Day 10: From Heart-Singing to Heart-Pounding--Have Mercy, Dear Paris

When I think back on Day 10, I am a mix of emotions.  It was the most golden of days, it was the most harrowing of days.  Let's start with the golden....

Jenny, Claire, Emily, Grace and I decided to venture up to Montmartre and Sacré Cœur in the morning.  I was itching for a little quality time on the Vélib' bike and the rest of the group opted for a cab so we planned to meet up at Sacré Cœur.  The bike ride was great.  I mapped it from my phone, starting at our apartment in the Marais and soon found the path was clearly marked on sidewalks and along the streets--probably because it is such a popular path.  At one point, a guy who spoke English rode up beside me on his bike at a light and asked if I knew the way to Sacré Cœur.  I told him I had it mapped and we could go together.  So I had a little traveling partner for that journey--a biking friend.

Sacré Cœur is at the tippy top of Montmartre and offers spectacular views over the whole of Paris.  It's a must-do/see.  I rode my bike up to a point and then it was so hilly that I needed to walk the rest of the way.  I parked the Vélib' and started trucking up "the stairs."  I can't remember how many there are--200?  300?  Beaucoups of stairs.  But when you've been eating, sleeping and breathing pastries for ten days, you can get motivated to move.

When you get to the top of the stairs (above left), then you get to climb some more stairs up to the cathedral itself (above right).  The day you go to Sacré Cœur is a good day to plan a food indulgence.  What am I saying?  That's every day you're in Paris.  Never mind.  

I found Jenny and Claire and we stood there for a while, taking in the view.  And taking selfies.

 Actually, we were killing time while Grace and Emily chatted with two ladies they'd met in the bookstore the day before.  This happened a few times on the trip--where one of us would recognize someone we'd seen prior at another tourist spot.  It felt one part serendipitous and one part creepy.

We walked into Sacré Cœur.  I was prepared for a large church, lots of people, lit candles, mosaics, statues.

I was not prepared for the service that was occurring while we were inside.  Emily, Grace and I sat down and listened for a little while.  We let the tourist in us roll off and we entered into a momentary spiritual retreat.

The picture above was taken after the service was over, but while it was happening, they had sections of the pews roped off, both for the congregation attending the whole service and a different section for those who were willing to sit and be quiet and listen for a portion.  Most people who entered the cathedral just kept quietly filing around the perimeter of the sanctuary.

If you look in the middle of the photo, you can see wooden stalls up in the nave or front part of the sanctuary.  There were 12-15 nuns seated in this area.  While we sat and listened, there was a responsive singing happening where the nuns would sing/chant some words and then the congregation would sing a response.  As the nuns sang in unison and their voices filled up the whole space, my eyes closed.

I think there was a part of me that had been waiting for this moment the whole trip.  That for all the planning, excitement, strategy, researching, coordination, fighting the urge to be a tour guide, carrying expectations on myself for not only my experience on the trip but everyone else's experiences, thanking God repeatedly for the gift and feeling His joy on me and His provision...I realized I had failed to actually *dwell* in His presence up until this point in the trip.

And those holy voices...women's voices...filling and ministering...bathing my soul...summoning God and invoking His presence in that moment...just absolutely dissolved me and returned me to a place of dwelling.  As I closed my eyes and listened, I felt His presence.  And as I felt His presence, tears washed out of my eyes, giving equal opportunity to both my cheeks, forming little rivers which trickled down to my neck.  The depth of relief at the heart cleansing from Jesus which I felt cannot be explained.

I can still remember it as I sit here and type.  I'm so thankful and yet, I ache.

Needless to say, if you have the opportunity to attend a singing service at Sacré Cœur, that's something I would encourage.  I wished so much I could've gone back every day afterward.

We eventually meandered out and around to exit the cathedral and headed over to the Place du Tertre, also known as "the artist's square" which has several rows of amateur artists selling their work or offering to expertly sketch one's visage on the spot, many of them very affordable.  Great place to walk around.  Several of the girls did some souvenir shopping here.

I waited on the girls and as I did, my tummy began to speak to me about its needs.  All those stairs and bike riding and crying at the singing nuns and what-not....

Naturally, I followed my nose to a creperie.  Was there any way I *wasn't* going to get the Nutella-banana one?  Sheesh.  And then we sat on the sidewalk and ate our crepes and discussed afternoon plans.

Nearby was a vintage clothing store we'd come across during trip-planning.  We liked the idea of finding a fun vintage clothing piece or accessory item from Paris as a souvenir--so we made the walk to Mamie Blue.

Obviously, I thought the name of the shop was parfait, but once inside, it was a bit overstocked and hard to look through.  And the prices were more chic than cheap.  So we gave up the hunt and moved on with the day.

At this point, we parted ways.  I was craving a little bit of down time on my own and I wanted back on the bike.  Jardin du Luxembourg was one of those places on my list that I hadn't yet gotten to visit and I thought I would seize the moment.  Because of where our apartment was in the Marais, the Jardin du Luxembourg wasn't ever in our path on the way to anything else, which was regrettable.  It's one of those spots I would've loved to have had in my path.  And this is why:

This is a doctored up little shot I took while sitting in a chair in front of the octagonal pool (Grand Basin), which fronts the Luxembourg Palace.  The Jardin du Luxembourg is the second largest public park in Paris at around 55 acres and contains over 100 statues, monuments and fountains.  It has a children's playground, a carousel, and a marionette theater within the grounds.  The gardens were a frequented place of rest for Ernest Hemingway and have more than a handful of ties to literary figures and references, including Victor Hugo's "Les Miserables."  It is the kind of place which welcomes you and casts a spell, causing any further plans which would require you to depart to become suddenly unimportant.

At the octagonal pool, there are small sailboats that can be rented and are only powered by the ripples from the center fountain and long punting-type poles which children use to push their boats back out into the center.  Then they run around the pool to intersect their boat wherever it may come "ashore" and push it back out with the pole.  Watching them chase and run and wonder and laugh made me ache for my children.

I decided to face-time the kids while I sat and watched and was able to show them through the phone what these children were doing and bring them into my Paris world for just a little bit.  I missed my children so much on this trip...and yet I knew I would be home in a matter of days.  It was a delicate balance of emotions and reality reminders.  Gather ye rosebuds while ye may....  

Speaking of rosebuds:

Could've stayed for hours.  Hours.

Alas, evening was drawing nigh and I was on a bike.  It was time to head back to Maison 1400.  I had officially reached a level of comfort on a bike in Paris that was equal parts competency and exhilaration.  I knew how to navigate traffic and I knew the layout of the city such that I wasn't a slave to my phone having to voice direct me exactly where to go all the time.  If I could get the gist of a place and know where the Seine was, I could get home.  Seine, Notre Dame, Hôtel de Ville, Marais, Maison 1400.

I made a goofy video while riding in a fairly calm section of street to help myself remember the thrill.  The transcript of the video, should you need one, is:  "Ridin' my bike in Paris.  Liiiike a pro.  (and then a pause)  Whoo, wind in my hair!" (cut)

Look out, Spielberg.

Ten minutes later on my ride back to the apartment, dusk began to set in along with a light sprinkle of rain.  I was not far from the apartment, but I had encountered rush hour traffic in a construction zone.  Because cat-like reflexes aren't my strong suit, I hopped off my bike and walked it through the traffic to get to my street just a few feet away.  As I mounted the bike to take off again, a most alarming thing happened.

Upon placing my foot on the pedal to take off, I was stopped by someone forcefully pulling on the right arm of my jacket and railing on me, verbally, in French.  I bristled.  It was a lady shouting at me and pointing.  People on the sidewalk stopped to stare.  My eyes widened and heart quickened.  I half-stuttered:  "J-j-j-je ne parle pas F-f-f-francais!"  She changed courses and continued shouting in English, pointing behind me to the traffic.  "You need to come with me RIGHT NOW, Madame, and see what you did to my car!!"  My heart tried to jump through my breastbone and out of my chest.  I felt hot.  My throat started to close.  "I didn't do anything to your car!  I would have known if I had bumped into a car!"  My mind was spinning.  Dear God, what in the world should I do?  The woman kept shouting, "You need to come with me RIGHT NOW, I am calling the POLICE!!"

Sooo, let's all put ourselves in Lesli's place for a moment, shall we?  Foreign country, don't speak the language, shouting French woman, dusk, light rain, people staring on the sidewalk, accusations, confident I bumped no one with my bike, knew there were at least four others weaving bikes through that traffic along with me, knew that even though this woman had absolutely no proof of any wrongdoing where I was concerned that the whole 'American tourist on a bike' thing wouldn't work to my advantage in front of an officer of the French law....

As the lady shouted she needed me to come with her to call the police, she turned to walk back to her car in her fury, where I guess she presumed I would be following her.

I'm still not real clear on what happened inside me physiologically at that point, but my brain horse-whipped my feet and my feet attacked the bike pedals and...I :: TOOK :: OFF.

Before I knew it, I was pedaling like my life depended on it--in the opposite direction of the shouting French woman.  If I could've formed words, I would have shouted at my heart to GET THE HECK BACK IN MY CHEST.  As fast as my 40-year-old legs could move me, I flew down the street on my trusty Vélib' bike.  I did not look back.  I had two turns to make for home.  What was happening?  Was this even real?  I shoved my bike back into the Vélib' station and was shaking so badly I could barely shuffle to the apartment.  I looked over my shoulder in each direction every 3 seconds.  Where is Crazy French Lady?  Dear God, please let her be stuck in traffic.  Are the police coming?  I felt like I was in a movie.  Dear Mr. Spielberg, please see my contact information for the rights to this story.  Even with my natural bent toward the video arts, I promise to let you film it.

I pressed in the code to the front door, pushed it open, stepped inside and shut the weight of it behind me with so much relief that my knees almost gave way.  I slowly made my way up the spiral staircase while firmly gripping the handrail and knocked on the door of my landlord, Michael.  I knew that none of the other girls were home at this point, so thank the Lord for Michael.  I was in no state to be alone.  I tried to briefly summarize, without having a breakdown, what had just occurred.  And in his larger-than-life Americanness responded with a sympathetic hearty laugh and "Oh, honey!  You did the right thing!"  And then, "Do you need a drink?!"

He ushered me into his living room and directed me to sit while he fixed me the strongest screwdriver of my life.  I sipped and we talked about how Crazy French Lady had no proof and there was no way for her to trace my bike and then Michael called her some choice words.  I sipped some more.  I enjoy a cocktail or two for pleasure on occasion and do not often allow myself to medicate with libations, but this was beyond justifiable.  I desperately needed a reset button.  When normal breathing was restored and my heart had ceased to spaz as if from electrocution, I made my way up the stairs to my sweet red toile bedroom with the exposed beam ceiling...and carried the rest of my screwdriver with me.  I rested.  Here's a recap with general pictures--not ones from the actual moment (well, except for Michael's screwdriver):

At some point, the girls returned and having successfully dulled my panic of yore, I was nicely relaxed for their arrival.  If fuzzy memory serves, Mary Beth had a friend who lives in Paris to connect with and both Jennifer and Shannon had tickets to the ballet that night.  Emily, Grace, Claire and Jenny were supposed to come back from their shopping escapade and then we would all go down to the Seine for a little French picnic dinner.  The only thing was they sort of shopped 'til they dropped and were flat-out exhausted by the time they got back, which was totally understandable.  Except that left me a little downtrodden since I'd been waiting with my screwdriver for a blue moon for them to return and had really parked my heart on the evening picnic thing.  Grace and Emily summoned the wherewithal to indulge me and we headed down to the Seine, arms full of treasures from the food hall at Le Bon Marché.    

That evening just happened to be Nuit Blanche, which is an annual art & museum extravaganza all over Paris, all for free.  It's a holiday of sorts and is very popular--big crowds everywhere.  Watch your pocketbooks, ladies!  There were creative arts displays in churches, monuments and museums--dusk 'til dawn.  Many people use it as an excuse to imbibe and celebrate--which meant our quaint little spot down by the Seine was populated in short order by other...revelers.  We weren't reveling so much as just trying to eat and take in the scene.  We had cheese, baguette, butter, antipasti, wine, and a jar of specialty nuts in honey.  Mmm, dinner.  Mmm, Paris.

It was really lovely...until the three guys over Lesli's right shoulder decided to try to squeeze in between our spot and the edge of the bank next to the Seine.  They were celebrating a birthday in their group and had brought along their own little pic-a-nic with...how shall I phrase it?  More emphasis on the drink part than the food part.  It was soon apparent that they needed that spot behind us to be able to access the ledge below the bank to stand on and use as their own invisible urinal into the Seine.  Grand.

At one point they began to ask us questions and try to converse, which is how we found out about the birthday.  Really we were just being polite and wished they would jump off the bank and swim around in their man tinkle for a while so we could have some peace and quiet.  But somehow the birthday boy ended up wanting a photo op--so he leaned in, much to Emily's surprise.  Thankfully, I was ready with the camera.

How did we get here?  How did we get all the way from teary nun singing at Sacré Cœur to being accosted in the street on a bike to public tinkling men and picnics by the Seine?  My heart is spinning.  C'est la vie en Paris, friends.

After a walk back to the apartment (no more bikes for Lesli today) and such a full day (which actually felt more like a week in itself) we were ready to hit the hay.  In the morning, we would be splitting as a group with a few traveling to Versailles and the rest of us hopping a train to Giverny for the day.  'Twould come to be ranked among the most lovely of days on my entire trip and I am looking so forward to revisiting it through writing and photos.  Bonne nuit, tout le monde!!