Museum morning

Waking. Its Thursday morning, and I know this because I’m in Paris and I arrived last evening and I know that Wednesday was the day when I travelled. It’s cool and cosy, here in a strange bed, in a strange place, booked through the trusted network of strangers connected by technology and common dreams. 

It also feels a bit early. Giving myself permission to check the time, I find it’s shy of 0500, so I’ve been asleep for less than six hours. I doze, then wake to meditate, switching on my faithful Headspace. Were it earlier, I would have passed on technology and used a simple mantra such as “I am calm. I smile.” in my mind’s voice. I don’t know if this is a rule or a rule of thumb, or if I have made it up. This mantra was very useful when in South Africa recently, on the many nights and early mornings when sleep was a challenge, and since then. Whenever I am struggling to sleep, it has been a guiding hand. This morning, the proximity of getting up seems to be the trigger for choosing meditation via app rather than via mind’s voice.  

I doze again once I have completed my meditation, and probably dozed also during the twenty minutes of unremembeing space which is timed meditation. Then, I awake to the sound of an alarm. I think the alarm is that of bookish L, my host, and I wait for him to use the bathroom. I doze, then wake again, this time past 0700. Time to consider waking, and getting up, I suggest to myself. 

In the words of Beautiful T, on her card to me which she hid in my journal, she reminds me of waking in the city of magic. I remember this. I found T’s card when I opened my journal on Wednesday afternoon, and have put it away until Friday, as it’s Valentine’s Day and the card is for then.

Here I am, within metres of the Pompidou Centre, and the Seine is some more metres away, with the Louvre little more than many metres away. I am at the heart of so much magic and inspiration and beauty and history and imagination. 

As I slowly bring myself towards getting up, I notice some tightness, lightly sitting there, and close to the surface, in my chest. A few minutes later, I’m observing this phenomenon, and considering if this is an anxiety signal. There’s little wonder that it’s here, given some of my anxiety-laden activities on Wednesday, which I worked my way through. They were real, took time and effort to acknowledge, and I remained calm while working my way through with them. Today, here I am, travelling, being very brave, committing to somewhere away from home and being on my own in the midst of many strangers. This is doubly good, considering that I was an emotional wobble board only a few weeks previously, and retain many wobbles. A simple and powerful reminder, a nudge, a rebound from the laughter and mirth of the previous afternoon and evening. Yang of today to my Yin of yesterday. And, I smile. Genuinely, deeply, knowingly. 

This is how it is, now. Anxiety was with me yesterday, and is here today.  Awareness is also a common denominator, across both days. This awareness carried me along in the tide of over-analysis about having a drink. If I can keep awareness alongside anxiety, for now and today and a long time, by which I mean forever, then I can be cool with all this. If I’m not cool, then I’ll be focused gently on regaining cool. 

In recent months, I have outstripped my growing capacity, replacing this with growing anxiety, outstripping my awareness capacity especially, until I realised this. The balance is being restored, I’m restoring it. Awareness of anxiety. This is the difference between coping, still likely to be about imbalance between these, and recovery, which is about positive balance in my favour, in favour of awareness. 

Once showered and dressed, then prepared for the day with packing of all the essentials which I need, breakfast time arrives. It’s arrival was slow and drawn out, as the analysis and selection and choosing of what was essential for my day out became a slowly-proceeding process. I lay everything out – phone, chromebook, journal, charging cables, Euro adapter, headphones, pens, power bank, passport, wallet, money, tissues. I need all these, except for the Chromebook charging cable and Euro adapter. Once I reach this agreement with myself, aided hugely by the visualisation of my options, then I pack smoothly and set off for my day in Paris. 

My breakfast target lies around the corner, on Boulevard Sebastopol, at the bakery and cafe suggested by bookish L. Fresh baked Pain au Chocolat, very good indeed, still gently warm and with slightly gooey chocolate filling. While I admire the Pain, and admire less the coffee, I notice that I’m sat beside the pile of croissants on an adjacent table, waiting to be glazed. Authentic bakery, ovens just beyond the croissants, kitchen and mixing area in the cellar. Coffee is instant, despite pretensions of a machine and cups and some mechanical sounds.

Now is done, time for Next. Time to move, so I head towards Louvre, convincing myself the best route is via the Quai instead of on Rue de Rivoli. Part of me clearly wanted to see the river and walk along there, instead of the formality of Rue de Rivoli, despite the wind-driven morning resistance. That part of me was gently wrapped, in soft grey morning silk, embroidered of many memories, wind-powered today. And, all of me smiled. 

 The wind and cold and rain did push me away from the river on Quai du Louvre, onto Rue de Rivoli and onwards. Moving, walking, almost running beside me – two tourists, standing out as much as I did, surprised as they turned into the wrong Louvre entrance. I could not walk that quickly, and I was definitely not trying. Through Passage Richelieu, they were marginally ahead of me due to their navigation error, next rather surprised and slowed by the arches and passageway – I hope by the marvel, as it is unexpected for the uninitiated. 

Reaching the emerging queues outside Pyramide du Louvre, they fork right under instruction for the 0930 queue, as I sail serenely ahead for the shorter 0900 queue, safe in the knowledge of my ticket. Minutes pass as this queue moves forward, then slows, then stops in recognition of another fifteen minutes to opening. I hear soft American accents, sharing commentary on the morning and how they are, chatter of a more-travelled tourist. I turn, and open a conversation connected to comments about Amsterdam. The group are from Atlanta, have been in Amsterdam recently, and most are in Paris for the first time. Craft beer, craft cider, food, some culture – these are quickly evident as the core uniting interests of men who share some of my age. Talk turns to Ireland and grand times in Dublin, and the sadness of a much-loved Irish Tweed cap being lost in an Amsterdam breeze-canal pincers movement recently. I am gently chided for wearing an American brand rather than an Irish weave, responding that I prioritise functionality over sentimentality for articles like this. Mirth follows as we talk about Dali and several confess to having visited Dali’s home in Florida – mirth firstly as they gently explain that Atlanta and St Petersburg are not far away, in case I didn’t know the geography (I did), and mirth secondly as I suggested the shattering of my illusion about no culture in America. They take this well, we talk more beer and Parisian sights, then it’s time to move and onwards with our Louvre visit. My visit, here to connect with my old friend, Leonardo.