It’s raining flowers and bird poop. My bag got saved by less than half an inch, and all I’m hoping is the flower in my lap is the only thing that lands on me. It is beautiful here—not because it is perfect, but because it is the place that was after I got lost and decided to take a right turn. The statue surrounded by peach color roses is naked in all her glamour and power. She looks defiant, as if asking someone to mention anything—she would step right over them. Life is normal. To these people the green benches surrounded by flowers and century old architectural wonders are just lunch spots. The city workers debate how long to keep the sprinklers running, and how much more cleaning and clipping to do. Giant leaves of chard rise their green and multi-colored stems to the sky—proud as the most beautiful flower in this garden. The doves and pigeons give absolutely no cares as they coon and fly from one side to the next. I postpone the letter reading that I promised I wouldn’t read until I was here. The on-the-go—as much as that is possible at the sit-down cafés is possible—is still in my recently obtain and on the works tummy. Somehow, yesterday’s walk down La Seine and my arrival seemed mere technicalities and must be done events. Sitting down in a park stumbled upon and taking a breath between a lovely walk and going to la maison de Victor Hugo, this moment is definite. I will take the train to Montpellier in three hours and then, it is me, French, and four months. The doves are getting precariously close to me, and their slow walk menacingly threatening my personal space, but they stop and move on. Similarly, I stop and reflect on the meaning of being here, but I must move on—physically, mentally, and emotionally, or I will miss that train in more than one way.
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