The Best Travel Writing 2011 - James O'Reilly [84]
By first grade, the unblinking little owl was usurped. In the first grade class photo, the girl tilts her head, shrugs her shoulders prettily, and wears an adorable smile. The same look appears repeatedly in the stack of photos that chronicle my life: the laughing teenager; the gregarious sorority girl; the effervescent wife and mother; the accomplished public speaker.
Was it perceived parental pressures or just America’s expectations of little girls in the 1960s that made me decide at the age of four to act the role of the cute, center-of-attention-loving little red-haired girl? I’m not sure, but I remember making the conscious choice that it was easier to hide my brooding introspection than live with awkward reactions to it, so I cultivated perkiness instead. By the age of six, I played the part of the party girl to perfection. I had donned the extroverted persona that the world adored, and it didn’t quite fit, but still clung to me forty-three years later as I prepared to travel to Paris.
One of the ancient functions of pilgrimage is to wake us from our slumber.
As drizzly night descended upon Charles de Gaulle airport, I climbed into a taxi. The cab glided into the city as streetlights gradually came on. Paris shimmered with light. The huge Corinthian columns of the church of La Madeleine held a white glow within, the opulence of The Opéra Garnier gleamed against the indigo sky. As we circled the Place de la Concord, its obelisk soared out of the mist and the gigantic medieval palace of the Louvre exuded a beckoning air of mystery that seemed directed at me. An awareness emerged out of the blueness of my brain that my soul was here.
My soul was here? It sounded melodramatic and new-agey—not at all like me. But in that taxi floating around the brilliantly lit city, I felt my soul stir, stretch and blink the sleep from its eyes.
Pay close attention to any dreams still frothing on the surface of your mind.
That night, as I floated in and out of sleep, I dreamed of The City of Light waiting outside my hotel room. The history of Paris is not for the faint-of-heart: the scarlet blood of its kings and queens has trickled along the cobblestones and mingled with sticky redness spilled out of the poorest street urchin. Every few feet one encounters statues of history’s great thinkers. Hundreds of museums hold priceless artistic brilliance, thousands of bookstores cradle the questions of writers and philosophers. Cafés hum with contemplation.
There is nothing frivolous about Paris; it demands to be taken seriously.
The oldest practice is still the best. Take your soul for a stroll.
Every time I stepped out of my hotel, my feet took me to the streets where I greeted overcoated Parisians with a smile and a perky Bonjour. Tree branches were outlined stark against the sky, stone buildings frozen solid. Notre Dame’s stained glass was colored ice, and the clanging of its bells cut through the frigid air.
I let the magnet inside me draw me to the Louvre, where I walked slowly up the staircase, never taking my eyes off Winged Victory. Nike symbolized victory to the ancient Greeks—in battle, athletics, love—in all areas of life. The sculpture once stood in an open-air theatre on the Greek island of Samothrace sometime around 190 BC. She was nestled in a niche carved out of a rock, the sky above her blending with sea-blueness on the distant horizon.
Inside her home in Paris, I viewed her from all sides, from afar, and from below among crowds gazing up worshipfully. I knew she had a message for me. I wondered if her head and arms had felt awkward and weighed her down like so much ballast. She was proud without them, her wings spread out behind her. What she had all seemed to fit. I felt suddenly envious.
(Walking) allows time for your soul to catch up.
I winded through worlds of wrought iron,