Ignorance is Bliss, Travel is Medicine

Crying my way through Paris

After what has felt like an eternity, I arrived in Paris last Friday for a month-long stay of both business and pleasure, which if I’m honest is how I usually travel. Visiting Paris, for a week or several months, has been a bright spot in my life (and definite privilege) for the past few years. My partner, the aforementioned artist, does well with the French audience, and my books (both Art Hiding in Paris and I’m Not Your Muse) have brought me here for pre-publishing research, post-publishing talks and of course to visit my book partner/illustrator Maria. This trip has felt like a homecoming, long overdue, after a stretch of a year and a half where some un-fun things in my personal life kept me rooted in New York.

I have also been looking forward to the impending Doomscroll Detox that comes with traveling. I’m one of those people who cannot seem to balance the fine line between being informed and depressing myself to no end by finding out too much. I am constantly afraid I am going to miss an important piece of (usually truly terrible) information, for fear that this tidbit will be integral to the safety of myself and everyone I care about. It’s a real hoot. This is when I am jealous of the ignorant. Sometimes knowing nothing truly is bliss. The only thing I can do, is remove myself from the beast. And this month, I finally, physically can.

I have a long list of museum exhibitions, favorite restaurants, friends to catch up with, and hours of walking and wandering to keep me off of the endless hellscape of news, and into life, to look forward to. I do understand and speak French probably better than I think. But even so, I still am able to tune it out if need be, like a switch in my mind that can turn my comprehension into the wah-wahs of the adults speaking in Charlie Brown cartoons. Ignorance is bliss.

Henry Moore’s Reclining Figure overlooking the Tour Eiffel from the gardens inside UNESCO headquarters

On Friday morning, our taxi from Charles de Gaulle rounded the périphérique and crossed into the Paris city limits near my friend’s place in the 13^th arrondissement just as the morning rush reached its apex. Stuck behind countless cars commuting from the outer suburbs, I was greeted by the typical vibrant morning scenes while trying to not fall asleep on my suitcase wedged in the backseat. Everywhere I looked was a delight. Workers walking briskly to the nearest Metro station, pausing to take chomps of flaky pastries bought from corner boulangeries. Old men in berets (the only demographic that doesn’t look cliché, or like a fan of a certain Netflix show), shuffling alongside wirehaired wiener dogs, their morning cigarettes in hand. School children in smart uniforms running along to school, and teens, looking cool while hanging out in front of their colléges and lycées.

And that is when I had my first cry.

It wasn’t the kids, I have long passed the whole biological clock ticking thing and came out unscathed, or the way the teens’ 90s looks made me feel both nostalgic and old. It was something more simple that jerked me into tears- the names of the schools. Camille Claudel, Gustave Flaubert, George Sand, Claude Monet, Georges Braques. I was back in a place where centers of education were named for heroes of science, arts and letters, where their contributions to culture and history are valued. Not a dead president’s name in sight. It got to me. Or it was the exhaustion.

The preamble to the UNESCO constitution/tear jerker

After an entire day of sleeping (I am truly terrible with jet lag, sleeping on planes, and sleeping in general. Me and insomnia are lifelong strange bedfellows), we met Maria and her parents for a tour of UNESCO Headquarters, where the UN’s mission of promoting world peace and security through arts, education, sciences and culture is represented by an incredible, meaningful collection of art from artists around the world. There is an Alexander Calder mobile, a chiseled mural by contemporary artist Vhils, a reclining figure by Henry Moore, a large (and ugly) Picasso Mural, a meditation space by Tadao Ando, and an entire, serene Japanese garden by Isamu Noguchi, flecked with his signature sculptures. (In retrospect, a lot of dudes). In the center of the inner courtyard is the Square of Tolerance, an homage to the late sculptor Dani Karavan, an environmental installation that includes a massive olive tree, a symbol of peace, and a concrete wall with the preamble to the UNESCO Constitution, laser-engraved in the ten official languages of the organization.

THAT SINCE WARS BEGIN IN THE MINDS OF MEN, IT IS IN THE MINDS OF MEN THAT THE DEFENCES OF PEACE MUST BE CONSTRUCTED.

The tour guide echoed this statement, speaking about the power of unity and diversity, the absolute magic of the differences of the people around the world, and the ennui and monotony of sameness. I felt a cry lump, as I called it as a kid, rise up in my throat right there, and blotted away tears, blaming the flowering plants in Noguchi’s garden.

Runners and revelers nearing the end at Place Victor Hugo

On Sunday, we rose early and took the 6 to the Champs Élysees to watch Maria compete in the Paris marathon, her first ever. This woman never ceases to amaze me, and when she told me at our age (I’m unapologetically 45) she was training, I said I’d be there. I’ve never been much of a runner, except for a couple years in my early thirties when I’d begrudgingly run across the Williamsburg Bridge and back a couple times a week (I have longed used moving further east because the rent was too damn high as an excuse to never run again), and in my twenty years in New York, have never once been interested in watching the New York marathon. But this is Paris, and this was Maria, so I dragged my insomniac ass to one of the most touristy areas on its busiest day, expecting nothing more than to be a supportive friend.

And I cried. Again. I cried a lot.

The day was spent shuttling from marathon checkpoint to checkpoint, cramming into super-stuffed metro cars amongst thousands upon thousands of attendees from around the world, who, despite the insanely crowded conditions, gently pushed along with the wave of people with a smile. We followed as best we could (that the packed trains would allow) across the arrondissements and pushed our way to the front near the street when Maria was scheduled to run by along her way. It was uncomfortable and inconvenient, and yet every person I squished next to, or accidentally elbowed, was grinning and clapping, shouting the names of the runners as they trotted by us. Strangers from around the world cheering alongside strangers, for strangers. It was honestly beautiful. By the time Maria was rounding the last hundred meters, I was bawling, but so was she, and everyone else I was with. It felt good. A release. A celebration. Joy.

My beaming pride for this champion!

I should tell you, I’m not a crier, especially in public (although there is no one who has survived living in New York without crying in public at least once). I mean, I am an emotional person, and I do cry at the appropriate times, but I am not normally “moved to tears.” What I’ve been doing this week feels more like weeping. It is raw and emotional, a mix of joy and sadness. Joy to be in a country where knowledge is valued, where art and culture is cherished, where food is held to a higher standard, and kept affordable by law. (The French bread law states that traditional baguettes have to be made on the premises, with only four ingredients, include no preservatives, never be frozen, and priced no more than 1,20€. I mean!!!). Where a running race can feel like a moment of absolute beauty in diversity. Travel is medicine.

Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité.

Look, I get it. France has its own set of problems with racism, sexism, classism, and all the other isms, just like anywhere else. Humans, no matter where, are complicated creatures. But I am a guest here. Theirs are not my problems (bliss). I can enjoy the rose-colored perception of a society with a foundation of respect for knowledge, health and a standard of living, in a city with endless things to teach me with its museums, architecture, history, food and winding walkways (medicine). I plan to joyfully teeter between the two until it’s time for me to go.

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Back to the nostalgic movie rec

The first time I saw Amélie, I was a bit lost. I had graduated college in Philadelphia, and had no idea how to begin to be an adult with a college degree. I knew I wanted more for myself, so I moved home to Buffalo in 2002 for a year, to save money to “move to New York,” though I wasn’t sure how exactly to do that, or how to get a job there (applying for jobs online was still not totally a thing). After a couple months of working 60 hours a week at a couple jobs, I took a night off to see a screening of Amélie at one of Buffalo’s arthouse theaters, of which there were a few in the glory of the 90s/early2000s, and fell deeply in love with the absolute art that is the world of director Jean-Pierre Jeunet. (I am also convinced that Jeunet unknowingly invented the concept for “reels,” in the scene where Amélie makes a “mixtape” VHS for her neighbor Raymond Dufayel/The “Glass Man,” in which I first saw this absolutely weep-worthy scene of a horse jumping its paddock to join cyclists in the Critérium International race in France in 1997. If you watch it, please comment if you agree.) The film is pure Parisian fantasy, a love letter to the picture postcard that is Montmartre, and a celebration of the beauty of the simple pleasures in life (and of the luminous Audrey Tatou). Give yourself the treat of a rewatch. It is nothing but delight.

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For this week’s playlist, again, I am turning to a soundtrack, because this one is just too wonderful not to share. When I’m writing, listening to music with words is a real problem for me. Yann Tiersen’s gorgeous soundtrack for Amélie is one of my go-to’s, for writing, and going on walks. It is a mood.

I hope you find some beauty this week. x

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