I've made it back to South Asia and have been reacquainted with all things Eastern. I wouldn't trade anything for where I am now, but the trip back sure was swell. On the bright side, I got to see sights like this:
First, I flew from Tallahassee to Miami. Flying parallel to the western Floridian coastline provided ample opportunity to say goodbye to the state I hold dear.
I was so nostalgic, in fact, that I found myself quietly singing our state song as we flew along the coast:
So much for a mood lift.
Leaving Florida for anywhere else is always a bit sad. Part of my heart does grow a little weary when I'm gone for long. But while home won't halt in my absence, I know I'll always have a niche there upon my return. That makes leaving far more bearable.
A ticket to Paris, I've found, helps too.
In planing my return to South Asia I realized that a flight pattern with a twelve hour layover in Paris would cost the same price as traveling directly back to the Orient. This was something short of a tough call in my book. I've never been to Paris and I don't speak a lick of French, but that didn't deter me.
Were I to make a list of the surprisingly easiest things I've done, navigating Paris alone via metro would be at the top. My flight arrived nearly an hour early, landing at 8:30am last Friday. "Customs" consisted of one man watching people pass by with their bags, staring at us as though he had X-ray vision that justified his otherwise perilously passive security measures. I paid a nominal fee to leave my checked luggage at the airport, bought a day pass for public transportation (it was something like 18 Euros for access to every mode of public transport anywhere in the city all day,) and hopped on a train headed into the city. I was worried that I might have boarded the wrong train, but an eager gypsy helped me see that I was headed in the right direction.
Do you know what I found in the center of the Louvre lobby? PAUL. (No yelling intended. The company prefers all caps.) PAUL is the child of a Croix, France bakery that first opened in 1889 and grew into a wildly successful chain. Appropriately, there is a PAUL right next to St. Paul's Cathedral in London. I spent many a happy hour studying there while basking in the culture and history.
I'll never forget my first tomato mozzarella sandwich. It was a chilly summer's day in The Hague, Netherlands. Southern girl at heart, I'd donned a seersucker suit and skipped out the door before checking the forecast. Did you know that the Netherlands' temperatures don't tend to get as warm as Florida's in July? I certainly didn't. Between The Hague's iconic grass trams and the icy breeze off the North Sea, I was sure hypothermia was fast approaching. When lunchtime rolled around I scrambled for the hottest thing I could find. The warmth of this sandwich emboldened me to carry on.
All that to say...here's what I had for lunch.
Next I visited the Eiffel Tower.
My last stop was Notre Dame. This was my favorite of everything I saw in the city.
Upon entering, I realized that a choir was singing in the cloisters:
The cathedral's interior was breathtaking at nearly every turn. Here are some of my favorite sights from the afternoon:
My mind's eye turned again to the media of my youth; this time to Disney's "The Hunchback of Notre Dame."
After seeing how poorly the deformed protagonist is treated within the walls of Notre Dame, his comrade sings "God Help the Outcasts." Sung as a prayer, it posits:
This addresses the pinnacle of International Justice Mission's message: that God loves those whom our society has marginalized, that he would have them be rescued from oppression, that we are his instruments for rescue, and that this side of rapture there is no backup plan if we do not act on behalf of the oppressed.
Last Friday our field office director led morning prayer with a study of God's heart for the poor, asserting that our hearts for the poor are direct reflections of our hearts for God. In an overwhelming answer to Esmeralda's question, "were you once an outcast too?" he recounted the great lengths to which God strove through Christ to relate to the poor.
He was born in a feeding trough.
He was dedicated in the synagogue with two pigeons; the humblest of acceptable offerings.
He was homeless.
He traded a donkey to afford a room in which to host the Last Supper.
His body was buried in a borrowed tomb.
Sitting in this renown cathedral erected to convey the awe-inspiring magnitude and fear-instilling expanse of a God whom the impoverished and uneducated would "need help" comprehending, I considered the God of the outcasts. In so doing I was eager to return to my work in South Asia.
As grace would have it, the time had arrived.
First, I flew from Tallahassee to Miami. Flying parallel to the western Floridian coastline provided ample opportunity to say goodbye to the state I hold dear.
I was so nostalgic, in fact, that I found myself quietly singing our state song as we flew along the coast:
"Way down upon the Suwannee River,
Far, far away,
There’s where my heart is turning ever,
There’s where the old folks stay...
All the world is sad and dreary
Everywhere I roam.
Oh, dear ones, how my heart grows weary,
Far from the old folks at home."
Far, far away,
There’s where my heart is turning ever,
There’s where the old folks stay...
All the world is sad and dreary
Everywhere I roam.
Oh, dear ones, how my heart grows weary,
Far from the old folks at home."
So much for a mood lift.
Leaving Florida for anywhere else is always a bit sad. Part of my heart does grow a little weary when I'm gone for long. But while home won't halt in my absence, I know I'll always have a niche there upon my return. That makes leaving far more bearable.
A ticket to Paris, I've found, helps too.
In planing my return to South Asia I realized that a flight pattern with a twelve hour layover in Paris would cost the same price as traveling directly back to the Orient. This was something short of a tough call in my book. I've never been to Paris and I don't speak a lick of French, but that didn't deter me.
Were I to make a list of the surprisingly easiest things I've done, navigating Paris alone via metro would be at the top. My flight arrived nearly an hour early, landing at 8:30am last Friday. "Customs" consisted of one man watching people pass by with their bags, staring at us as though he had X-ray vision that justified his otherwise perilously passive security measures. I paid a nominal fee to leave my checked luggage at the airport, bought a day pass for public transportation (it was something like 18 Euros for access to every mode of public transport anywhere in the city all day,) and hopped on a train headed into the city. I was worried that I might have boarded the wrong train, but an eager gypsy helped me see that I was headed in the right direction.
This was my first sight upon emerging from the metro. Paris: just as I imagined it!
I crossed this street,
walked through this hall,
and found myself here: the entrance to the Louvre.
Did you know that the Louvre is entered via an underground admission hall accessed through a downward escalator inside this pyramid?
I did not.
I spent a good while wandering the grounds posing questions like, "Y'all know how to get in there, oui oui?" I quickly found that this was not a way to make pals. The language barrier posed more of a problem than I had anticipated. Like every child of my generation, I learned to mimic the young blonde in Muzzy language acquisition commercials of yore. This meant I was golden with the phrase, "Je suis la jeune fille!" Or, "I am a young girl!" No one in Paris seemed to care.
Eventually someone showed mercy and guided me in.
The Mona Lisa was still there. Even on a cold, damp Friday morning, she drew a perpetual crowd.
What's your secret, lady? Baby oil, I'd guess.
Other things I saw in the Louvre:
Also known as Nike of Samothrace. Taking "just do it" to a whole new level: flying headless since 190 B.C. ... or whenever that head broke off.
Gericault, 1819
Delacroix, 1830
...and lots of other people walking around staring at things.
Do you know what I found in the center of the Louvre lobby? PAUL. (No yelling intended. The company prefers all caps.) PAUL is the child of a Croix, France bakery that first opened in 1889 and grew into a wildly successful chain. Appropriately, there is a PAUL right next to St. Paul's Cathedral in London. I spent many a happy hour studying there while basking in the culture and history.
I'll never forget my first tomato mozzarella sandwich. It was a chilly summer's day in The Hague, Netherlands. Southern girl at heart, I'd donned a seersucker suit and skipped out the door before checking the forecast. Did you know that the Netherlands' temperatures don't tend to get as warm as Florida's in July? I certainly didn't. Between The Hague's iconic grass trams and the icy breeze off the North Sea, I was sure hypothermia was fast approaching. When lunchtime rolled around I scrambled for the hottest thing I could find. The warmth of this sandwich emboldened me to carry on.
All that to say...here's what I had for lunch.
(Note: that's Coca-Cola Light, not Diet Coke. As French women don't get fat- intriguing book, by the way- I suppose the word "diet" it simply outside their vocabulary.)
This would not be my last PAUL sighting of the trip. Come Saturday, I spotted a PAUL in the Dubai airport.
Yes. This is inside an airport. Dubai was ridiculous. But I digress.
Next I visited the Eiffel Tower.
It was real nice.
My last stop was Notre Dame. This was my favorite of everything I saw in the city.
Upon entering, I realized that a choir was singing in the cloisters:
The cathedral's interior was breathtaking at nearly every turn. Here are some of my favorite sights from the afternoon:
My mind's eye turned again to the media of my youth; this time to Disney's "The Hunchback of Notre Dame."
This woman reminded me of Esmeralda, Quasimodo's gypsy friend.
"Yes, I know I'm just an outcast; I shouldn't speak to you.
Still I see your face and wonder: were you once an outcast too?
God help the outcasts, hungry from birth;
Show them the mercy they don't find on earth.
God help my people, we look to you still;
God help the outcasts, or nobody will."
This addresses the pinnacle of International Justice Mission's message: that God loves those whom our society has marginalized, that he would have them be rescued from oppression, that we are his instruments for rescue, and that this side of rapture there is no backup plan if we do not act on behalf of the oppressed.
Last Friday our field office director led morning prayer with a study of God's heart for the poor, asserting that our hearts for the poor are direct reflections of our hearts for God. In an overwhelming answer to Esmeralda's question, "were you once an outcast too?" he recounted the great lengths to which God strove through Christ to relate to the poor.
He was born in a feeding trough.
He was dedicated in the synagogue with two pigeons; the humblest of acceptable offerings.
He was homeless.
He traded a donkey to afford a room in which to host the Last Supper.
His body was buried in a borrowed tomb.
Sitting in this renown cathedral erected to convey the awe-inspiring magnitude and fear-instilling expanse of a God whom the impoverished and uneducated would "need help" comprehending, I considered the God of the outcasts. In so doing I was eager to return to my work in South Asia.
As grace would have it, the time had arrived.
beautifully written, as always Katherine! Notre Dame was the best thing I did in Paris (Lourve & chocolate pan the second)
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