In defense, I can say that I did not account for the jet lag. Now, I don’t get jet lag. That’s what I brag to my friends, in contrast to Robin who, I joke, gets jet lag going to Ellensburg. But I am laid low. Hour after sleepless hour passes at night, two, three, four in the morning passes with increasing distress. This is a new phenomenon for me. Robin, of course, adjusted instantly. She stole my adaptation.
But concrete and traffic and crowds lay me low as well. My experience of a place tends to rest in my internal state. Paris too easily becomes New York or Dublin, or downtown Seattle for that matter. I shrink inward, shield myself from the noise and bustle. On top of it, here I’m illiterate and dumb. The simplest tasks of daily exchange are a frustrating ordeal.
A man feeds house sparrows from his hand, and shares the bread with passerby, so they can experience it too. A woman sits with her bicycle, smoking. A few people walk through, not in any hurry. I sit, and sit, and write. I am coming back to life. I am entering my Paris, finally.
After awhile, I make my way to the Louvre which, this being France, is closed due to a strike. Which is probably a blessing, as I spend the afternoon slowly traversing the Tuileries and, finally, feel the photos emerge.
Doug Plummer
