Pedestrian Paris... a perfect day

 the walk:  Pantheon/Jardins Luxembourg/Jardins des Tullienes/Montemartre

“GO IT ALONE” is often my motto.  In that mode, I don’t get the pleasure of sharing the experience, seeing new things through the observations of others, or fun conversation.  On the other hand, when I’m solo… I’m able to walk as far as my long legs will carry me.  For four days in Paris, I was paired up with a dear sweet friend who was kind enough to give me enough walking to keep me sane. 
[Jen in Montmarte]:

 

We booked an apartment through Yellowstay.  Ours was conveniently located just north of the Seine River in the area of Hotel de Ville and the Pompidou Center.  On our first full day, we opted for a riverboat cruise through Bateaux Mouches, embarking from Pont de l’Alma, not far from the Eiffel Tower.   For those who aren’t so enthusiastic about walking, it’s 10 Euros well spent for viewing a high volume of buildings, monuments, and bridges. 
[view from the riverboat]:

 

The next day, it had to be walking.  The main points of our route:  The Pantheon, Luxembourg Gardens, Tullienes Gardens, and Montemarte. 

We started heading south on Rue Saint Martin, which turns into Rue de la Cite.  Crossing over the Seine, one could easily take a quick detour on Ile de la Cite (turning left, heading east) to have a look at the great gothic architecture of the Notre Dame Cathedral and its grounds which contain a fountain and beautiful varieties of roses. 
[roses @ Notre Dame]:

 

Staying on Rue de la Cite we passed by Sorbonne, the historic University of Paris.  Just past the university, we hung a left on Rue Soufflet.  Going southeast, it was a short walk to the Pantheon.   Though the innards of the great domed Pantheon are no doubt a feast for the eyes, contain the remains of Rousseau, Voltaire, Marie Curie, and Louis Braille among others, and were the location of Foucault’s original pendulum, we did not go in (lame, I know!).  Instead, we circumambulated its magnificence while enjoying the fresh breeze and blue skies of a lovely spring morning.   
[the Pantheon]

 

Back onto Rue Soufflet, we strolled west through the Jardins Luxembourg.  The garden is the perfect calm in the middle of a monster city, with its numerous shaded benches and gentle fountains.  From the west side of the park, we took Rue Guynemer, crossed over Rue de Vaugirard, and followed Rue Bonaparte, continuing north.  Turning left to go northwest on Boulevard Saint-Germaine presents the opportunity for some upscale shopping and window gazing.  At a large roundabout we took a right on Rue du Bac, which led us north again towards the river.  Crossing at Pont Royal took us directly to Jardins Tullienes.  Here’s another lovely, wide-open, manicured garden meticulously landscaped to emphasize its variety of flowers and trees. 

 

By then, we were hungry for lunch.  Exiting the north side of the park via Rue des Pyramides, we quickly found a suitable café at the corner of Rue Saint-Honore:  La Rotonde des Tuileries.  The usual sidewalk seating of cafés provides a great resting place for people watching, and this was no exception. 
[cafe lined streets of Montemartre]:

 

Two blocks north of the café, we hopped on the metro to Montmartre for a stroll through the northern hilltop district.  Montmartre is a quaint, artsy part of town that lies around the jaw-dropping Basilica of the Sacré Cœur.  Around the area, we passed by the one-time studios of Van Gogh and Picasso.  We wanted to see the Dali museum, but it was closed.   For a refreshing snack on that warm afternoon, we delighted in cones of creamy, fruity gelato while browsing the works of artists in Place du Tertre.  There, I bought a reasonably priced colorful oil painting of a local café-front.  We once again headed around to the Basilica to enjoy the view of the city.  Down the stairs, we stopped to enjoy live music and watch a highly coordinated free-style footballer performing atop a narrow pedestal. 
[freestyle footballer, Iya Traore]: 

We descended down the hill towards the metro station, stopping at a small nearby park to take a look at the Wall of Love.  Written on a black brick wall is “I love you” in more languages than I could count.  We hopped back on the metro, headed back to the apartment and took a rest. 
[the wall of "I love you"s, Montmartre]:

 

For the ideal ending to a perfect day in Paris, we went to the nearby grocery and fruit market, stocked up on wine and food, and walked down to the riverbank for a picnic.  As we savored the wine, figs, cheese, olives, baguette, and nuts, I removed my Chacos and she wore Converse… we were satisfied from head to toe.   

Every moment is new

I’VE MET HIM a handful of times, but for him, each encounter is the first…

There are places I love to walk.  Even knowing an area pretty well, there is always newness that strikes me.  There are peculiarities of buildings I’ve not before noticed.  There are gardens and yards whose beauty I’d previously overlooked.  Nowadays, I’ve been winding and wandering the neighborhood with the added enjoyment of roses that are blooming everywhere in pink, red, & yellow.  They even climb the fences that line the highways that traverse this gorgeous island of farms.  

[roses in the neighborhood]

Since living in Jeju City, a particular nearby hill, Sara-bong, has been a favorite.  At least twice, and sometimes five times a week, I ascend her west side stairs, take in the summit view of Jeju City’s north coast, and descend the switchback path on the east side.  Being a regular, there are other regulars that I recognize.  There’s a man I’ve seen about a half dozen times, always walking the opposite direction.  Once, at the base of the hill, he was riding a bike.  Every time we meet, it’s the same conversation.  I’ve met him a handful of times, but for him, each encounter is the first.  As we approach each other, he slows down with a smile.  We greet each other with Good Morning or Good Afternoon.   Standing quite close now, he always says, “Can I ask you a question?”  Knowing what the question will be, I smile with, “Of course.”  It’s always, “Where are you from?”  After I tell him, he enquires about my stay in Jeju:  how long I’ve been here, and what I’m doing for work.  I’ve learned that he’s a retired elementary school teacher.   He seems to be quite healthy, possibly in his sixties, but probably in his seventies with nice aging. 

 

[flowers @ Sara-bong] 

My 84 years-young grandmother’s mind isn’t the sharpest.  She remembers who we are, and sometimes where we are, but couldn’t tell you what she just ate for lunch.  If she’s continuously asking what I’ve been up to, it’s a nice time to jog my own memory.  She might not notice me repeating myself, but I try to fish for something different, some experience I’ve not yet shared with her.

 

[looking West from Sunrise Peak, Jeju-do]

For Grandma and the retired schoolteacher, every moment is new.  Keeping that in mind, we can rid ourselves of unnecessary emotional baggage.  We can move on from people, places, and experiences.  We all have our stories, but they don’t have to dictate the present.  We can choose to listen to our hearts, to live here now, and to do anything we dream.  To stop comparing the present to the past, to take each moment as a new experience… is to live more fully, to be more aware of the beauty of this present life.  It never tires me to run into the retired schoolteacher, who greets the new moment with a new, genuine smile.  

Un-lazy Sunday

Formed by volcanic activity, Jeju Island is a gem of the Pacific.  Populated with a mere 500,000 inhabitants, she boasts gorgeous beaches (each being unique from the next), rare, geometrically wonderful basalt rock formations, and hills in every direction. From almost anywhere on the island, including the roof of my living quarters, the 1950 meter high Halla Mountain can be seen.

 

Shortly after my arrival, I recall a conversation with a man named Moon. A group of us were enjoying a warm evening up on the roof. He informed us that, surrounding the centrally located Halla-san, there are precisely 368 hills.  Looking out towards Halla, there’s one hill that always catches my eye.  Her name isn’t important. I just appreciate her form. Locally, my favorite mini-mountain is Sara-bong.  A twelve-minute walk from my abode, she’s a pleasure to traverse.  And so I do, multiple times each week. 

When I have at least an hour, I walk Sara-bong and ‘her sister’, the hill beside her.  On any given day, there are always a few dozen people enjoying the climb to and view from her peak. Today being a mild Sunday, there were scores of walkers out. I enjoyed the company of my friend, Jen.  When I go it alone, it’s usually with the added benefits of sweaty, faster movements. Today’s benefits were different.  Walking more slowly, without music, my senses were fully tuned-in to the smells, colors, and sounds of everything:  feet on the walkway, birds, blossoming plants, and the noises of other people. They're alive! 

At the base of Sara-bong, after descending the far side, we took a break.  For a cool, delicious drink, there is a stone fountain-type trough with multiple faucets and metal drinking tins, surrounded by stone sitting area. There’s a lovely pebble foot-massage path that I enjoy.  As my bare feet slowly walked from one end to the other, I could hear the rhythmic chanting of monks from the temple around the bend.  Continuing on, I escorted Jen around to the ‘sister hill’.  (I have a thing for sisters, and “Sara” is a girls’ name).  A treat for Jen, she’d never walked this path, from which the sea is always visible.  Winding around and down, we come to a clearing that houses exercise machines and rounded wooden bench-planks for stretching… or lying and gazing up at the sky, as I’m wont to do. Rather than turn around, we take it forward to the road, making the walk a loop.  This allows us to pass over a riverbed, walk through a small neighborhood, and ease our way back home via the sidewalk of a main thoroughfare. Oh, and I also had the chance to introduce Jen to my Greek (or is he Roman?) boyfriend.

Persian Middle Name

Persian Middle Name

All night, you were in a slow string of dreams. 

Still shots from various places and times,

Tagged with names of people I did not yet know,

People I’d be destined to meet.  

All kinds of settings I fail to recall, yet some of which I’d seen before: 

Familiarities from the depths of the

Labyrinths of already-seen dreams.

A nearly forgotten dream of

A walk through a comfortable town,

Its residential hills

Gently rolling up and down

Favored with that preferred lighting

That graces and flatters the sides of buildings

Right around dusk.

A walk in the weather that’s most desired,

Leading to the café where,

In last night’s string of visions, we met again. 

Some black and white photos,

So classic and old

That told me of the future.  

The last I recall

Your face:  not shown

Your back:  towards the camera, a line straight up

Sitting with one other person

In a meditative pose. 

Faces unseen and

Places from recurring dreams

Delicately mixed. 

As this flower of life

Continuously unfolds,

So there you were

Amidst my familiarity

In places you don’t yet know,

Futures my inner eye

Playfully, dreamily showed.

Vague, unseen faces yet to be experienced

In a forthcoming worldly path

Through a world so             classic             and          old. 

Making instrumentals instrumental

I’m becoming addicted to NPR’s music webpage again. In the States, I had the variety of friends, work, and local venues for the music fix. In Korea, what we hear out on the street seems to be a mix of the same 8 pop songs. In stores, storefronts, and in taxis, we can almost sing along to the Korean syllables. Yesterday, I gratefully listened to a yet-to-be-released album by the Flaming Lips, [Embryonic]. Yes, an entire album, available for our listening pleasure on NPR’s music page: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=113403123

All afternoon, I was thinking about music and, of course, appreciating the fact that I have plenty of time to do so.

Out for a walk, I was listening to Sufjan Stevens’ “Greetings From Michigan- The Great Lake State” (2003, but a recent, satisfying acquisition for me). Traversing the park, I came upon a solo accordion player. He was a middle-aged man with bushy eyebrows. Seated on a bench before a line of trees, with something appearing to be sheet music spread out to his right, and a bag & random belongings to his left. Headphones off, I sat on a nearby bench to rest and listen. It wasn’t a grandiose melodic execution, by any means, but the guy’s heart was in it. The song just kept going and going and going and going and going and going. As I soaked in the continuing, sometimes dissonant, folding & unfolding of the accordion, my mind and thoughts wandered. I just let them go, freely. Abstract colors and shapes, flowing and changing with the passing breeze of song. At its conclusion, I gently walked away. The moment prompted thoughts about the imagery that music suggests. Vocals in music tend to steer us in certain directions. Greetings From Michigan… brought many visions: a grandmother smoking in a hospital room, an individual in prayer, the daily routine of working class America, and yes, a Great Lake. Music without vocals is still quite suggestive but, for me, the power of its suggestion is obviously much broader. The music to which I refer is known as “instrumental”. (Though, in a university Humanities course, I was taught that the voice is the oldest “instrument”, which leads me to question the term). The imagery prompted by instrumental pieces draws on greater influence of environmental factors such as: time of day, inside/outside, cloud cover or absence thereof, temperature, urban/natural setting, absence or presence of other people, season, lighting, listener’s mood, et cetera.

So what about it? For me, it’s an experiment. Three days of instrumental music only. No divine chants or mantras to accompany my yoga practice, no Damian Marley or Shawn Q for my jogging. No Sufjan Stevens in the park. A new, big world of endless possibilities. The first thing I did this morning was dance… to Vijay Iyer’s jazzy new album "Historicity": http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=113472412&ps=bb4

As I write this, I learn where Night on Disco Mountain (David Shire, Saturday Night Fever soundtrack) came from... it’s a Classical Party: A Summer Night to Remember:

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=111595310

Thank you, NPR.

Vermont: 24 hours to love!

Before leaving Bennington VT, I find Willow Park to check out the nine-hole disc golf course.  Nice park, humble course.  Hanging signs on wooden posts act as tees.  On each sign, the original pictures are ‘X’ed out with a marker, and someone has drawn updated diagrams with arrows depicting the paths from tees to baskets, along with proper distances and pars.  Hole #2 reads:  “Basket missing, hit tee sign on hole #3”.  The grass is long and dewy.  Perfect for extremely muddy sandals & feet.  I couldn’t find the tee or basket for hole #5, but the rest of the course was fine.  Nice way to continue the morning.  Vermont has twelve courses.  I think I like Vermont.

I leave Bennington for a northern drive to the center of the state.  Stop at a gas station for fuel & coffee.  There’s a huge counter with at least twelve self-serve carafes of different varieties of coffee, along with a choice of milk or half & half.  It’s a tiny little gas station.  Yummy, Green Mountain Coffee.  I really like Vermont. 

I drive the scenic two-lane route 7 lined with farms and trees.  The road slows down for quaint towns along the way that bear cute houses, stores, restaurants, and inns.  No billboards, no tall neon signs.  No ugly stretches of strip malls and traffic lights. Groups of shops are housed in cute barn-like or house-like complexes that blend in with the quaint towns.  Driving through this state, even through the towns, proves to be a pleasure.  I love Vermont. 

I’m cruising at around 65 mph in a 55 mph zone.  I see a cop driving towards me, opposite direction & immediately slow down.  Lights come on, I think he’s got me.  Keeps going.  Two or three more times that day, I notice cops who don’t notice my speeding.  Vermont is awesome!  After a couple hours of driving, I reach the trailhead.  

It’s a 2.6-mile hike to the summit of Mount Abraham. The trail is amazing:  ridiculously tall trees in a thick, shaded forest.  Moss and fern and mushrooms and rocks and greenery like you wouldn’t believe.  No bothersome insects.  The air was fresh, cool, & easy to breathe.  Rocks, mud, & roots to maneuver around.  Big, rocky steps.  Huge boulders.  I’m grateful for being able to put my long body to good use.  Dude, this is a hike.  The last half-mile was almost grueling.  Grueling, yet an extremely enjoyable climb up the steep, rocky path.   The views near and at the top were outstanding.  Green mountains everywhere.  On my way down, two guys with packs were heading up.  I called them my “heroes”.  The hike down was just as beautiful, and I love noticing things overlooked on the way up.  I love how hiking is such a perfect exercise.  I love how different muscles are working at different rates depending on whether you’re going uphill or downhill.  If I lived in Vermont, I would tear up those trails, I’d learn to do it with a pack, and I’d have the sweetest legs ever.  I am in love with the State of Vermont. 

After the three hours of hiking, it’s time to head back South.  Such a brief visit in a wonderful place, I’d be staying in Albany, NY for the night.  …but not before a couple amazing hours of driving.  The mountains, the quiet towns, the fresh air, the nature. 

I hit the South Street Café in Bennington one more time for a cup of coffee.  Sipping outside, there’s a little red-haired girl showing me how well she can jump down the stairs, jump across the sidewalk, and jump straight up, telling me how excited she is that her family is moving back to Bennington.  I end up chatting with some guy about how awesome Vermont is.  If only I had a higher tolerance for cold.  He suggested wool blankets.  Time to hit the road again.  I stop at a store for some pure maple candy.  Soon after, I cross the border and enter New York State.  It’s just as beautiful up in these parts, heading toward Albany. 

I’m about to see Deborah, my sweetest friend since junior high.  I’m happily about to visit her, but my gut reaction as I arrive to Albany is strange.  Nearing the city, my eyes see a very tall building, and it brings tears.  As the approach continues, it’s a full-fledged cry.  I’ve never had this kind of reaction to a city.  It wasn’t because I thought it was beautiful.  I was crying because Vermont was over for now.  What a shumnious twenty-four hours. 

Keep walkin'...

As I approached the lake, I heard one of the boys say, “Just keep swimming like we aren’t doing anything”. Ha, this should be good.

“What are you guys doing?” I ask.

“Isaac’s skinny dipping!” Jacob informs me.

Oh yeah?! “That’s AWESOME! Everyone should skinny dip! I do it with my friends whenever possible.” It was cute they thought they should sneak. Little did they know I’d been skinny dipping twice that past week, in a very public outdoor pool, with very adventurous friends, playing the funnest ever game of Marco Polo, very illegally. Isaac requested, several times, that I “join the party”, but I declined. Inappropriate in this country for me to bare all in the company of two boys, aged 8 & 10. He convinced his older brother, Jacob, to remove his shorts. That didn’t last long, as Jacob thought it “felt weird”. Isaac didn’t ever want to put his shorts on again. He dove in, purposely raising his pale little butt out of the water, into the air. He jumped straight up, flashing the world. Basking in nature, he shouted out: “THE BODY IS A BEAUTIFUL THING! DON’T HIDE IT”... “FREEDOM!”… “JOIN THE PARTY! JOIN THE PARTY!”.

Everything thereafter became ‘skinny’. There were skinny-fish, skinny-games, skinny-races, skinny-splashing… and it honestly warmed my guts to see Isaac experience such joy as they dove down, collecting trash and making seaweed bracelets. This same kid, just an hour earlier, was complaining to no end about having to walk through the woods. Walking through the woods was part of the deal. I’d spent the last two weeks hanging out with these angels so they didn’t have to spend the end of summer in daycare. Part of our daily routine was taking a walk. As long as I was hanging out with them, sunshine & exercise were essentials. Home days, we walked around the neighborhood and usually across the street, where there’s a wooded trail complete with a few run-down exercise stations. Days at the lake, we hit the beautiful Bartram Trail. The first time we hiked, Isaac was all complaints, yet Jacob motivated him. “Think of how great you’ll feel when we finish three miles! It’s such an accomplishment!” By the time we hit the lake, both days, we were all smiles.

Spending those two-plus weeks with the boys was awesome. I never would have predicted the stress that came from hanging out with them all day before having to go into work for the evening. Not that they’re stressful company, by any means. They’re easy, fun, and extremely creative. But I don’t have kids… so I had no idea. Being so responsible, being so there. Sure I’ve babysat & have four nieces & nephews. But to spend 2 & ½ weeks taking care of these guys during the day… was a wake-up call. Feeding times, play times, cleaning up, being productive, getting away from the screens for physical activity. How lucky I was that they're two punk-rock, awesome dudes. High-fives over and over to their mom, my dear friend, Amy. And high-fives all around to any parents out there who manage to maintain the lives of their offspring.

Summer times always tend to blur… but hopefully they’ll remember the walks.