Let's take Liz to the o-p-e-r-a

The stark juxtaposition between the opulence of Notre Dame Cathedral and the gypsies who beg on its front steps struck me today, as it often did in Italy as well. I don't pretend to know a solution, I just know this image always leaves me pondering this need that Christian folk have had, through the ages, to build these shiny, opulent, yes, beautiful, structures.  I imagine, hope, that these are often acts of worship (and know also, at least when Notre Dame was built, these were also statements of power, etc...); and still, the hungry beg on the steps.  "Whatever you've done unto the least of these"...surely we've all missed something.

It is truly breathtaking though, Notre Dame, an incredible snapshot of history, at once imposing, reverent, grand, stark, humourous. My roomate, Hélèn, suggested that I attend an evening mass as a way to see the church without the hords (and I mean hords) of tourists: "When mass ends you can hang around, and be 1 of like 20 people in the church". And so, for the first time in my life, I attended Catholic Mass yesterday - a serious, never smiling old priest, a young woman and man leading the sung responses with gorgeous and pure voices, a booming organ and an acoustic in which its sound lingered and lingered and lingered. After dark the church's eerieness is also inviting; it is seemingly as grateful as I was for serenity after the day's crowds.

Ring the bells of Notre Dame...

Prior to attending mass, living proof that this not-quite-so-young-anymore dog can indeed learn new tricks, I ended up at the ballet.  Spontaneity.  I had planned a little walk for myself, past/through a number of buildings that I wanted to see, and my first stop was the opera house - the famous Palais Garnier.  I noticed that people were entering the building with tickets in hand - I inquired, and learned that a ballet would be starting in 30 minutes. Found a sign. A ballet company from Hamburg. A contemporary title Parzival – Episodes and Echo by John Neumeier, names which meant nothing to me. Set to music by Richard Wagner, Arvo Pärt, and John Adams.  Pärt and Adams??  One million times sold. More inquiring taught me that there were seats in the "partially obstructed" section for €12.  Done.

Beaming, ticket in hand, I walked into this world renowned building (a building which just to enter and take a look around would cost €9). I then realized that I was uttering noises similar to those a young puppy makes at the prospect of a w-a-l-k.  In this moment, I am certain I was the happiest girl in Paris. The ballet itself was emotional, evocative - I couldn't necessarily follow a storyline for much of it, but was content to let my mind wander and my feelings feel, in response to this beautiful art.

Palais Garnier

Today included a brief visit to the Montmartre district, including such tourist traps as the gorgeous Sacre Coeur church and the Moulin Rouge, and also some wandering off of the main touristy streets as well.  And, my unexpected trip to the ballet yesterday meant that I returned to Notre Dame this afternoon in order to meet my favourite singing gargoyles.  Sigh.  I would start quoting the movie again here, but it's entirely possible that I am the only person I know who knows every single word to every song from Disney's The Hunchback of Notre Dame. And yes, I am fully aware that Disney butchered Hugo's tale.  After meeting these charming fellows today though (the gargoyles, not the folks at Disney), I do completely understand the artistic vision that was behind turning them into Quasimodo's singing sidekicks. They are fantastic. Oh yes, and the view from the top is quite something too.

How could I not be singing while walking through these streets?

This guy knows the city like none other

Aside from the gargoyles, my path has crossed with many additional interesting characters over these past few days that have spoken back to me. Ali, a questionable (questionable in terms of, "Am I safe right now? Hard to say. Make pleasant conversation, be firm, keep walking confidently.") gentleman who decided he would accompany me for a good stretch of my stroll along the Seine last night after mass, and who was unable to speak English or slower French, despite my polite requests for the latter. Three cute Lithuanian boys in matching French berets who helped me find the metro last night.  The gypsy on the metro this morning, baby asleep in her arms and young daughter walking ahead of her, begging, as she sang "Merci beaucoup...s'il vous plait...pour manger..." loudly, walking up and down the metro cars.  And Julie, with whom I ate breakfast this morning: maybe 60, from Australia, staying at my hostel, and travelling for 7 weeks without her dear husband because "he just can't give up his comforts at home".

That "must-see" list, if you are wondering, was condensed, condensed again, one more time still, and is no longer really relevant. Tomorrow I will wander wherever I am led, I will drink coffee, I will write and reflect, I will vision for the next phase of my advetnures in authenticity (living, working, Being in Waterloo), and I think will treat myself to a glass or two of red wine in the evening. I've suprised myself in lots of ways over these past three months.  One of these is the fact that I've rarely, if ever, found myself "counting down" to the end of this trip. I think I had imagined that I would often find myself longing for home, tired of living out of backpack. I do think I can say that I am ready to return home, but my sense is that if I were travelling for longer, I would be ready for that too. I'm content. For the most part, I've been content, settled, centred, as I have travelled.  I feel content to return home as well, and have a new sense that Home can be found, of course in certain relationships and familar places, but also within myself. And so it seems this sense of contentment (subject to further proof...) is coming from within.

So no, there's never been a countdown, but 48 hours is what it is. I feel content. And so far, I'm not worried about the flight. Like I wrote in my first blog entry from Prague, one way to overcome a fear of flying was to do something a whole lot scarier - embark upon a three month backpacking trip. I can't look at myself in the mirror without smiling.