You wake up a little confused, strange light, strange sounds, strange smells. You start to focus on the iron bracket over your head holding a wooden beam that must be at least 300 years old. You blink and start to remember the long flight, the chaotic lack of order at immigration, your struggling with French, and the driver’s struggling with English as you convince him you really do want to go to the little hotel on the left bank.
Rising and gazing out the window you see the university students walking along the street, almost no cars but a few bicycles including one ridden by a man with a long baguette stick up high over his head. You clean up in the little bathroom, clearly never anticipated by the original architects, and head downstairs. “Bonjour” you say in bad French to the young lady at the front desk. “Good Morning” she says in bad English, but the smiles that pass between you are universal and adds a touch of brightness to the day of each.
You have no idea what time it is, this is Paris, you don’t care, you just start to walk. Notre-Dame? The Louvre? No, you decide, Musee d’Orsay. You stroll along the Rive Gauche intentionally turning up and down streets just absorbing the laisser faire.
Years later, in times of turmoil and stress, you are grateful. So much great art so accessibly displayed. Tea in front of the giant clock. The moment when you walked into a room full of Monet’s garden period work and it literally took your breath away. The stroll back along Boulevard Saint-Germain.
All planted within you a healing balm.