Spending Time with My Selves in Paris

On the Eurostar from London to Paris, I felt my identity transitioning, as if Trail Mina was tucking herself back onto a shelf, as City Mina climbed down to take her place.  

Early that morning I’d been out hiking on the fells in the Lake District, my eighth day in a row of reveling on trails through long-grassed sheep meadows, above the shores of Ullswater Lake, up steep scree fields in dense fog and across knife’s edge ridge lines. Before dinner, there was a bracing swim. All of this, my happiest kinds of places. I alternated between two sweatshirts for the post hike afternoons and evenings reading and hanging out with family.

So, my reckless weeks of rest began.

On the train, I was headed to another kind of happy place, a city to lose myself in. From the sweatshirts, countryside and home cooked meals, it was time now for linen shirts and dresses, café culture and hubbub. Even if Paris is relatively empty in August, it is still bustling.  

I haven’t been here since 2019, with my ex. We came often and for a month or two at a stretch. Every time I’ve thought about coming back, I’ve worried I would drown in memories. Then, when I was planning this trip, I decided it was time. Ready or not.  As soon as I got off the train in Gare du Nord, my whole body was suffused with pleasure. Exchanging the full body goodness of a hiking trail for an equivalent fullness of sparkle in this city.  

Here, I will move in my usual city ways. Today I went to a Pilates class around the corner from where I’m staying. I passed the sign on a wander. Tomorrow I will run along the Seine. Another day, I’ll ride a Velib (their social bike system) to the Bois de Boulogne and run in that park.

I also have a specific intention: to treat this time as a writing retreat. Take the mornings for words on pages.  The afternoons and evenings for wandering the city. Seeing what I see. Letting myself be moved by whatever the energy invites.  

And all these ideas I have about how I spend my time depend on whether I can keep from drowning, because the memories are indeed with me. I somehow did not realize that I would be staying a one-minute walk away from the first hotel we stayed at in Paris, on a narrow street, one block long. The hotel is still there, more than 30 years later.  I stood in front of it and remembered rushing, jet lag groggy, to catch the last minutes of breakfast, which was served in a cozy cave with lumpy stone walls. Such croissants.

I am surprised to find that keeping my head above water is less of an effort than I expected. I can love the time I spent here as part of a couple. I can miss my companion. Yet, the melancholy moves through me right alongside the pleasure.

Here, past and present commingle, flowing between who I was and who I am. Trail Mina. City Mina. Married Mina. Single Mina.

In front of that hotel, I felt Young Mina of 30 years ago step out onto the sidewalk to join me. There’s so much I’d love to tell her.