from the Highlands to Paris

Braced for the worst, I get the best: Scottish weather at its finest! Cool but not cold. Cloudy but with periods of blue sky too. And windy! You appreciate the wind when you come here in the season of the midges. Like mosquitoes, these guys cannot fly against the force of a stiff breeze. They are out and about, but I have seen and felt none of them. Next week I hear there will be a cool down and a return to showers (the prediction holds no great force, but I would not be surprised if in this case it was true). Me, I have had not a single hour of cozy reading as sheets of rain drench the landscape outside. Just day after day of a tug to be out there, in that Scottish terrain, taking it in from all sides, just not the inside.

Again, I wake up to a beautiful day. There's sunshine this morning, though clouds are rolling in. I step outside my patio door. If you strain to the right and squint your eyes, you can see the River Ness...

Oh, but it is a lovely day! I should seize the morning before it all changes on me. 

I decide to take a walk before breakfast. I'm told that there's a good path up the shores of the Ness, to "the islands." I'm curious.

(on the path, looking back toward the city)

And it is a good walk. There's a dedicated walking/biking lane right by the shore. Indeed, you can actually veer off and go straight into the river.

 

The Ness here is thunderous, fast paced, and clear as can be. You can feel its mountain energy. This is the river, after all, that flows out of Loch Ness. The lake itself is a two hour walk from where I am now. I should know it -- Ed and I hiked down to the city after our camping adventure up there in those hills. I dont have the time or inclination to head all the way up to that splendid body of water, but the memories for me are as clear as those waters of the river.

The islands are wide strips of land, right in the middle of the river. There are foot bridges that connect them from all sides and to each other.

And on the islands, the paths continue, among the tall conifers, the purple rhododendrons, the beautiful flora of the Highlands.

Let me rephrase that: rhododendrons may be beautiful and yes, you see them everywhere in Scotland. They were introduced as an ornamental and unfortunately they took off. They are toxic to sheep and deer, they shade out native species and they spread like wildfire. (Read about it here.) The EU allocated funds to help eradicate these invasives. (Here's a sign I came across in the Torridon forest: )

Well, you know how that went. [May I remind you, the overwhelming majority of Scottish people did not want to leave the EU and voted against Brexit. And incidentally, in less than a week, Britain is holding its elections. The current governing party, the conservatives, in power now for 14 years, is expected to get a kick in the pants. From all sides.]

Back along the path...

 

 

... I cross from the islands...

 

 

 

... back to the shore -- the opposite one this time. It's where you see some of the beautiful homes of Inverness. Sometimes behind very tall walls!

Now back again to my side.

In time for breakfast.

It's an okay meal. I finish my time in Scotland with the traditional eggs with salmon, mushrooms, tomato. Wrack of toast. They have fresh berries and that's nice, but the breakfast otherwise feels hotel-ish and indifferent. Still, it's certainly nourishing, which is good as it will have to carry me through the whole day.

Soon after breakfast, I leave for the airport, where I have to catch a connection to Amsterdam then to Paris. (I'm using miles, so I have to take what's available, but it happens that what's available is perfect for me. There are maybe half a dozen flights out of Inverness each day and most are to London, with the occasional one to a remote island. Amsterdam stands out as the big international connection. Inverness is a very small airport. Remember: the town has a population of under 50 000.)

I arrive in Paris late -- after 8 pm (there is an hour time difference, so it's actually 7 British time). Still, it's such a smooth transfer. No checked luggage, train at the platform and I happen to land on the express -- all this is great because I made a 9 pm dinner reservation. Amazingly, I'm only 7 minutes late for it.

Paris. What can I say. I really wanted to end my trip here. Just three nights. Before the Olympic craziness hits (in 2.5 weeks!). Paris. The one city in this world that I will always want to return to, no matter what's churning in my head at the moment. I've been here with everyone and with no one. Through crises, anxieties, through lovely days of contentment and joy. Paris. Not for the sights, not for the food (though they're all splendid). Just for sinking into the city's life, picking up on my mostly urban upbringing, remembering what it was like to dash and dart, and make the light, and glance at that shop windows, check what's on at a favorite museum.

I walk from the commuter train past familiar blocks, shops, parks. Only the people change. Ten minutes later, I'm at my beloved Hotel Baume -- my perfect haven in the storm of life, the place where I feel safe and happy. In the room I always ask for, because it's my favorite here.

I throw down my bags and run over for supper. 

(oh, those Paris mirrors!)

 

 

To Breizh Cafe, with the buckwheat crepes. Just up the block, on this rather warm Paris night. (It's been hot, but it is cooling down tonight.) I get a table outside. Perfect evening weather. Really perfect. 

 

 

Two crepes for me, both "market specials:" the main one is with langoustines, peppers, beans and comte cheese, the other is with cherries, raspberries, honey and cream. Both delicious!

You know how in Paris you often sit very close to your dining neighbor? It's an art to pretend you cant hear the conversation next to you! Since I lapse into French with the waiter, the couple next to me -- an American pair, very young -- has every reason to think that perhaps I'm really not listening to them. Besides, in between bites, I take out my book and "lose" myself in the text. In English, but they can't see that.

Everything about their evening is, in my mind, awkward. His mother calls, she wont get off. He hands her over to his girlfriend -- that's not too smooth either. He texts his friends. She sits and says nothing. They order cider, they dont like the cider. He wants to split a chocolate crepe, she tells him she doesn't like dark chocolate. Mainly, she is very very quiet. Freshly out of high school maybe? From L.A. Finally, perhaps with some desperation, he asks -- do you like games? Let's play a game. It's good for conversation. She nods. He forges ahead.  We both have to answer these questions. Here's the first one -- if you could invite one person to dinner....

This fails as well. She cant think of anyone. I steal a glance at her: she's made up, very carefully dressed in an LA sort of way. She is in Paris. And there is no spark. For either of them. Do they realize it? Will it improve? 

Paris is just a pot within which you mix things up in the hope of coming up with something grand. A life's memory. Love maybe? A checked box, a dream come true, a new beginning, an adventure. All I kept thinking was -- poor kids. How hard it is to be that age. Even in Paris.

 Paris sunset is at 10 p.m. tonight. I catch a very colorful sky as I walk home. 

Well, I like to imagine it's a home of sorts. They surely make me feel that way at the Baume. Paris home. For a quiet night, windows cracked open, listening for distant sounds of city life.

(Hotel Baume to the left, Parisian love to the right, pink and orange evening light falling on the Odeon Theater in the middle...)

Good night, not from the Highlands, but from France now. 

Avec tant d'amour...