We've been back from Paris and Iceland for almost two weeks now, and I still haven't processed the experience.
We crammed in three days at the Louvre, one at L'Armée Musée, one at the Palace and gardens of Versailles, one at the Rodin Museum, a half day in the Jardin de Luxembourg and of course visited the Cathédrale de Notre-Dame, the top of the L'Arc de Triomphe and the Eiffel Tower. Shopped. (AND I read three novels and started on a non-fiction book. Need to post separately about those; they were all excellent).
And ate.
And walked, and drank. Took too many photos. And I looked at things, looked and watched and listened.
Then culture shock! We stayed in Reykjavik for two nights on the way back. On our full day in Iceland we visited the black sands beach, the remains of the glacier on the volcano that stopped European air traffic a few years ago, and nearly a dozen magnificent waterfalls.
And ate. I'm gonna have to do a separate post on food.
My brain's too full. I want some conclusions from the trip, something more valuable to me than just rest and relaxation, and I'm not coming up with much. An attempt:
-- my parents picked up a lot more from their service in Paris than I knew. I know very little of their lives in France. I saw some of Dad's gestures and expressions in the faces and bodies of older Parisian men. That was comforting and disconcerting. Paris was reflected in some of Mom's cooking, but I already knew that. She always told me she'd truly learned to walk in high heels in Paris, because of the cobblestoned streets; walking on them made that far more real and more astounding.
-- the constant reminders of WWII surprised me and touched me in a way I hadn't expected. The plaques honoring those students and residents who died defending Paris as the Allies fought their way in had all been decorated with flowers. Oh the feels. I finally lost it in the army museum. I'd watched a video that included a clip of boys moving sandbags and a woman in her work dress and flats shoveling to help build up defenses that day -- and then I stepped into the Holocaust room. It's small and concise and given the direction the current U.S. "administration" is headed, all too relevant. Do you know how *many* camps there were?
-- Paris is very much an international city, but I'm not sure I'd call it a melting pot city. (caveat: we barely left the central core of Paris). I saw a lot of Hindus, Black people from various walks of life (as well as both residents and immigrants), people who I think were Indian, and some Pakistanis. Most of the darker-skinned people I saw were in blue-color jobs, service jobs, or what I call desperation-sales jobs; standing outside museums and tourist areas hawking trinkets no one buys. The sanitation workers were black; their supervisor, white. The maids were white and black, the office staff white. The Louvre had staff of color in more "white-collar" positions than I saw anywhere else. There was a trio of black women who worked together at the Louvre; one had shin-length pink dreads, another a massive "do" of white dreads and the third with a different, though not quite as eye-catching style; if I remember right it wasn't dyed. I wondered if the vivid hairstyles were a "if you can't be bothered to tell us apart can you at least distinguish pink from white from black?" statement; they didn't look anything alike but ... listening to the black women in my own community, that doesn't matter. I can't say I saw many Asian-descent residents, but I'll admit I was focused more on black faces. I saw a ton of tourists from China, Korea, Japan, likely other places, both in the Louvre and at Versailles, especially. The trip to New Zealand and this trip convinced me I have a lot of work to do on my language and facial recognition with asian cultures.
-- Tried to speak French, but nearly everyone replied in better English. I finally continued speaking my crappy French because it was the only way it was going to get any better. Mixed success there. It was frustrating because we were there as Macron was taking power, and I wanted to hear what the average Parisian worker thought about all that, and despite some great eavesdropping opportunities, I got nothin'. This is what resisting making mistakes in front of actual humans gets you; I was unwilling to humiliate myself in the States taking lessons when I could learn from an app. So I didn't get everything out of the experience I wanted, and my French is reading-only. That's useful; I could read museum labels. But not nearly as good as it could have been. An excellent reminder that I need to Go For It and Risk My Ego more in order to make long-term progress.
-- I should tease apart some of my feels about the "world culture tour" that was the Louvre visits. I need to go back through the photos I took a second time.
-- Also tried to pay attention to fashion, because it was Mom's passion, and ... Paris! ... but the deluge of tourists, residents and changing seasons meant that I saw everything from shoulderless wedding dresses to miniskirts to nearly full hijab to heels and T-shirts and jeans to running suits to skirts and blouses. The subtleties that might be "this year's fashion" passed me by in all that. There was a particular length and weight of scarf it was hip to have, was in several suit-shop windows. Men's suits were more tailored, and if I'd been interested enough I could have figured out what was different about them, I suppose... but women's clothing was too varied; too much to sort through for my overloaded orbs. Although I did take a picture of a heavy navy iris-print women's suit with capri-length pants and equally tight and short sleeves. The fabric was amazing. The suit ... was fashionable, I guess. It's a look I hope does not catch on.
-- As much as I enjoyed Paris, and I want to go back, I didn't relax until the trip's eleventh day, when we were on top of the Arc. I felt at home, finally, or like I'd crossed off the last "biggie" on my list, or maybe I was just lightheaded from the exertion and glad I could finally admit I had some version of walking pneumonia. (oh, yeah. Six to nine miles a day and coughing myself awake all night). In Iceland I was at home almost immediately. M. told our guide, who was nervous about me being so close to the glacier, that I was pagan and water was my element, or something to that effect, and it's true that the water and the land felt real to me. I kept thanking spirits/the land/the water/the volcanoes for our safe passage, but I wasn't worried about our safety, it just felt like the right thing to do, to be grateful and honor the land. The only place I felt that way in France was at the Crypte Archéologique, where we went under the streets near Notre Dame, and in a few places in the Louvre. Actually, there was a park near the river on the island that Notre-Dame stands on that felt... old, in the same way that Iceland feels new and alive. If that make any sense at all.
-- It has been hard getting my head back into work here at home, both the novel and the short stories. Part of it is that I feel insignificant after all that pummeling by world culture and world issues. But I also have been feeling overwhelmed by the experience and needing to put it in some context, to actually think about it and appreciate it, before I can move on. Hopefully this musing helps that somewhat.