Geez. Just how many Saints are there, anyway?
I believe that answer is too many to possibly keep track of.
All the churches, Saint Something. Streets. Books. Statues. Paintings.
For the love of Saints, everywhere I turn, I’m face to face with one.
And another thing! Before I forget! Towel racks.
You should be pleased to know that you can leave a towel drying rack on all day, cranked up on high, and you won’t burn down a century old appartement building.
Can’t even tell you how good that made me feel, how full of faith in towel heaters I am now. Oh, and why do we not have all of our bathrooms equipped with one?
But your butt. Now that will be another story. Burning your ass on a hot towel rack?
So not sexy. And one hell of a burn.
Enough of butts, burns and towel drying, the Saints doth call me on to more important matters : the day.
Our morning into afternoon was spent on the Canal Saint Martin. Ever so slowly working our way through the locks.
Beautiful and boring. Look, I’m just not one to sit for lengthy periods of time. If I’m not moving, I’ll be sleeping.
Lucky for me that I found a great spot inside, next to our hungover Captain who downed two pots of coffee in about 15 mins and kept having to shake his head.
The Pastis smell was all over him — my nose never fails me on that one, can’t stand the scent of anything licorice. Gag me now.
Had it not been for the radiator next to me, I would have gone further below deck — that and TC freaked me out early on by making me open every bench where there was a sign of life preservers. Only to be met with not a damn single one! How European. That’s an American lawsuit waiting to happen.
TC got so worked up about this, not because there weren’t any, but because he was sure some freak gasoline fight accident was going to occur and while he was perfectly okay dying in the Seine “how memorable it would be for everyone watching!”, he didn’t want me to drown. Or blow up.
The mere thought of that water even covering an army’s length of my body was enough to do me in. Remember Fear Factor? Me being submerged in some nasty city River {I don’t care if it is Paris}, would be the ultimate height of my factorius fear!
I assumed parking my burned ass next to Le Captain would assure my future survival. But really ot just ensured nap time {just as important}.
I had a pretty decent sieste — I really do think it was the heater all that lovely warmth. I’d wake up about every 20 minutes, turn to see what TC was doing and every time People, he was taking pictures. Or quickly rushing from one side of the boat to the other – did not get that at all, since the majority of our time was spent at a stand still, waiting for the locks to fill. I confiscated his camera afterward. Over 200 pictures. Of an f-ing canal. Is that even possible? Should I submit to Guiness Book Of World Records?
I’m sure you can guess what the first thing I did was once I stepped foot on dry land. Ran for the nearest creperie stand for my Nutella fix. I firmly believe in the candy prior to real food. And I always think it tastes better, too.
I made numerous lunch suggestions, all shot down by TC. He demanded we go to one of his former faves — Le Petit Trôo. When we got there and heard the dreaded “complet” word, TC straight up made me ask if they would either seat us downstairs by les toilettes or combine tables with another table.
And yes, they did look at me like I was certifiable and tacky. There’s a deadly combo. Obvs that was a big, fat, mais non.
Rejected but not deterred, TC charged forth. Up the Avenue Daumensil, in search of “a wonderful Moroccan restaurant your Brother and I ate at 11 years ago.”
Two wrong turns later and me threatening to bail, I’ll be damned if he didn’t find it. Food was out of this world. I have dreams of going to Morocco, always have wanted to check out Africa, but TC assured me today that was the closest I’d ever get to Marrakesh. Number 1 Cheerleader. Always.
I endured quite the carb crash after our delectable déjeuner and fell asleep on le métro ride home. I just don’t handle eating large quantities of rich food. And honestly, I’m not big on eating out. Not like we’ve done a ton of eating out, thankfully.
Oh! I had two Frenchies ask me today if I want French. I believe that’s called, winning, Mr. Sheen. I’m telling ya, self validation. So f-ing fabulous. So redeeming.
This evening, we headed out with my Pop and Pepe. Ready for the spreading of the ashes. Fist stop: Saint Sulpice. I decided some pieces of them had to be there, my most beloved church of all.
Second: Le parc at Île de la Cité {and not far from Le Canal}. TC and I couldn’t think of a better view and resting place – Pont des Arts, the Louvre and D’Orsay, the Seine and well, sims, that GD view. It’s a gorgeous park, very serene, but also lively. Much activity, while not too much nor too overwhelming … We had considered the Luxembourg Gardens, but it ft too vast.
It’s strange indeed, this spreading of one’s ashes. I had thought we’d make it a ceremony … Say some words, call upon God and The People … But when it came down to it … Nothing.
No words, no memories shared, no calling upon the higher powers that be. Because sometimes, no words are the best words. No words hold everything within the silence, speaking for us.
Our no words contained all of our love, and allowed me to feel the truth that life continues on. In so many Millions of different ways.