Joie de vivre

I miss Paris. I miss France.

I am lucky enough to have been there three times. With each subsequent visit, it reaches farther and farther under my skin. I cannot help but recall different pieces of my travels at the strangest times.

In a fit of delirium this past spring, when it was raining nearly everyday, the wind would rage on outside. There seemed to be so much change and transition in the air.

I was reminded of the seaside at St. Malo. The autumnal sea air so strong when walking near the shore at night, I thought it’d lift me to the ocean.

I looked out to the limitless void of night sky and ocean, humbled by the overwhelming black churning mass. My senses heightened by the cacophony of crashing waves and straining gusts.

Settled into bed, the pressure of the wind buckling the windows facing the ocean seemed to say: let me in, let me in.

I managed to find a rhythm in the fury those nights and fall asleep.

Sometimes dreamless, sometimes not.

The first time I visited France was when I was 16 for only a few days. My dad was working for an English company at the time and we were visiting London. As it turned out, my aunt was going to be in Paris and it seemed a shame to be so close and not to see her and the city. So, we took the Eurostar through the Chunnel. It was so strange to be transported magically to another continent in mere hours. As a frame of reference, the shortest stretch out of the state of Texas for me is to the north, but otherwise it takes at least 4 hours of drive time to be in the larger cities outside of the DFW metroplex.

We had a memorable rainy Thanksgiving eating croque monsiers with Oranginas in a café.

The second time when I was 23, I was in Paris for over a week, spending time with family and also meandering around the city by myself. The third time was this past October when I had the pleasure of touring Normandy, Brittany, and parts of the Loire Valley, aside from Paris, with family.

I just saw the new Woody Allen movie, Midnight in Paris, and this is partially why these memories return.

The movie made me feel a bit nostalgic, like when Owen Wilson exits the Shakespeare and Co. bookstore that I know from memory is just across from Notre Dame because I have been there each visit to Paris.

I am also reading David McCullough’s new book, The Greater Journey: Americans in Paris. It is about Americans going to Paris from the 1830s to the 1930s seeking knowledge and inspiration.

While processing book returns at work on Sunday, I was listening to NPR and they happened to replay an interview with McCullough. He mentioned that he used specific Americans as examples in his books based on how easily he could get access to their journals. The journals are residing stateside in numerous libraries and museums. It seems magical to know that these once-blank books accompanied the travelers across the ocean and returned with them, filled with thoughts, observations, and witticisms. Thus far in my reading, he quotes liberally from these journals.

Perhaps I am feeling a bit of cabin fever because I’m ready to be in a regular routine that does not involve doctors, chemotherapies, and uncertainty about my treatments.

I try my hardest to live for today, but in the back of my mind, I keep thinking: what will happen next? Knowing that there are things at work greater than myself keeps me going.

Imagining far-off places away from here lifts my spirits. These are the places I will envision during my 6th chemo at the end of this week.

The end of the marathon is finally coming into view.