Bordeaux and Palmiers

You all might be getting tired of looking at rue Monge, which, if you frequent this blog, may seem like the only street I ever walk down. While that’s far from the truth, rue Monge and I have developed a relationship of sorts over the past few months, a relationship I never would have expected when I first encountered this street just a few short months ago.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the past few months, this last section of my life since the end of January, when I’ve lived in this odd portion of the 5th that seems to be about a 30-minute walk from everywhere I’d like to be. I walk a lot.

Why have I been thinking so much, you may ask? Because, for me, this is yet another end, albeit a temporary one: in a week, I’ll be headed out to another one of my quasi-homes, a place that long-time readers will be familiar with: Paziols. Camp starts again in just a few short weeks, and this will be my third summer falling in love with the southwest and all it has to offer.

When camp is over, Spain is next on the menu: San Sebastian to be exact. I’ll be spending two months learning the language (and learning to surf… I’m not sure whether to insert a *yikes* or a *yipeee!* here…) before coming back to Paris in early November, when rue Monge will be here to greet me again.

Rue Monge held a lot of mysteries for me when I first saw it: it was the street I needed to use to get anywhere worthwhile, and yet I spent so little time actually being on it. It’s faded into the background of my life, much in the ways that my old, familiar streets in the 7th once did, and when I finally noticed rue Monge, it was because I realized–in a strange and striking way–that it was my homing beacon, the indicator that showed me, as I came back from a stroll (or forced march, as the case may be), that I was in the homestretch, that it was nearly time for me to put up my feet in front of Euronews with a glass of rosé and be at home.

On a recent afternoon, on the way back from the grocery store, I passed this staircase. I’ve noticed it before, even spent time taking pictures of it, but on that day, I actually stopped. I put down my bulging grocery bags and sat on a ledge, pulling out a kilo of strawberries, and I ate in the sunlight.

So no, this isn’t adieu to Paris, such a terribly final goodbye. This is just “goodbye for now,” au revoir, “until we meet again.” I know that Paris will still be waiting for me when I get back, and I know that I will have many things left to explore when I do.

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