Gare d’Idiot

by

I mean, uh, Gare du Nord.

Gare du Nord

Gare du Nord

I went to the train station today.

I bought non-refundable tickets on the EuroStar.

For the wrong weekend.

Well, in a way, it is totally the right weekend, I will be celebrating a little anniversary.

However, my host asked me to come the weekend following.

Even though I totally got the message, even though I was exactly on the page, I still mucked it up.

I had gone online this afternoon and made the decision to not be in financial fear.

The money will be there.

I am financially successful and solvent.

I write this everyday in my morning pages, along with a few other Stuart Smiley affirmations.

Shaddup.

It works, you want to know how I know?

I am living in Paris.

One of the affirmations I have been doing for years is I am a world traveler.

I am moving to Paris.

Et, voila!

I am living in Paris.

To continue living in Paris, at least in a semi-legal sort of way I actually need to leave Paris, or the EU nations in general, and get a passport stamp showing I have been out of the country.

London is just across the way and there is this amazing tunnel thing with trains.

Yeah.

It was recommended to me a few weeks back by Barnaby that one way to extend the life of my Visa was to get it stamped coming in and out of London.

Then Corinne mentioned it.

Then I got an e-mail from some one I used to know in San Francisco who said she was living there.

Ms. Kellie just visited from London.

All signs seemed to point that way.

Actually, I am going to London, regardless of my silly mistake in dates, so not only do all signs point that way, the tickets confirm it.

I was just supposed to get tickets for the next weekend.

Sighing again.

I fluctuated between wanting to castigate myself to having a little forgiveness, I made an honest mistake, I certainly had not a malicious bone in my body when I purchased them.

In fact I almost did the entire transaction in French.

Which is how I messed up.

Before heading out the door to the train station I had tried to first purchase them online.  For whatever reason I could not achieve the goal.  And I kept hearing Barnaby in my head say, just go to the station and get them, they will be cheaper.

They were.

Even for the wrong weekend, they were cheaper than the online prices.

Foiled by the internet site and knowing how to get to Gare du Nord, I got lost once and found myself there, it is not far from where I live, I decided to just walk there.

Taking some one else’s suggestion.

Crazy that.

On the way I called Corinne, my mind was going a mile a minute.

I don’t know if it was letting go of the Euro in my wallet, not having money to pay rent, the thought of fucking it up, or making the commitment by going to London which shows a positive action for staying in France.

I would not be buying a ticket to go to London for two and a half days if I was going back to the Bay Area.

No, I woud be keeping those precious Euro for groceries.

My decision to buy the ticket really felt like the cement icing on the cake.

I am staying, aren’t I?

I think that was where the real fear lay.

I am sitting here listening to the rain fall around the sixth floor of the flat in Paris I am babysitting at.  I am thinking about being in San Francisco last year, second floor of a house on 19th and Valencia, doing the exact same thing, baby sitting.

Same situation.

Totally different localities.

I have to say I feel better in my skin here.

I am so scared I cannot breathe at times.

But I do feel more comfortable here in what I am doing then in the not knowing I was in last year at this time in San Francisco.

It was as if this whole last year was made to get me here, sitting at a glass table looking out the sixth floor at Paris.

That’s Invalides there.

There is the Eiffel Tower through that window, look, it is sparkling.

It does that you know.

I do know what I am doing here.

I am trying to stay.

I am committing.

I am committing to something wild and crazy and insane.

Being a writer in Paris.

My silly, juvenile, little girl, 40 year old woman, dream.

I have belief, however, that despite the uncomfortableness I go through every other second, I am exactly where I am supposed to be, doing exactly what I am supposed to be doing.

I am not struggling against it.

My heart swelled earlier as I listened to some one share and I thought it would break open in my chest and I realized it was, just a little.

Paris is heart breaking.

And every time I have my heart broke open a little bit, it grows that much larger, to receive that much more love.

The words I open my heart to give and recieve love, taken on new meaning again.

I used to say them as part of a mantra that I picked up from doing work out of Calling in the One.

Fyi, my Beloved has not come yet, unless you can say it is I that came to it.

Just like I got to love San Francisco, I am getting to love Paris.

Beloved city that sometimes calls me crazy things.

“Oh beautiful, sexy woman, you have a great ass,” he hollered at me as I strode by on my very determined and scared way to Gare du Nord.

“I want to fuck you ass [sic]” he conitnued as I ignored him.

“Bitch, you can look sexy all you want, bitch,” he finished and continued muttering as I crossed the street.

I know you don’t mean it, Paris, well, I don’t mind being called sexy and beautiful with a nice ass, but I don’t put out that easily.

I am going to stay.

My tickets say so.

Billets

Billets

Even the people in the crosswalk seemed to be saying, London, it’s not exactly Abbey Road, but it reminded me of it.

Crosswalk

Crosswalk

Today, despite the fear, despite the wrong day, despite myself, I move forward.

I confirm this.

Here, in Paris.

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