So here I am, now taking over Dana's blog for a post. Or more...
I was thinking Yesterday about why the French are in France yesterday on our train ride to Normandy. As Dana has mentioned, the weather here is strange, it isn't particularly green right now, and the countryside of northern France is reminiscent of Central Minnesota with its mandatory two cafes and a tall church steeple in every village. Everything old was crumbling; everything new was, well, strange.
On the way back, after visiting the beaches of Normandy (which were entirely devoid of French visitors, which I thought a bit odd), I figured it out. The red sun was setting into the clouds over the ruins of a Norman castle and with Dana resting her head on my shoulder, France was perfect. It was just us together sharing a moment that nobody else seemed to see. I had the love of my life next to me enjoying the same sights, and there was no place we had to go, no rush to be anywhere, no language barrier to restrict our options, and no time mattered any more. No further words could better describe it-- it was perfection in life.
Maybe you can have a scene like that anywhere. But here when you do it, it becomes an art form-- a picture meant to last, an image burned into memory that generations later still exists and glows brighter than ever before.
From the graffiti covering every square inch of Metro walls to the halls of the Louvre, the French enjoy their art. Not to say they're the only ones, but the French certainly figured it out-- the art isn't just on the walls in France. You live it here-- being with the one you love here makes life not only bearable, but beautiful.