I have not written since the Louvre, largely because I have ventured out more the last few weeks, as the initial awkward timidity I suffered from when I first arrived in Paris has gradually lessened. This is not to brag that my heartbeat doesn't still accelerate noticeably whenever I walk into a restaurant to order anything more complicated than an espresso, but overall, I have reached a less-than-neurotic comfort level here. This happy progress, though, has been mirrored by the increasing closeness of my departure date and the knowledge that I am soon moving on to two new language zones, whose languages I am a complete stranger to. There is German in Vienna, though my friend there is fluent, and Malayalam in Kerala, though I insulate myself with the naive expectation that the aftereffects of British colonialism still linger there in the form of basic English. Nonetheless, despite the foreknowledge of more awkward timidity to come in more new places, I have been enjoying Paris here and now.
There is another less tangible reason for my not writing, which is the wordless awe I have felt at many of the things I have seen and heard. And wordless awe, surprise!, is a difficult thing to do justice to through words. Sages and mystics throughout time have phrased and rephrased this simple fact, with my favorite formulation coming from the Tao De Ching. There are as many translations of the opening lines, which consist of only 6 characters, as there are translators, but it amounts to this: The Tao that can be spoken, is not the real Tao. Feel free to substitute almost anything you like for the concept of "Tao", and there you have it.
None of this is to say that my life here has been so sublime that I cannot express it in words, but rather, that to actually write every amazing thing seems unlikely and overly time consuming, to the extent that I eventually decided to just enjoy more, and write less.
But now I'm leaving in two days, it is snowing outside, and I would like to remember briefly the checklist of things I have most enjoyed here as I look out my window at the tall narrow buildings with red tiled roofs.
The Musee D'Orsay, a museum of modern art, whose contents pick up approximately where the Louvre leaves off, housed in a train station from 1900, which fell into disuse due to the fact that trains grew bigger and the station consequently found itself too short by 1939. I believe this was my favorite western art museum, if for nothing else besides its uniquely picturesque setting and design.
The Musee National des Arts Asiatiques-Guimet, whose holdings are at least half composed of Buddhist statuary and artwork, spanning across the entire array of countries in which Buddhism developed during the first 2000 plus years of its life. From India in the first century, through Cambodia's lush, spiraling, full-bodied Boddhisattvas, into Tibet's dark rich painted scrolls depicting myriad manifestations of Boddhisattvas, dancing dakinis, consorts and lamas, to the calming, down-home poses of Chinese Guan Yins seated with one leg up and her elbow propped there, chin resting in hand, to the thick, hearty, very masculine warrior-like visages of Boddhisattva statues found in what is now Afghanistan and Pakistan, to the impossibly narrow, lean gold Buddhas of Thailand, to austere images of Japanese Zen monks in their padded cotton robes, and on and on. I love Buddhist imagery with its calm and serenity. Seeing so many beautiful representations of the exemplar of this path of practice reinstilled in me my deep respect for this belief system.
Yesterday, I visited the Institut du Monde Arabe, which was also stunning, but whose contents I was much less familiar with, and thus a bit less prepared to fully appreciate. Most beautiful were the many pages of the Koran, in different calligraphic styles depending on the era and country of origin: Iran, Iraq, India, Syria, Egypt. The pages called to mind the illuminated texts produced by monks in medieval European monasteries. The pages of the Koran displayed incredibly small, precise calligraphy, elegant gold leafing, and circular designs throughout whose meaning I could not guess at. There was also a section showcasing Arab developments in math and science, where I saw the most beautiful multilayered golden discs hanging one after another in their display cases. They were astronomical tools used both for astronomy and the more esoteric practice of astrology.
And the music here! There are free classical concerts in Paris every afternoon and evening at multiple venues, many of which are churches. I have not availed myself of nearly as many of these as I should have. I sat in one church during lunch listening to two young female vocalists sing duets from Purcell and Bach, accompanied by the church organ. The soprano's voice simply soared and filled the entire nave of the church. Prosaic as it may be, if you closed your eyes, you could imagine yourself in heaven. Another concert I saw featured a male Lebanese cantor, singing over four male voices harmonizing in the style of Gregorian chant. I sat with my eyes closed, and found myself crying. These were the most beautiful sounds I could imagine. My only regret was that I couldn't jump up and sing with them.
These are a few of the highlights, not including the personal highlights of unexpected friendships I have found here, which have made this too short stay truly rich. So tonight I will drink absinthe and say a temporary goodbye to one of these friends, and tomorrow, another goodbye with my landlords and neighbors. Then on to Vienna for a week to see one of my oldest and dearest friends, Alys, and a few of her friends who I have come to know.
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