Notes from Paris:

May 13, 2008
The engines have just fired in our 30-seat Mesaba. As the flight attendant recites her instructions, I worry about this flight, this trip--I hope mom and I can grow closer on it. I really want to see her smile--today she looks so sad. She says she's tired--and that much is obvious but I wonder what is tiring her. Hopefully, this trip can lighten her a bit... She seems to me now a scared old woman--I've never seen before my mother's age so clearly through her nerves and fear as I can on this little plane.

May 14, 2008

Paris--I'm still looking at her from a distance. She is hard to know... So far, here is what I've found:

It is easy to get lost in Paris. Every beggar has at least one dog. The French kiss everywhere, from inside the Notre-Dame to the corners of Rue de St. Honore, in the Latin Corner, along the Seine--at times it seemed like the whole city was embracing--très merveilleux. French cherries taste better.

I have fallen in love with many things already:
The way the French smoke--wrists limp, elbows bent, with their cigarettes gracefully extending like a sixth finger from their hands.
The Seine at night.
The markets in Les Halles.

Et le cathedral Notre-Dame.

The cathedral was somber and mysteriously beautiful. I saw her first at dusk and entered her shadows. The candles below the crucifixes lit Jesus' gaunt cheekbones, emphasizing the man's humanity and suffering in their awful angles. Walking through the aisles, I felt the tightness of inexpressable emotions in my chest. Although I felt a brief release in front of the statue of Jeanne d'Arc--my confirmation saint--for most of my walk through the dark Cathedral, I was strangely detached. Yes, I found the history intriguing and the architecture stunning, but the saints--the 1,000 plus years of faithful sons and daughters--I wanted to connect more to them--I wanted to remember where our body has walked before--and I couldn't.

I suppose this journey to Paris is a test for me. This city for all of its supposed romantic passion is also cooly rational. In fact, the cathedral was rededicated to the goddess of Reason during the revolution! The city's passionate self-reliance challenges me--I feel a pull towards a similar spirit, one that would allow me to embrace something I've tightly contained my entire life due to a mix of self-conscious timidity and self-aware restraint. I know that I could use myself to manipulate and self-empower, but I am also aware of the fruitlessness of that pursuit, and I suppose I find it preferable to contain myself for now. Still I connect to Paris' hold on Reason, although not as an unemotional thinker; I'd like to believe that I am capable of deep analysis and intense, worthwhile critique while still surrendering to overwhelming emotion--in love, in suffering, in compassion--from time to time. And yet, when these two--emotion and reason--intersect with my faith, I feel as though I am certain to deny at least one, if not all three. That is what I felt in the cathedral--an unholy self-denial.

Still, Paris, my stone-faced mime, has charmed me much already. I want to know her more.

May 18, 2008
Slowly, I'm learning what it means to be the foreigner--always feeling detached, a bit like an observer at a zoo (but who's on the outside of the glass?). It's an effort to connect. This is why I'm so thankful for my conversation with Duyap in the Jardin du Tuileries. Between my broken French and his drawings in the dirt, I was able to understand much--I was especially able to see his loneliness. It must be hard to be lonely in Paris, I think. I wish I could have talked with him more. And the Filipina in Le Sacré-Coeur--she was beautifully kind to me. She asked me if I, too, was on a pilgrimage. My answer was hesitant. I suppose I am thinking of these travels as a bit like a pilgrimage. But I wonder what I'm hoping to find on these trips of mine--I'm more certain than ever before that the answers I am seeking can not be found in any one place--but I don't know how to find that which I am seeking in myself. The way--I still seek it.

May 19, 2008
Do I desire justice or mercy?

(Later entry)
Just finished reading Into the Wild. Christopher McCandless--it's hard to believe he was a real person, even harder to accept that he's now dead. Younger than me, so brave, so reckless, but still, I understand why. I just don't understand how. I'm too afraid, I know. Of what, though? Of death? I didn't think I was--perhaps, I'm still not too afraid...not so afraid that I won't risk death for a proper reason. I am afraid of hurting the people I love. That much I know...I know, too, that I am afraid. It's important to recognize that, at least. I was honest on the Algiers Ferry when I told Adam that I'm too afraid to leave security, but I want to be unafraid--no, I want to have courage--to do the thing I want to do even when I am afraid. That I am still learning. I want to be able to lose it all. But I have not learned yet to be brave enough.

Take these stupid French scarves. Since I have arrived in France, I've wanted to buy a scarf. Why? I wasn't sure. I don't need a scarf; I have half a dozen back home. I realized that I didn't even want a scarf--I wanted security, belonging, acceptance--and that scarf became a symbol of those things--a totem. I think, in a way, that's always been my Achilles' heel. I've been willing to sacrifice much for those things--but I don't think they can be pursued as ends.

I dreamed last night of Grandpa. In the dream, he told me, "With every blessing comes fear. You're afraid what you've been given will be taken away." I'm still puzzling over this message and what it means for me right now. Is the fear necessary? Must the blessing come with it? Why do I avoid both? I hope to embrace what McCandless found--that happiness must be shared, dreams must be lived fully, meaning does not come only through the worship of human relationships. I haven't discovered yet where meaning can be found (or if)--but I am encouraged, for now, at least.

(last entry)
Why is it considered brave to die for another, just to kill another to save oneself, but foolish to die in attempt to save one's self--not one's body--but one's being? What honor, what courage, what meaning is there in eeking out a meager, safe, long life? No greater love--how can I safe my brother or sister if I am not myself saved? One must not let fear of death in an instant permit a long, meaningless death over a near century. What point security without sacrifice? What point life, without the possibility of death?

May 20, 2008
Went with mom to Versailles today. Have to say I had a hard time appreciating it, as it was a bit like touring a plantation mansion. The gardens were strangely beautiful, though; I have acquired an appreciation for cultivated nature. I'm not sure I like it any more or any less than the wild, but there is a certain peace found in a garden that is different from the peace I have found in the woods.

My last night in Paris. I went for one last walk along the Seine. For me, that river is all the beauty and sadness of Paris. I don't wonder why it has become the muse of so many writers--or why it has been an accomplice to so many murders. As I walked along it, basking in that greenish-gold light that surrounds the river at night, I thought of everything I learned to love about Paris in the last week. The frequently embracing couples, the French shop-owners, the fathers with their children in the gardens, the fountains, the gentle cadence of the language when it is softly spoken between friends in intimate conversations. This is what I already miss from the city--what I will hope to revisit one day.