Printemps en Paris
Honestly, the wifi in this hostel in Anantanarivo is better than I get in the hospital library, sometimes. Even though it’s not letting me upload any pics.
The Madagascar team had a half-day layover in Paris, so we decided to squeeze all that we could out of our scant hours in the city. If you’re familiar with the geography, we first toured Montmartre, from Moulin Rouge to le Sacre-Coeur; then meandered from there to dinner, then to the Champs D’elysees. In my humble opinion, we walked the radius of the city.
The night capped off with a leisurely walk along the Seine that turned into a brisk stroll in the growing drizzle/thunderstorm (merci, été) to the metro. Then a totally unromantic Midnight in Paris experience. AKA it was midnight in Paris and we didn’t know how to find the bus stop to get back to our lodgings, close to Charles de Gaulle. I had sharp deja vu of being lost in Gangnam past midnight three years ago; I had taken the bus in the wrong direction. Last night’s story ended well, though: we caught the bus, it didn’t take us to the 1920’s, and the bus driver didn’t even make us pay the fare.
My fleeting impression of Paris is one of engulfing beauty. Everywhere I turned in Montmartre could have been a postcard of cobbled alleys, dappled sunlight, flowered vines spilling out of verandas, wine-sippers, ivy-swallowed bicycles, precipitous stairways, svelte silhouettes. The truffle risotto I had for dinner was so immersive, it seemed to devour me rather than the other way around.
But at the same time, our tour guide’s exposition of the old neighborhood was story after story of troubled souls. These houses were for the rich and famous, the artists and lovers and revolutionaries. Yet many of the people he talked about committed suicide. We passed by the house of Dalida, a French superstar, whose three husbands offed themselves, one after another; she ended up taking her own life as well. But from the outside, her house still exuded luxury. Nothing portended despair or misery. Later, walking along the Seine, I thought about the long Parisian tradition of suicide by drowning in it.
So, Paris in May. Art, graffiti, roses, gustatory elysium, cobblestones, death. Did I paint a good enough impressionistic scene? It’ll have to do, because I won’t be coming back for a second glance for a while.
When you think about it more, it makes sense that privilege and wealth come hand in hand with depression and suicide. Though the world seductively lies about the direct relationship of income and rights and happiness, history has shown that it is the most empowered with the highest rates of suicide. White. Male. Straight. High income. Why?
The highest rates of suicide also come when nature is at its finest: printemps, with a peak in May. Medicine hypothesizes that it’s the cognitive dissonance between a blooming, reborn earth and the plumb-line of depression that prompts the uptick.
King Solomon (think max-privilege-guy-of-all-time) had already caught on to that ennui (how fitting that this word is French) flow back in 977ish BC. Nothing is new under the sun. It’s a chasing after wind. And the fastest windchasers know in the deepest, most bone-chilling way the betrayal of finally closing in on the errant prey only to come away empty. And all the king’s truffles and all the king’s wine could not drown out this conclusion.
At the end of the day, life isn’t measured out in coffee spoons or perfect crispy baguettes. It’s what we built with our time. First Corinthians 3:12 shows us that we’re all building something with our time on earth, whether that’s an edifice of gold, silver, and precious stones or wood, grass, and stubble. What evaluates our building material? Verse 13 says that it is fire that puts our work to the test. Hebrews 12:29 adds, "for our God is a consuming fire." (possibly relevant: París has learned the lesson of building with fireproof material well enough—wooden buildings are interdit.)
Every pursuit—even the most prized American one, the pursuit of happiness—is a fistful of wind. C’est la vie, people say. But 1 Timothy 6:19 tells us that we who have the life of God have laid hold of that which is really life. Having found solidity, an unshakeable city in a shaken and shaking universe (Heb 12:26-29), it’s hard for any other city to vie for my attention.
My one regret on this trip: as we only had a few hours in France for our layover, I didn’t arrange a visit to see the most beautiful building in Paris. Have you heard of it? Construction isn’t complete yet. The problem was, I didn’t know its address. But if I drop by again for longer, I’d find the church in Paris, where Christ is building up His Body in love.
