Hafiz, oh, my love, Hafiz! Last month, I wrote about stories that were so beautiful that I could not bear to write in the margins of my book. Today, I hesitate to write anything at all—in the margins, on this blog, anywhere!—about such wondrous poems as I have found.

In the Islamic tradition, I understand, there is a centuries-long idea called aniconism. Icons—that is, pictorial representations of anything living or holy—are avoided. This, as I understand it, is to avoid dishonoring the sacred creations of God.

My reluctance to write in, or about, my copy of The Gift by Hafiz (translated by Daniel Ladinsky) feels similar to the impulse not to draw God’s creations. Sometimes it’s better to let things be. It’s one thing to enjoy your personal reactions to what you encounter in life. It’s another to muck it all up by trying to communicate something uncommunicable. Art and language are, as a friend of mine recently proclaimed to me, blunt instruments.

But, in fact, my impulse not to write represents the antithesis of Islamic culture. Due partly to the tendency toward aniconism, poetry and language are very highly regarded in the Muslim world.

And one of the most highly regarded poets, by Persians of the past and today, is Hafiz. Hafiz lived in Shiraz (in today’s Iran) in the 14th century. In his lifetime, he became known as a great poet and Sufi master.

Sufism is Islamic mysticism. The word mysticism, no matter what religion it is attached to, refers to the search for direct experience with holiness and spirituality. Historically, mystics have been sometimes embraced by other religious practitioners for their insights, while at other times shunned for bucking traditions. Hafiz himself experienced both of these responses to him and his poetry.

I would like to share with you one of Hafiz’s poems. Notice how mystical the poem is—how uncommonly direct in spirituality.

GOD JUST CAME NEAR

No
One
In need of love
Can sit with my verse for
An hour
And then walk away without carrying
Golden tools,
And feeling that God
Just came
Near.

Oh, I cannot write about this! But I will try. Since I always read introductions last, I entered into Hafiz’s poems without prior knowledge or expectations. And what I kept thinking, over and over, as I read more and more of his poems, was, “He’s copying off Walt Whitman! Whitman is the poet who claims to be everything and everyone—in a spiritual sense—and who stakes out his poetry for all to glory in!”

Of course, it was Whitman who was the copycat. When I finally read the introductory sections, I learned that Ralph Waldo Emerson (a contemporary of Whitman) was a fan of Hafiz, and in fact translated his poetry into English. Whitman surely had access to Hafiz, then, . . . and, yes—I just did a Google search—this is confirmed. Also confirmed: people have documented many similarities between the two poets’ works.

And with that, good day, God has come near. Hafiz, oh, my love, Hafiz! I can write no more.

The inquisitive one had been spending a lot of time on social media.

The herbs in the garden were documented on Instagram. The new kitchen gadget and new running shoes were documented on Facebook. The vintage furniture steal was documented on Pinterest. And every waking thought was documented on Twitter.

All of this photo posting and thought tweeting was starting to pile up in the inquisitive one’s brain like a goopy mess of potato peels. It was as if every peel of potato had an eye, and every eye was staring judgmentally at the inquisitive one!

“I live in an era of oversharing,” the inquisitive one thought. “I participate in that, and I enjoy participating in that; but maybe I need a break from that!”

So the inquisitive one canceled the original plan for the evening, which was to go to a hip new D.C. bar. Presumably, the evening would have consisted mainly of taking a series of selfies with an exotically prepared martini, mulling over which photos came out best, fiddling with various filters, and stressing about what to write as captions.

Instead, the inquisitive one went on a long run through a woodsy area. It was a lovely evening, and the trees were cast in brilliant golds and fading grays.

“Ah! This is where it’s at,” thought the inquisitive one. “Here in this woodsy area, I am all alone, doing my thing, undocumented, unshared, invisible, happy in my element: oh joy!”

However, unbeknownst to the inquisitive one, a Google car was driving by at that very moment, taking photos for the Street View of Google Maps. Moreover, a wedding had just taken place in the woodsy area, and the wedding photographer, plus family members and friends of the couple, were taking numerous photos of the scene.

Furthermore, someone had recruited a friend to make a video of him doing calisthenics, which he planned to post on YouTube and also use in his audition for a reality TV show. And someone else was taking a video of her dog, to whom she was teaching elaborately silly tricks. She planned to post the video on multiple social media sites and also submit it to a funny video contest.

The inquisitive one accidentally photo- and videobombed every single one of these people. As a result, the inquisitive one’s likeness ended up on the web multiple times—in many instances very clearly and with ridiculous-looking poses and expressions—all in spite of the original, innocent intent of the long run through the woodsy area.

Oh, and another thing. I had hired an artist* to follow the inquisitive one around and, through portraiture, document with precision what the inquisitive one looks like. Thus I hoped to prove, for all time, that the inquisitive one and I are completely different people!

You can see the result of this artistry above (and you can, as you wish, contrast this illustration of the inquisitive one with my own new look—for a brand new selfie of me now appears on my Home page!—and you can see for yourself the many vast differences between us).

But the point is, this fabulous portrait of the inquisitive one was surreptitiously completed, by the artist I secretly hired, during that very same run, that very same evening, unbeknownst to the inquisitive one.

It’s a beautiful work of art.

I intend to plaster the Internet with it.

*Many thanks to the brilliant Washington, D.C.-area artist Jim Nuttle. I was pleased to discover that he is a genius in both the graphic and mind-reading arts and a true professional. Check out some of his other cool art projects on Twitter, Instagram, and his website.

Lest you think I’ve abandoned writing about books in favor of writing about travel, let’s talk books today. My next blog post will preview a book about America—promise! But today, let’s linger overseas. Let me first tell you about a famous English-language bookstore in Paris called Shakespeare and Company. It’s located across the street from Notre Dame, it has an exquisite selection of books (in English!), and it has a motto to live by (see the photo). And let me now tell you about a book I read about Paris, before traveling to Paris.

Book Club Fiction and Women’s Fiction

Paris by the Book, a recently published novel by Liam Callanan, was given to me as a gift by a family member, upon my sharing that I was planning a trip to said city. Although it’s not the type of book I usually read, I read it before my trip and thereby learned a few facts about the city, and picked up a few additional French words. Paris by the Book is what publishing professionals call “book club fiction” or “women’s fiction.” These labels don’t mean that the book can’t be read outside of book clubs or by men. They merely mean that the book is well suited to be read in women’s book clubs . . . which are a huge source of revenue for the publishing industry.

In such books, there is often a relatable female heroine. And such books often raise issues that pertain to modern women’s lives, without being too inflammatory: issues easily discussable over wine and cheese in someone’s stylish living room. Often, the reader doesn’t need a lot of background knowledge to understand the book, or too much grit to make it through the entire thing; in other words, such books are accessible to a wide audience.

Literary agents with whom I’ve had contact seem to wish that my books were in the “book club fiction” category and/or “women’s fiction” category. Such books sell like hotcakes. When one women reads one, all the women in her circle have to read it, too.

Paris by the Book is indeed an easy read. There is indeed a relatable female heroine. (She is an American woman with two daughters; they all end up traveling to and living in Paris.) And indeed, the book raises issues pertaining to modern women’s lives.

Yeah, I’m a Woman

In fact, the book seemed so relevant to my own life that, upon reaching a certain point, I had a strong reaction. Anger. I was so angry! At a character in the book, yes, but also at people in my real social circles. I had trouble sleeping one night, I was so angry. And upon finishing the book, I immediately gave it to a female friend to read, because I’m eager to discuss it with another woman.

Book club fiction? Women’s fiction? Spot on. And, as my Airbnb host in London said to me, upon my confession that I could not stop crying while watching the play Emilia, “If it provokes an emotional reaction, it must be doing something right.” (I describe the play and my reaction to it here.)

Art’s Purpose

And that’s what art is all about! If I’m reacting, a connection was made. True, other people might react completely differently, or not at all, to the same work. However, if the artwork is making a connection with at least a substantial proportion of its audience, it’s doing its job. It’s expressing something in a format that other humans can understand. It’s communication in the emotional sphere.

Paris by the Book is far from perfect. I agree with the critique of it in this excellent review. But a certain key aspect of the book caused me to react, and this prompted me to think. Why am I so upset about this? wondered I. And I learned something about myself, and others, as a result.

When was the last time you had a strong emotional reaction to a work of art—such as a novel, play, or visual piece? Did you learn something about yourself, or others, as a result?

In full disclosure: Paris and I didn’t groove together as well as London and I did. My trip to London was a dream, from start to finish. Paris, however, was a struggle. This was partly due to the fact that I had already been traveling for nine days by the time I got to Paris, and I was getting tired. This was also due to the language barrier, which caused my stay to feel more like an intensely difficult challenge than a carefree vacation. But the most important reason why Paris was a struggle for me was that . . . I had wardrobe issues. And so, without further ado, let’s discuss what to wear in Paris, as well as what not to wear, in case you wish to pack a suitcase more appropriately than I did, before traveling to the famously stylish capital of France.

Do wear traditional Parisian styles and colors.

I saw a lot of stripes in Paris. There were a lot of black and white stripes. And navy blue and white stripes. There was also a lot of solid red. And there were a lot of berets. It’s perfectly okay to wear stereotypically Parisian attire in Paris!

For example, here’s a woman in red and white stripes, exiting the famous cafe Les Deux Magots:

Hemingway and other famous writers used to hang out at this cafe. I had intended to hang out at this cafe, as well; but as you can see, it was very crowded when I was there. So I went elsewhere. Guess I’m not as cool as Hemingway. But back to clothing. I noticed that, for men, funky hats and colorful shoes are in. Check out the dude in the crosswalk with a white hat and neon green shoes.

And did you notice the young woman in full-on traditional Parisian attire in the crowd before the Mona Lisa, in my first blog post about the Louvre? Here’s a detail of the photo. I did not notice her until after I got home and looked at my photos, so it’s not like she stood out to me as bizarrely dressed. On the contrary—she fit right in.

It’s also okay to add modern flair to traditional fashions. Check out the dude in red and black walking past the Notre Dame cathedral in the first photo (at the beginning of this blog post). Now here’s a fellow who knows how to go traditional, but with a modern flair. And note that he, also, is wearing a funky hat and colorful shoes.

Do be fashionable and stylish.

I shared this photo earlier, in my blog post about migraines and other health issues. I wish you could see more clearly how well dressed this young couple was—the two whose heads are leaning romantically toward each other. I was in awe, particularly of the woman. She had short hair, styled chicly, as you can perhaps see here. She was wearing a dress that had two thick, long, black, vertical stripes from collar to the hem at her knees. And her fabulous shoes had heels, but also a hardcore, stabilizing thickness to them—which was a good thing, as she needed to stand on them for hours at this concert.

Later, I was near this piece of outdoor wall art—one of those works that’s easier to read when you step back—when I met another fashionably well-dressed person. He looked like he had walked right out of the 60s. But he also looked very modern. I loved the jazzy hat, the double-lapelled jacket, the stylish shoes. He turned out to be, like me, a lost American. Luckily, I had just found where he was trying to go, and he then found where I was trying to go. He was in a hurry, so we exchanged numbers, and after a series of comical mishaps, met up for drinks very late that night. Kudos to him for knowing how to dress in Paris to impress a woman! And we parted friends (and nothing more; no one freak out).

Do go au naturel . . . depending on who you are.

I visited the famous Paris Opera House, known as Palais Garnier, on my first evening in the city. Here’s a shot of the appropriately majestic exterior, with a bus photobombing the scene just to remind us what century we’re in. Thus I fulfilled my original inspiration for traveling to Paris, which I explained in this earlier post.

The interior was equally majestic, with a colorful ceiling fresco painted by Marc Chagall. This photo does not do justice to the massiveness of the chandelier. I would not want to be under it if it fell!

So what does this have to do with what to wear in Paris? At the opera house, I saw an excellent ballet. I especially enjoyed the first dance, set to music by the great Philip Glass (the second movement of Symphony No. 2); Sol León and Paul Lightfoot were the choreographers and set/costume designers. Two of the many dancers were stationary on extremely tall stilts, except for their arms, which danced at key intervals to the music. It was a very interesting performance. It got even more interesting when, halfway through, one of those two tall dancers, the female one, dropped her shirt and performed the remainder of the dance topless.

This was was my first night in Paris. Welcome to France, Liza!!

However, I did not see any other topless ladies in Paris. Unless, of course, you count the lovely Venus de Milo and other statues, such as this impressive collection in a cafe window:

 
So I don’t necessarily recommend going the au naturel route. It is a good idea to pack a suitcase before traveling to Paris. With clothes in it.

Do wear swan feathers . . . if you are a swan.

Check out this elegant Parisian look:

 
This fashionable style merits a closeup of the models on the runway . . . er, swimway:

 

This idea is for daring, fashion-forward types only.

These cottonlike seeds were falling from trees all over Paris when I was there. They were wafting through the open doors of cafes and collecting in clumps on the ground. At times, I found it difficult to eat a meal and enjoy a view in peace, for these kept falling into my food and face.

Are these from cottonwood trees? I have no idea. But perhaps Lady Gaga, or someone else on the cutting edge of fashion, might hire someone to make a dress out of these for their next red-carpet appearance. Just a suggestion.

Don’t wear uncomfortable shoes.

So there I was, sitting at a cafe called The New York, which was, oddly, the only cafe I could find at this particular location, across the Seine River from the Eiffel Tower. So I ordered some New York cheesecake (“When in Rome . . .”) and a glass of wine, and sat back to enjoy the view.

The view was obstructed, but it was still a very good view. So I snapped a photo. Those cottonlike seeds were everywhere, so I turned around in my seat and snapped the photo above.

And then I snapped a photo of my little reminder of home (the napkin and cheesecake), my little reminder of Paris (the wine), and my little reminder that fashion and style are not—contrary to popular belief!—the most important things to consider, when packing a suitcase to travel to Paris.
You see, In London, my shoes broke. I found a shoe store and bought a new pair. These were sensible flats with style. Of course, walking around all day, for days on end, in new, unbroken-in shoes is never a good idea. By the time I got to Paris, I had developed a massive blister on my foot. I bought some foot pads at a pharmacy, which helped with my comfort while walking. But the blister remained stubbornly alive . . . and kept growing.

After a couple miserable days, I transferred my new foot pads to my running shoes and started walking around Paris in comfort. Duh—why did I not do that sooner?

I confess, I have shoe issues. Like many (dare I say most?) women, I love fashionable shoes. But even more, I love running. And walking. And gardening. And strolling through London and Paris and Washington, D.C. Time and again, my cute shoes let me down. Time and again, I revert to my trusty running shoes . . . and then get bored of the sporty look and long to switch things up in favor of the stylish look . . . and feel lucky one day . . . and try the cute shoes again . . . and it’s a terrible, vicious circle.

I keep telling myself that, one of these days, I’m going to give up on fashion and start wearing running shoes everywhere I go. That would be fine for Paris, but I’m not sure how that would go over at my next work conference. . . .

TL;DR

You’re wondering what to wear in Paris? Here’s a quick-glance guide:

1. Wear comfortable shoes. That way, you can walk around all day and enjoy the world-class architecture, museums, gardens, and more.
2. Bonus points if you dress stylishly.
3. Triple bonus points if you manage to do both 1 and 2 at once! (And if you do, or have suggestions for managing this perennial dilemma, let me know your thoughts!)

And here is the view from inside the foyer of the Louvre in Paris, looking up and out through the right-side-up pyramid. As you can see, it had not started raining yet, at the time I took this photo, so it’s a cheerier photo than the one I shared two days ago in my post about the Mona Lisa. Note the many stone statues and bas-relief sculptures on the building out there. (I’m excited to finally make use of the term bas-relief, which I learned in that art history class I took so long ago.)

The museum contained many other stone statues and bas-relief sculptures. I’d like to write about two of them today, which I found especially notable in their excellence. As it turns out, others throughout the years have agreed, for these are famous sculptures: the Winged Victory of Samothrace and the Venus de Milo. Have you heard of them?

Both of these beautiful and larger-than-life women were sculpted in the region and era of ancient Greece. Both, too, are missing their arms. Winged Victory has also lost her head; Venus somehow held onto hers.

Another similarity is that they were both entirely lost for centuries and only discovered, at different locations and in different years, in the 1800s. Winged Victory was discovered by an amateur archaeologist. Venus de Milo was discovered by a farmer. A farmer—can you imagine? I dig in my backyard all the time, and sometimes I unearth some pretty big stones . . . but nothing like that!

I was going to write to you about how I felt while viewing these lovely ladies in their voluptuously scant attire; but it seems that I have been preempted. Upon arriving home, I tried to explain my feelings about these sculptures to my sister-in-law, who immediately said this:

“Oh, like the Rilke poem.”

“Oh, what Rilke poem?”

My ignorance having once again been revealed, she pulled up the short poem on her phone. I asked her to read it aloud to me, which she did. Well, and yes. That was exactly how I felt; that was exactly what I was trying to express. Holy Aphrodite! Please read this poem: “Archaic Torso of Apollo” by Rainer Maria Rilke.

I hadn’t been anywhere close to expressing this to my sister-in-law. But yes, this is what I was trying to say. (With the exception, of course, that the poem is about a male statue, while I was looking at female statues.)

Did you click the link and read the poem? Best to do it before reading on: “Archaic Torso of Apollo” by Rainer Maria Rilke.

While in the Louvre, I made sure to view the Winged Victory from the ideal “three-quarters on the left” angle, which was dazzling. (This is shown in the second photo here.) Later, while walking slowly around Venus de Milo, pausing here and there to view her from all angles, I think I may have unintentionally walked between the statue and a young woman’s camera. I think this not because I saw the camera or the young woman, but because I heard her mutter something indiscernible. And then her companion, another young woman, said in American English, “I’m really glad you said that. I’m really glad you said that!” and they both laughed loudly, but self-consciously. No one else was nearby.

I’m most likely just being paranoid; but perhaps they really were talking about a mistake on my part. I would have been happy to apologize profusely, had I been confident that I really had done something inadvertently impolite. Instead, I did not look at them, I said nothing to them, and I moseyed away. But truly, I would not be surprised if I had stepped in front of a camera, because I was having a moment.

I must. Yes, I really must.