Paris holds the key to your heart (or something like that)

My best (and only) university spring break continued with a quick jaunt to Paris.

I've never really felt a deep connection to Paris or France. I have more of a German/British/Ukrainian soul. 

But this trip to Paris was great--the city is charming and has a way of sneaking into your heart, no matter how much you think it might be overrated (which, being a skeptic, I kinda thought it would be overrated). 

But, it didn't disappoint. 

I don't want to bore you with travelogue details (although it will probably turn into that), so I'll try to just focus on moments in/impressions of Paris.

Getting into Paris gave me the rush of being somewhere new--

somewhere that I've only read about--

and it was exciting to realize

"I am here." 

It's exhilarating--thrilling--

to arrive in a new city in the morning, 

in a city where you've never been before. 

It's also disorienting--

you don't know how to get around, 

you don't know the language
(which takes a bit of your confidence away), 

and everything is new and strange--

yet somehow familiar 

in the way all cities smell 

and sound

and thrum with life. 

Paris is charming.
The architecture--
the white stones and blue roofs
and the uniformity of it all is quite striking.

I loved walking along the Seine.
And the cafes!
I really do love those Parisian cafes.
We at at them a couple of times and I just loved it.
I love that feel of just sitting down
soaking in the rays
and slowly enjoying your meal,
the company,
and conversation.
I realized why
there are so many French philosophers.
They talk and eat, wine and dine
all of the time.

[There had to be a shameless selfie in Paris. There just had to be.]

As for Paris favorites.
I loved the Musee d'Orsay.
That was my favorite museum we went to.
The Louvre had its musts, of course
(like, when in Paris, you have to see the Mona Lisa, right?)
And I enjoyed the statues.
But the Musee d'Orsay and the Musee d'Orangerie
have my heart.

[Monet, Poppy Field (this is one of my favorite pictures of all time).]

[More Monets.] 

[And more.]

[Cezanne.]

[Van Gogh.]

[Monet's Water Lilies at the Musee d'Orangerie.] 

[This statue understands my problem with my hands in photos. Seriously. What do you do with your hands?] 

[The Louvre.] 

[I wasn't ready for this picture (obviously). But for some reason I think it captures a lesser-known, yet very important facet of my personality. So I'm keeping it.]

[I like this one.]

[Napoleon III's apartments. "Opulence. I has it."]

["Gentlemen, I inquire: Who hath released the hounds?" 

Questions which keep me up at night.]

[Victory.]

[The Mona Lisa herself. It is really small in real life.]

[Soviet stare meets Mona Lisa smile.]

[St. George taking a selfie after slaying the dragon. Obviously. What else could be happening here?]

In addition to museums,
I loved, loved, LOVED Sainte-Chapelle.
It is absolutely stunning.
Like a jewelbox.
I also enjoyed the Arc d'Triomphe
as well as Notre Dame.
In morning and at night.

[Sainte-Chapelle. Cue the choirs of angels.]

[Can you see the Arc in the back? Yep. It's a lot farther away than it appears, because it's so MASSIVE.]

[I feel like this picture is also significant. Of something. So I'm also keeping it. Ohhh, the faces we make when we're not quite ready for the camera.]

[Theerrree we go. Thanks, Matt and Jonathan, for being my guides in Paris.]

[An American in Paris.]

[At the top of the Arc de Triomphe.]

[Notre Dame at night.]

[And in the morning.]

[Those windows. Oh, those windows.]

[Joan of Arc.]

[The gargoyles!]

[At the top of Notre Dame.]

There's a distinct feel to Paris.
I can't quite put my finger on it yet.
But it is SO different from London.
It has this sophistication to it.
This way of saying that, "Yes. I really AM all that."
And French women really are classy,
and French men really are suave (yet delightfully quirky).

[Do love me some Victor Hugo.]

I rode a carousel right by the Eiffel Tower.
It was raining
and it was simply enchanting as
we went round
and around
and around again.
Taking in Paris
in its graceful, elegant grey.
It was one of the best moments
I've experienced while traveling.
Just--
picturesque.
And CERTAINLY the best 2 Euro 50
I've ever spent in my life.

So ultimately, I'd have to say that Paris does hold a key (perhaps not the key, but certainly a key) to my heart. She certainly knows how to work her way in there and leave an impression.

a feeling i could be someone.

[Joan of Arc, by Jules Bastien-Lepage]

"Dear God, please let me make something this beautiful--something that speaks of my time and place." --J. Kirk Richards, about this painting.

Isn't that the artist's prayer? Every artist's prayer?

We each have a wish to create something that will allow those after us to taste what it meant to live in our time and place.

Because, as Sappho wrote: "I declare that later on, even in an age unlike our own, someone will remember who we are."

And perhaps, just perhaps, that is why I keep writing. Imperfect as I am in this craft. But that someday, somewhere, I will create something that will speak of what it means to be a young, striving, ambitious Mormon woman in the early twenty-first century.

More particularly, what it means to be me in the early twenty-first century.

I might not have control over who tells my story once I'm gone. But at least I can leave conclusive evidence that I lived. 

For the future to remember. 

And that will have to be enough. 

Now and in England.

Once upon a time, Briana and I decided to take a trip to Dartmoor National Park, which is located close to Exeter (it's about a 3-hour train ride from Oxford, close to the west coast of England).

Dartmoor National Park is Hound of the Baskerville territory.

Case in point. 

The trip was incredibly exhausting (we were hiking up and down actual hills for miles), but also incredibly rewarding. We hiked through quintessential England--like, what you think of when you think of England: rolling green hills, a brilliant British sky, and farmhouses dotting the fields. 

[The hills are alive, baby.]

[Love this woman.]

[Also, there were ponies. PONIES!]

[Did I mention that we had lunch on a bench in an idyllic English churchyard?]

We stayed the night at a English farmhouse (in Dartmoor) in the middle of nowhere. Seriously. It was the dead. middle. of. nowhere. Which meant that we lived for the wood-burning stove. And our dreams were filled with visions of full English breakfasts dancing through our heads. It also meant that I ended up curled up in my bed in a fetal position since I was so cold. 

[The English farm house. Perfection.]

[Chai time.]

[Yeah. Yeah, that is what I look like after miles of hiking and then coming home to a cold bed. "Can we be life-flighted out of here?"]

[Now this is a breakfast.]

Briana and I also had a chance to walk through moonlit fields on our way to find dinner at a cosy pub. Words don't do justice to how beautifully eerie and hauntingly sublime that walk was, as an orange moon rose about the hilly moors of Dartmoor, illuminating the path in front of us. It was just--wow. It was beautiful. It reminded me of something out of a mystery novel. As Briana said, "I am living every book about England I have ever read." 

We found the pub, where we met a friend. There was a cat sleeping on the seat next to us. The bartender said her name was Mittens, but we knew better. Her name is really Lady Henrietta of the Moors. She pretends to be a dog and is all friendly, but in reality, all she wants is the cream from your ice cream. 

[The pub.]

[Briana and Lady Henrietta.]

[Lady Henrietta is not amused.]

[Staring down that cream.]

All in all, amazing trip. One that I am really glad that I went on (so thanks for inviting me, Miss Briana). 

And, like all good trips, it reminded me of literature. Not only Sherlock Holmes, but of a favorite poem of mine by T.S. Eliot called "Little Gidding," particularly the first part: 

Midwinter spring is its own season

Sempiternal though sodden towards sundown,

Suspended in time, between pole and tropic. 

When the short day is brightest, with frost and fire, 

The brief sun flames the ice, on pond and ditches, 

In windless cold that is the heart's heat, 

Reflecting in a watery mirror

A glare that is blindness in the early afternoon. 

And glow more intense than blaze of branch, or brazier, 

Stirs the dumb spirit: no wind, but pentecostal fire

In the dark time of the year. Between melting and freezing 

The soul's sap quivers. There is no earth smell 

Or smell of living thing. This is the spring time 

But not in time's covenant. Now the hedgerow 

Is blanched for an hour with transitory blossom 

Of snow, a bloom more sudden 

Than that of summer, neither budding nor fading, 

Not in the scheme of generation. 

Where is the summer, the unimaginable Zero summer? 

If you came this way, 

Taking the route you would be likely to take

From the place you would be likely to come from, 

If you came this way in may time, you would find the hedges

White again, in May, with voluptuary sweetness. 

It would be the same at the end of the journey, 

If you came at night like a broken king, 

If you came by day not knowing what you came for, 

It would be the same, when you leave the rough road 

And turn behind the pig-sty to the dull facade

And the tombstone. And what you thought you came for

Is only a shell, a husk of meaning

From which the purpose breaks only when it is fulfilled

If at all. Either you had no purpose

Or the purpose is beyond the end you figured

And is altered in fulfilment. There are other places 

Which also are the world's end, some at the sea jaws, 

Or over a dark lake, in a desert or a city--

But this is the nearest, in place and time, 

Now and in England. 

If you came this way, 

Taking any route, starting from anywhere, 

At any time or at any season, 

It would always be the same: you would have to put off

Sense and notion. You are not here to verify, 

Instruct yourself, or inform curiosity 

Or carry report. You are here to kneel

Where prayer has been valid. And prayer is more

Than an order of words, the conscious occupation 

Of the praying mind, or the sound of the voice praying. 

And what the dead had no speech for, when living, 

They can tell you, being dead: the communication 

Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living. 

Here, the intersection of the timeless moment

Is England and nowhere. Never and always. 

Honestly, I haven't been able to find another poem yet to match how I feel about midwinter spring in England. And for the trip to Dartmoor? This poem describes the feelings of that trip perfectly. 

. . . this is the spring time, but not in time's covenant . . . 

. . . and what you thought you came for is only a shell, a husk of meaning from which the purpose breaks only when it is fulfilled if at all . . . 

. . . You are here to kneel where prayer has been valid . . . 

. . . there are other places which also are the world's end, some at the sea jaws, or over a dark lake, in a desert or a city--but this is the nearest, in place and time, now and in England . . . here the intersection of the timeless moment is England and nowhere. Never and always. 

at a loss.

. . . for words, that is.

the title of this blog post is a lot more melodramatic than its actual contents.

sorry to disappoint. 

i feel like i have so much to say, but don't know how to say it. 

i'm going to blame it on the fact that i've spent the entire week poring over primary sources. 

#dissertationofdoom 

(as an aside: part of me feels a bit guilty for snooping into people's private diaries from 200 years ago. another part of me says, "nope, don't need to feel guilty. it was the adams family, for crying out loud. they wanted people to look at their diaries." but heavens, they sure wrote a lot.) 

but i guess the point is, i'm feeling a bit brain dead and i'm looking forward to general conference this weekend for a much-needed spiritual energy boost. 

in other news, after-easter candy sales certainly don't disappoint in england: 

"a dozen quail egglets." EGGLETS. the cutest thing ever. and this chocolate is amazing. almost the best thing that happened this week. not quite the best. but almost. 

because other great things about this week included lunches and dinners with friends, late-night walks and talks, voice lessons (which is a blog post for another day--suffice it to say that i love them and have discovered an unknown love for opera), and daffodils on my kitchen table. 

and finishing (at least for this week) looking at all of the primary sources i gathered from boston. that's definitely worth a sigh of relief. 

and a dark chocolate egglet for the road. 

Easter Weekend Adventures

Last weekend, the wonderful Lee family came down from up North to visit me! It was great exploring England with them and dragging them around Oxford.

We saw a lot of old stones . . . 

[At Avebury]

[Could not have asked for better weather.]

[Stonehenge!]

[Oh haiii]

[With part of the fambamerly.]

[Old stones, young faces.]

[Please look at that group of people in the background taking pictures of Stonehenge. Because if we don't take pictures of these ancient stones to put in our Facebooks, Instagram albums, and blogs, did we actually go? Do the stones actually exist? Do we exist? The existential questions of the 21st century.]

. . . we also went to Salisbury Cathedral and saw the Magna Carta . . . 

[The Cathedral itself is absolutely stunning.]

[Courtyards and cloisters.]

[Stained glass. You're not allowed to get a picture of the actual Magna Carta, so I guess you'll have to decide for yourself if I actually saw it or not since it's not on social media.]

. . . and we finished the day off at Winchester, where we saw the Round Table. 

[Love this pic.]

[Queens, kings, princesses, and dragons of the Round Table. Love this crew an awful lot.]

It was great having my family in town--glad they put up with me! 

**Also, I have given so many tours of Oxford this term . . . and would love to give more. So if you're coming my way, send me a message. :)