CHOOSE WISELY
- head or heart doesn't really matter
When I was in Paris this past spring (I love how that sounds, btw) I had only three days before I had to leave for Canada. Don’t get me wrong, I’d been drinking in the many charms and tastes of the Chablis region for six weeks and had been two weeks in Spain before that. But because I was already in France, I wanted to revisit the city of lights before going home. Also, I’d never been to Giverny. And even though I’d lived in Paris for several months back in 1979, I’d never been to Montmartre.
Trust me, I’m getting to the point. The point is that one has to choose. Three days. Giverny, check. Walking tour of Montmartre, check. There’s the Metro, of course, because Paris is a big place, and the Metro gets you anywhere you’d like to go. It’s a wonder, really, all those levels, all that organization. You still have to choose, especially when time is limited.
I stood in line at Shakespeare’s because, well, one must, right? But it made me rather sad because in 1979, we could hang out and my friend Barbara worked there. It was a place you could be. Now there was security and no one sleeping upstairs. I had to choose to walk those rooms and feel a version of Vellichor—that strange wistfulness of used bookstores—or simply fill my water bottle from the beautiful green Art Deco fountain and be on my way.
The Louvre was far too daunting. I’d once spent the entire day there. The little Mona girl was somewhat of a letdown. (You know why, but still, she didn’t deserve soup in her smug little face.) So even then I had to choose, to huddle in the hubbub for a peek or to move on to the Reubens room and gaze up at twenty-foot-high depictions of abductions and rapes. Which is what I did, tbh.
So now in the spring of 2023, I had one more day to choose where to go and what to see. The idea of bones and skulls struck me as ideal writing prompts. The catacombs didn’t seem very far from my Airbnb and my favourite thing to do when travelling is to walk. So I chose The Catacombs.
It didn’t look as though it would rain when I set out. But there I was on bld Raspail pressed close to the trunk of a linden tree, the rain-darkening sidewalk creeping ever closer. I was more than halfway there. There again, the choice to go on in the pouring rain or run back for my raincoat, by which time the rain may have stopped.
I chose to forge on, splashing through cool puddles across the boulevards until I arrived at last at the Catacombs’ entrance.
FERME. Book online.
It’s sort of like love but also not really. It is like love in the way I’ve sometimes chosen to say yes when I might have been wiser to say no. But if I’d said no, I’d have so few stories to tell.
Whether you choose with your gut or your head there’s no guarantee it will be the choice that gives what you expect or hope for. What I know is that those choices that result in disappointment or ruin most often are the ones with the best bones for story, even if they aren’t the underground bones you never got to see.
What choices have you made that resulted in the basis for a juicy story?
I’d love to hear.