Dreams and a memory...

I'm having one of those days. Ever had them? You have a ton of work to do and yet, you never seem to quite get down to it.

I woke up at 3 am for no reason I could see. I lay there wondering what woke me. My sleep is usually filled with dreams. Sometimes those dreams are omens.I'm a great believer in dream interpretation , not always in the Freudian sense but more in the Biblical or Koranic sense, possibly even in the Jungian sense? The psychologists among you could possibly clarify that.

I believe that our subconscious often knows things and they come through in our dreams.I know, I know. This sounds like a bunch of " new-agey" mumbo jumbo. But I have never found it so.I believe in signs-good ones and bad ones; I believe in instinct and intuition; I believe in those " feelings" one gets from a place or from a person. And yes , I believe in my dreams. I don't think I ever paid much attention to them until the year I dreamed of my best friend's baby , two months before she even fell pregnant. Ever since, both she and I pay rather close attention to them. I'm not saying they're always premonitions of things to come, but they do tell me a lot about the things that preoccupy me even the ones that I'm unaware of.

I'm not sure where this is going except that I do have a lot of work and even though I have been awake since 3 this morning, I haven't gotten round to any of it.I'm restless. I'm distracted. I've been eating too much chocolate and watching too much TV and reading things other than what I should be reading.And now it's 5.30 in the evening and I had just about got out the Baudrillard , when I decided, I should write this post.

Before that though I did get distracted by facebook and saw a friend was to be in Paris this week. This bit of information of course set me off on a whole other train of thought. I miss Paris. I spent four gorgeous days there two years ago.It was my first and only time there and I was alone and it was beautiful.

Most of that trip and what little I managed to see of the city has remained in my memory in a picture perfect montage. Three of my fondest memories : the day at the Rodin museum, the lunch one rainy afternoon at a little cafe just outside the Musee de Orsay and the night I went up on top of the Arc de Triumph.I remember the friendly staff at the cafe and the rather overly attentive waiters.I remember too the middle -aged gentleman who ran the grocery store in my neighbourhood -always ready with a smile when I went to buy the chocolate brioche I had become addicted to. It was a couple of weeks before Christmas and the city was filled with shoppers and tourists.I think at least one person from every part of the globe passed me by while I walked down the Champs Elysee that evening.

I remember walking down numerous streets-elegant,quiet-refined in a way few places I have visited are.I remember thinking that I could easily get used to that life. I remember being able to understand the language when people asked me questions but not being able to speak it and my correct English answers to the French questions always elicited understanding smiles and more French. I think that was possibly the only time in my life when I carried on conversations with perfect strangers in two languages and near perfect understanding. It was wonderful.

I don't know how to describe the feel of the city.It was different.I had been warned of course about all sorts of dangers that lurked in every corner- none of which , luckily , came to pass. I remember being slightly surprised at the ease with which I navigated the metro system that I had been told would be confusing.

I'm not sure to what I should ascribe all the chance occurences and friendly faces that accompanied me on that trip but I am grateful for it. I do remember one evening though, in the Jardin des Tuileries that struck an off note. An old woman dressed in a tattered winter coat approached me and spoke in a language that I later figured must have been Serbian. She carried a little card on which was written something of which I understood only the word Serbia.She was begging and she looked so thoroughly miserable and lost.I emptied my pockets of whatever change I had and gave it to her and quickly walked away. I'm not sure why I was in such a hurry to get away from her.Perhaps, there was something about my experiences till that moment in the city that I had decided was beautiful and did not want marred by something that I could not quite tie in with what that woman represented? Even writing this now I feel uneasy about her presence there.

But this feeling also reminds me that I want to go back-that I will go back. I am quite determined that I must see what lies beneath that beauty.Next time, I'll go with someone who knows it and will help me see it...