps say the same about Jay-Z and Ludacris and my other rap/hip hop loves? Like it all blends into one unrecognizable sound? I shudder to think of that possibility.

One thing that did surprise me was the Salle Pleyel itself. What a disappointment. This is the Orchestre de Paris. I had imagined and assumed they played in a beautifully, world renowned concert hall … something à la l’Opéra.

Let me tell ya, People. Salle Pleyel ain’t got nothing on Music Hall.

No comparison. Hands down, Music Hall is much grander. For starters, the Salle Pleyel is new and just lacking … character, shall I say. But. Unlike symphonic music halls in our country, this place was packed. It was practically sold out, and this was even crowd between young and old. Actually the young might have outnumbered the old … something I’d like to see a resurgence of aux État-Unis.

The concert itself more than made up for any visual letdowns of The Salle, which to get an idea, it reminded me of a college auditorium, and I couldn’t believe that the first half took two hours. TC informed me that European programming is much longer than American. We ended up leaving after intermission. Too much sitting and we were hungry.

As we were about to descend to le métro and head home, the sight of the Arc de Triomphe was too much for me to walk away from. We strolled down the Champs-Elysées, stopping, pausing. More stopping.

As I stood at Place de la Concorde, no traffic, cold, staring at this city I was rendered whole.

Not in the sense that Paris was making me feel whole, or suggesting that a city can fulfill something in me … but that it connects me back, brings me back … to some part of myself that I sometimes lose.

I don’t know at what point I lose it, because it’s not always lost, it’s more like temporarily misplaced. It’s those times where I feel I’m just going through the motions of getting done with the day and not being a fully present part of it. Where life feels a little heavier. A little more average.

And while life is naturally heavy at times, I don’t believe who we are is heavy. We are lightness and light. We are spirit living a human existence. What is average about that miracle!

I came back for the candy. Paris is my candy. Yoga is my candy. You are my candy. And I can’t stand even if it’s one hour that my candy gets misplaced. My soul feels that it’s not right, Higher Self tries to bring me back.

No one is lost. Nothing is misplaced. We are all here. You are loved. All is well. This is the promise that Paris tells me.