Indulgence

My father travels a lot on business. As a result, my house (and my closet) has accumulated its fair share of international trinkets: wooden clogs from Holland, soccer jerseys from Poland, maracas from Peru (I think it was Peru), and a whole lot of chocolate. Of my favorite such gifts are two globe shaped candle holders from some country that I now forget. They are small, about the size of a grapefruit, slightly translucent, and hand-painted in some mysterious - assuredly brilliant and simple - way such that the flickering of a candle flame causes the painted scenes to dance across the glass surface. The tiny buildings take on an extra dimension, a sort of hazy after-glow that makes it seem like you could reach out and touch the thumb-nail sized roofs. Windows glow in what seems to be the light of cozy fireplaces and stars shimmer in the blue-black night sky. They are at once comforting and fascinating. And they have nothing to do with what I'm about to talk about. I do promise to return to the candle holders. Just indulge me for the next paragraph and a half.

Today, whilst waiting to enter my scenography (look it up) class, I was scanning a bulletin board filled with posters and event listings and bemoaning my general lack of culture. I have attended one play since coming to Bordeaux and I would love to have those three hours of my life back. (It was Really Bad). I entered the classroom feeling uninteresting and uninterested. Three hours later, I walked out and noticed a new poster. "Les Bonnes" de Jean Genet. Opening tonight, playing for the next couple of days. Now here was an idea I could get behind. I impulsively reserved a ticket for tonight and spent the rest of the day reminiscing about the production of The Maids I was in last spring and anticipating a night of pretty incredible French theater. After letting the cast and crew of last year's The Maids know where I was headed, I jotted down directions and hopped on my bike. It's a pretty perfect night for a bike ride. Crisp, but not to cold, and the moon, waxing full, provides quite the nightlight. And then I got lost. Like really lost. Like call Kate with one hand while braking with the other while looking at the useless directions with the other while not having enough hands lost. The soft light of the moon became the harsh lights of high-beams and florescent gas-station signs. The wind-swept blush in my cheeks became a sweaty, stressed-out flush. As I circled around parts of Bordeaux I'd never before seen, I watched the time. 8:17. 8:24. 8:31. Missed it.

Ultimately, and dejectedly, I made my way back to charted territory (after asking for directions from a lovely man who made me feel slightly less stupid and made sure the lights on my bike were functioning). I was angry at myself. Angry for forgetting my map, for not writing better directions, for not leaving enough time, for blowing my own moment of spontaneity. Yes, so I'll go tomorrow instead, but by tomorrow it won't be spur of the moment! It's like leftovers. Who wants to see left-over Jean Genet! For those well acquainted with me, you know how good I am at finding all the reasons why I should be unhappy in a given moment, especially if something has gone wrong. I was in mid-self-chastisement when I looked up and noticed l'Eglise Saint-Pierre and the Cathédrale Saint-André, softly lit and looming into the night sky, and exuding that same soft, tactile after-glow as the tiny paintings on the candle-holders on our mantel. I slowed down, looked closer, and experienced a little bit of an inward struggle. Self-indulgent bad mood versus really pretty churches that remind me of home on a lovely fall evening. "Fine", I said, aloud and begrudgingly, "I'll stop now". And so I did. I stopped berating myself for getting lost. I stopped worrying about the potential consequences if the strikes in France continue. I stopped feeling bad for not finishing a book I'd planned to finish this weekend. And, in a symbolic gesture, I stopped holding on to the handlebars. Almost fell off. Held back on.

Baby steps.

At the risk of sounding obvious, indulging in flickering candles, shimmering sky-lines, and a autumnal breeze is much more interesting and a lot more fun than indulging in self-pity and self-critique. There is a time and a place for constructive criticism and it is not all the time nor is it in every place. I need to give me a little break. Thus is my resolution to myself:

Pretty things are pretty and I'm gonna look at 'em. Especially when they make me change my mind.