About the Same
It’s funny: you’d think that when you’re living the life, life would all be wonderful. But it’s not like that: a stone in your shoe is still a stone in your shoe, even if those shoes are strolling over avenues you’ve been dreaming of for months.
So, for instance, it still set my teeth on edge that, after walking all the way from our hotel to the Gare d’Austerlitz—a promenade of about a mile and half—and then going through the entire process of reserving train tickets on the computer terminal there—this, after having tried to do the same yesterday and despairing of even getting to the screen given the long pre-holiday lines—none of my credit cards would work, making my trip my effort for naught and causing me to feel something of a failure or at least a bit of a sap, even though, fer fuck’s sake, I’m a sap in Paree and ought to be happy about that at a minimum.
Or, for example, it doesn’t fail to bug me when some lady is yammering into her cell phone as she strolls obviously down the street in front of me, despite that fact that her yammerings are in beautifully-accented French.
Nor am I free from being annoyed by this jerk standing next to our table in the outdoor café sucking on a cigarette and wafting his smoke in our direction, although at least his brand is something made in France with a fancy Continental label.
All this just goes to show that you can’t get away from yourself no matter how far you travel. The Ashtanga poses I struggle with at home in my bedroom are the very same ones I couldn’t bend myself into today at the studio I visited in the 4th arrondisement, just down the rue from the lovely Place des Vosges.
No doubt this sounds like complaining, but I’m not; my surroundings are different, but the voice is the same.
So, for instance, it still set my teeth on edge that, after walking all the way from our hotel to the Gare d’Austerlitz—a promenade of about a mile and half—and then going through the entire process of reserving train tickets on the computer terminal there—this, after having tried to do the same yesterday and despairing of even getting to the screen given the long pre-holiday lines—none of my credit cards would work, making my trip my effort for naught and causing me to feel something of a failure or at least a bit of a sap, even though, fer fuck’s sake, I’m a sap in Paree and ought to be happy about that at a minimum.
Or, for example, it doesn’t fail to bug me when some lady is yammering into her cell phone as she strolls obviously down the street in front of me, despite that fact that her yammerings are in beautifully-accented French.
Nor am I free from being annoyed by this jerk standing next to our table in the outdoor café sucking on a cigarette and wafting his smoke in our direction, although at least his brand is something made in France with a fancy Continental label.
All this just goes to show that you can’t get away from yourself no matter how far you travel. The Ashtanga poses I struggle with at home in my bedroom are the very same ones I couldn’t bend myself into today at the studio I visited in the 4th arrondisement, just down the rue from the lovely Place des Vosges.
No doubt this sounds like complaining, but I’m not; my surroundings are different, but the voice is the same.
posted by Professor Dave at 7:16 AM
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