If you have the good fortune to find yourself in France and if you happen to enjoy napping in long leaves of grass, identifying plants and flowers (with book in hand, mind you), and rowing canoes down quiet waters, you cannot miss the Jardin des Plantes. Tucked away on the far right of the left bank, I spent many an hour wandering through this maze of green. Unfortunately, like most public French gardens, you aren't allowed to sit on the grass, but there are a few idyllic spots to rest if you need a breather. The gardens are situated between the main outlets of the Museum of Natural History: upon wandering, you may stumble into the botanical school, the Art Deco winter garden, the rose garden, a small zoo, or the other galleries of the museum. There are parents chasing children, silent-types playing bocce, and the occasional jogger mindfully running beside your path. I came here on days when I was very sad and very lonely and always left breathing in trees with a skip in my step. And on the days when I did walk for hours through these endless gardens, I enjoyed extending my journey along the Seine, catching the late sun through the windows of the Notre Dame, walking leisurely before the next showing at the Filmothèque du Quartier Latin (or l'Action Christine or Le Champo or les Actions Écoles). In short, I miss Paris wildly/painfully/profoundly and I will be woefully/happily/nostalgically harping on about it for the next few days/weeks/months.
As always, I'm a bit speechless reading all of your kind words.
Thank you for giving me some of your time.
The ingredients for a quiet afternoon are sometimes as follows: almond milk tea with a scoopful of boba, long walks down the quiet streets of the Marais, listening to João Gilberto with the windows open, hanging clean laundry from the kitchen ceiling, drinking iced tea and reading at a cafe while waiting for film to develop, remembering to wear my glasses for once, having the difficult choice between two John Ford films at the Filmothèque, napping in front of the Sacré Coeur, and slowly watching my skin brown in the sun.
It's easy to say very little by saying a lot. For instance, I've spent all day in bed curled on my side, drinking ginger ale, reading Paris Review interviews, watching 60s beach flicks, and blowing my nose. The evening has advanced like sludge: slowly. I adopted a few of Joan Didion's thoughts very early this morning and later forgot that they did not originate with me. I respond immediately to displaced Californians. The sun, Didion observes, settles differently in the East. In California, it explodes in slow sun bursts. In New York, night simply falls. I wish I could express the deepness of my fixation with light. Last week I visited Yves Klein's International Blue after hearing that the Pompidou had removed the glass shell. It was the warmest Thursday I had experienced in months. The security guard was a young man dressed in light grey. He looked slightly bored, slightly eager. The last time I had visited the fifth floor I saw a man walk into a bench and fall face first. I watched strangers and employees walk up to him and later jokingly tease him. Unfortunately since, the benches have been removed and I found myself standing in front of IKB for twenty minutes before my intoxication wore off as a result of fatigue. All of this babble has only furthered my procrastination of packing for a trip that has been rather crippled by the volcanic ash currently littering the sky. My voyage to Budapest and Vienna remains unseen, so I'll bid this my possible, potential adieu!
