Easter In A Church

In the name of trying to get back up to snuff with my blogging, I harken back to Easter Sunday of this year. For whatever reason, I seem to end up in locations other than Paris every time this particular holiday comes around. This year, I did not spend the day in places quite so exotic as Italy or Scotland, like I have in past, but in the small town of Rouen, France.

The main reason for my taking the train to this quaint little metropolis was to see my dear Dancer Friend from Ireland perform in a musical tribute to classical Irish music. She hasn't been able to make it over to France since I moved here, so it was a perfect opportunity to show her a bit of France while supporting her artistic endeavors. I therefore happily hopped a train on Easter morning and spent a couple of hours touring the scene before meeting Dancer Friend for lunch. It turns out Rouen is a truly charming spot to wander about. There are cathedrals peppering the skyline, cobblestone streets lying underfoot, and timbered facades lining the town houses. I was very lucky that, while the wind remained strong throughout the day, there was no hint of rain, so I was able to take a million photos of the fairy tale backdrop.

In due course, I met my friend at the church that she would be performing at later on, and we sallied off to grab some lunch. Now, the one thought I had managed to completely neglect when planning the day was the fact that it was Sunday in France, which means that many things are closed. Not only that, but it was EASTER Sunday, so even places that may have deigned to open their doors for a few hours to accommodate the lingering tourists were resolutely fermé. Fortunately, we managed to grab a sandwich and some water before hunkering down in the dressing rooms at the venue. 

The performance itself was quite delightful in the end. There were unusual instruments to ponder, interesting tunes to hear, and I was able to reminisce while watching my friend dance the Irish steps of our youth. It was of course fascinating to be sitting in a church on Easter Sunday, considering the fact that Easter is considered the most important holiday in Christianity, and I have not considered myself religious in years. But as a performance venue, it is stunning to behold and a lovely event for the day. As we took the train back to Paris and ate a Cadbury Creme Egg or two, I was quite content with my annual Easter jaunt.

Dating a Man Guy Thing Situation

So, I haven't written in awhile... And in an attempt to disregard excuses and come to terms with my very real lapse, I will state aloud that I have been doing that whole dating thing. I have been working and dating and socializing and not writing and pretending to go running but drinking enough wine to avoid real motivation. Therefore it's all half my fault, half his, half the cosmos, three halves don't make a whole recipe for disaster... With the springtime blinding me in the sun and ringing my ears with little birdie calling caws,  however, there seems to be a cosmic alarm clock reminding me it's time to get back into the creative world.

Little did I know that back in high school and beyond, when I was epically single and envious of my best friends toting their boyfriends around all the time, that sometimes people really do get sidetracked by situations. To be clear, I have always been sidetracked by all manner of things including jobs, friends, anxiety, and stressing over evil male figures that taunt me with their unavailability... but never consistent dating. I will never be the type of person to abandon my friends or forget about my goals, but I do finally see how nights of dinner, live music, bowling and booze can result in a cloudy intoxication which veils the surrounding circumstances. Well then, hats off to my childhood friends and their one-track minds. At long last, the lightbulb has been doodled above my brow and my cartoon heart has been painted on my sleeve.

Amidst this rather detailed dating diorama, I have in fact managed to visit Rouen over Easter, spend a weekend in Amsterdam, attend birthday parties, pub quizzes and even run (or run/walk, more walk than run) the 5k Color Run. Some of these things I shall devote a single blog to and others will fall by the storyteller's wasteland of wayside. But while I hang my head low in not so silent shame for my absence, I also stand bright and tall, the coronet of romance glimmering over my golden locks. It is not such a terrible thing to be swept up by the moment... especially when the cosmic chimney sweep in question comes in the form of a delightful man who makes me laugh and smile and feel glad to galavant around Paris.

Beginnings of Spring

I have never been a fan of winter, to the extent that I mainly loathe it with a fiery passion which I excessively wish was hot enough to wipe it out completely. Since I have chosen to live most of my adult life thus far in climates far north of the equator, I have to suffer through the changes of season like a big girl. That is to say, I spend my time from December through March bundled up in 25,000 layers of clothing and drinking an abundance of alcohol. It is not until the sun begins to thaw the frozen air that my natural state of freedom and frolicking begin to emerge. 

I have not yet found a city that I enjoy in winter, for the sole reason that winter is evil no matter where you are. I tolerate the chill and snow in NYC during Christmastime because it is festive and inspiring and part of the natural progression of life. But once the ornaments have come down around town, I anxiously await the more temperate days of springtime. Paris is no exception. While I believe it a stunning city filled with beauty and charm, it does not escape the shackles of winter that threaten us all with suffocating angst.

That being said, at long last always comes a day when warmth spreads throughout the land and hope returns its glimmering smile. As I have been taking the opportunity (nay, demanding the necessity!) of scheduling days off for myself lately, today I had the entire afternoon to wander where I chose. Last night was of course Saint Patrick's Day (Erin go Bragh!) so, while not out very late, I did spend the morning feeling rather tired and sluggish. Ultimately, I made way to the center of Paris to buy a cheap necklace I recently had my eye on and so sallied forth down Rue de Rivoli, around the Louvre, and through the Tuileries for a refreshing springtime jaunt. I spent some minutes staring out onto the Seine from Pont Neuf, a moment or two gazing up at the Arc du Carrousel, and quite a while people-watching the tourists roaming in the pleasant air. 

It was one of those afternoons that reminds you of how wonderful it is to live in a gorgeous city filled with history and architecture and cultural anomaly. One of those days when you feel lucky to have experienced things that transcend your original concepts of normal and familiar. When spring begins to take hold, we all wake up from hibernation to smell the flowers. 

Parisian Purulence

It has been a couple of weeks now since I have written. As so often is the case, life sweeps us up within its many voluminous layers and distracts us with the minutiae of everyday maintenance. You go to work, meet up with friends, try to exercise, fail in attempt to exercise, go on a date, drink too much wine, and re-wine and rewind. Happily, the glimmering tinges of spring have slowly begun to appear and that nice little skip in step that we all look forward to is kicking into gear... Ah, poetry...

That is, however, only after I become overrun, attacked, and otherwise physically conquered by invading allergy toxins that disallow any and all participation in merrymaking. Circa mid-last week I was casually finishing up a hard day's work when all of a sudden I felt a slight tingling in the back of my throat. Perhaps I hadn't had enough water that day? Maybe the heat was on just a bit too high? But as I walked from the office to the metro, en route to a meetup I was scheduled to host, I recognized that my nose was also a mite stuffy and that ole familiar feeling of post-nasal drip was rearing its leprotic little head. The seasons had started to change and the air was releasing the scent of flowers, the taste of sunshine, and the suffocating pestilence of pollen.

Throughout the evening, (already made rather difficult by the fact that I had chosen a bar equipped with giant sports screens on a night boasting one of the most important football matches of the moment, making it impossible to do anything other than huddle in various corners until the mass exodus of French fans) I felt increasingly exhausted, hot, and filled to the brim with sinusy goo... Yes, gross. Oh, how very gross.

As this is an annual custom for me, I cannot feign surprise in the knowledge that I will be spending the next week in utter envy of the rays of sun rippling through the clouds as I sneeze and cough my way from day to day. I cannot suggest that Paris has offered anything in the realm of relief from chronic sinus/allergies and would in fact confess that it seems one of the least helpful climates I have ever lived in. The temperate atmosphere, wiffle-waffling between bright sunshine to overcast rain showers every other second does nothing to alleviate my woes. That, combined with notorious pollution at times certainly helps in imagining why the plague was such a problem centuries ago.

Happily, my body will acclimate in a week or two and I will be back in action just in time for April showers to bring May flowers. But since it will be warmer, I have some trips planned, and nothing makes me happier than Paris in springtime, I shall cease my incessant whining at that time (hmmm mute) and freely frolic into the sunset.