Paris:

I had plans to meet up with a girl who is living in a Parisian banlieue for the weekend.  There were, however, some difficulties that caused us to miss each other (and she had no cell phone). After a stressful hour or so, I resigned myself to a weekend spent adventuring on my own. And that’s what I did.

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Saturday I visited the Mosque of Paris, where a kind gentleman greeted me and then a snarky lady took my money for entry.  The atmosphere was incredibly peaceful.  The white walls of the courtyard and the blue mosaics gave the light a cool tone. Visitors are strictly forbidden from entering the prayer hall, so I peeked in at the door at the large, carpeted room that had a corner curtained off for the women and girls.  It made me sad to see this division of genders.

I took the metro to Montmartre, and found the church of Sacré-Cœur.  It was incredibly beautiful, inside and out, and built more in the style of a Byzantine or Eastern Church.  Finished in the 20^th century, the gold mosaics that coat the inner walls shine in the light of the votive stands.  The thought this is all for you, God, sounded in my head the whole time I was there.  I wonder what God thinks about buildings like this, and all the other cathedrals built in his or his saints’ honor? As a tourist, I sure enjoy them, but what a lot of resources spent on something not required!

In the grand picture, the history of this city is incredible.  From a tiny island in the Seine to the sprawling metropolis it is today -- ground walked by Parisii tribe members, Roman colonialists, the Merovingians, the Bourbons, Rousseau, Charles de Gaulle, revolutionaries, artists, musicians!  The buildings from ages past, the characteristic tall roofs, or carvings, are fascinating.  I could visit Paris and have a good time with entering a single building.

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Paris taught me that to be left alone while resting or eating, you have to not only stay in areas with lots of people, but have to pretty much pretend you’re part of a group. Sit really close. I had pepper spray and the use of choice French phrases to convey things like “f--- off,” but I believe if at all possible a low profile and curtness is the best policy.  Still, travelling alone as a woman seems to be an invitation for strangers to approach you and:

(a)    Harass you for no reason at all
(b)   Ask if you’re married/have a boyfriend
(c)    Approach you with a huge gold ring you “dropped” (do I look THAT stupid? Good grief).
(d)   Flatter you or bother into buying something

I had to pry my wrist back from four different vendors selling bracelets made on your wrist. No, no, and no! If you don’t say no from the start, when? Oh, let me knit this sweater on you. Only 15 euro. I’m truly sorry you have such a sucky job, but I have to draw the line here and now!

There was one truly horrible moment Sunday morning, as I was making my way to La Musée d’Art Moderne. I was in a safe part of the city, but Paris is pretty darn quiet on Sunday morning.  Let’s just say a disturbed individual was following me on the sidewalk.  I was so thankful for the pepper spray my brother urged me to buy for my trip. One step towards me and the bastard gets it in the face, I was thinking.  Happily, I reached to museum and was able to lose the man. 

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Overall, I had a lot of good fortune for my trip, or what I think of as God looking out for me. I happened on a group of capoeiristas playing to upbeat Brazilian music. God knows I find capoeira fascinating! I watched various duos spar.  The instructor cut in often to play with her students, clapping them on the head or gently knocking them over when they inevitably left themselves open to attack.  She swiveled on two arms, one arm, her head, seemingly effortlessly in the strategic dance of capoeira.

The youth hostel I booked at the last minute was in a shabbier part of town, but it was a great place to stay.  It was clean, there was coffee, the employees were helpful, and there was a computer available (really useful when your cell phone has no signal ANYWHERE. Might as well have brought a rock with me).  Two of my roommates were women from Croatia (have you heard of it, they asked?) and a man I didn’t meet because I was early - to- rise- and -leave.  The receptionist was playing Kid Cudi in the morning. Ah, a little taste of home.

It was nice to speak English with some students from Colorado at the hostel, but I find it difficult to switch between languages.  The language train is one-way for me, friends! My visit itself to Paris was great, but returning to the country side, where there’s enough room to think, was like a big sigh of relief. To continue the train metaphor: if life in Paris is a TGV (Train de Grand Vitesse), life in Chaon is more akin to a rickshaw.

I’m content to be back.