Those Quiet French Sunday Mornings

I'm writing you this morning from my last week in a tiny little studio, nestled into the eaves of an old Parisian building. It's small - the kitchen and bathroom share the same space, but it's giant - three tall windows open up to Paris.

The plaza seven floors down. The peaks and pigeons of a gothic cathedral. The Eiffel Tower, arcing art against the rooftops - backed nightly by a pink setting sun.

Each day I've been here, Paris has poured in through these windows. The laughter from the restaurant below. The cathedral bells, calling back in time for people to come to services. The joy, fireworks and songs of Les Bleus winning the world cup, the chorus of a city erupting all through the night.

But Sundays are special.

On Sundays, the city rests, and when I wake up, eyes and ears unrolling to take in those same open windows, there is silence. Stillness.

Almost everything across town is closed - only a few supermarkets and pharmacies are open, and even then just limited hours. Didn't buy food? A few restaurants will open, later in the day. We're not savages.

But Sundays are to rest. Every week, they're a tiny version of the French vacances - the whole month of vacation the country takes off all at once.

In life today, we're bombarded by messages telling us to do more, be more, to squeeze in every last experience.

How lovely to be reminded to rest.

Have a wonderful Sunday,

-Steven

p.s. The best thing I saw all week was a tie between France winning the world cup, and fireworks on Bastille day - and how extraordinarily lucky I felt to be here for both. I don't usually share my stuff in the p.s., but these experiences were special enough that I'm making an exception. Please enjoy them vicariously with me. :)