Here In Franklin

Until a few years ago, I only knew labyrinths from my high school studies of Greek mythology. King Minos of Crete built an elaborate labyrinth to keep the frightful Minotaur at bay. But when I went on my first pilgrimage with the youth from my church, I learned that the practice of walking a labyrinth while saying a breath prayer was alive and well today–and, in fact, that it had been a part of the Christian tradition for centuries.

(An aside–did you ever read J.D. Salinger’s Franny and Zooey? If all you know of Salinger is Catcher in the Rye, I implore you to read his short stories about the fictional Glass family of New York, circa 1955. In the story, Franny is obsessed with a book called The Way of the Pilgrim in which the main character, a Russian peasant, practices prayer without ceasing–that is, he has a breath prayer that he says to himself at all times…with every inhale and exhale. Franny tries to emulate this practice and, in the process, gives herself a nervous breakdown.)

One of the highlights of my recent journey to Paris was a day trip to the Medieval town of Chartres and its famous cathedral.

The cathedral was built in the 1200s and its stained glass is some of Europe’s finest.

But what really sets this cathedral apart is its labyrinth–an elaborate, circular path that’s only available for walking a days during the year. Happily, that coincided with our visit there.

The day we were there, the cathedral had quite a few visitors–many bearing the familiar backpack of the modern-day pilgrims, some with the shells that signify those who have walked Spain’s Compostela route. After wandering though the cathedral for a while, I started in on the labyrinth, trying to concentrate on matching my pace with my breath prayer.

But there was  a problem–an unpleasant-looking woman was speed walking her way through the maze.

Step.

Step.

Step.

Squeak. Every time she pivoted, her tennis shoes made a disagreeable sound. She was going as fast as she could, passing people who were in her way. Determined to set a record for how fast she could walk the famed labyrinth at Chartres. No doubt she was on one of those “17 countries in 14 days” types of package tours–speed walking her way through Europe without seeing a single thing on the way.

Done properly, this labyrinth takes about 30 minutes. I doubt she took 10. But at least she was gone soon and I could finally find my own rhythm without being distracted by her squeaky shoes.

(Pictures  courtesy on my traveling companion J9. Follow her on Instagram at j9win)

Last week I was in Paris, and while I was there I met up with an old friend. I had never met her in person. Never heard the sound of her voice. But we managed to cross a few borders and time zones to spend a day together. Let me tell you how we met…

When I first started blogging, I became enamored of a website called Ask and Yes Shall Receive. It was a site that reviewed blogs. The reviewers were tough and had a collection of rankings ranging from flaming fingers making rude gestures to the rare and prized “I @#$% Love You.” The reviews themselves were hysterical, and the comments that followed were equally scathing. The site had a huge following, and it wasn’t uncommon for a review to garner hundreds of comments.

I think it was through this blog that I first became aware of Ellie and her blog, The Daily Smoke. Back then, Ellie, an American, was living in London. Her blog was elegant–artful black and white photos of London scenes. Black type on a white background with a little red thrown in for emphasis. Content ranged from the ultra-casual–what she saw on the bus that morning–to the deeply poignant–sexual abuse at the hands of an adopted brother.

There was always something about Ellie’s blog and writing that connected with me, and vice versa.

She’s now living in Madrid. I told her I was coming to Paris and that if she’d come see me, I’d buy dinner. And she took me up on it.

We started talking at 11. We talked as we walked. We talked through coffee. Through a bottle of wine with lunch. As we walked through Le Marais and crossed the Seine to the left bank so I could retrieve my sunglasses at my hotel. We talked as we walked up the hill to the Pantheon and down the other side to have a beer at a small cafe. We talked as we walked through Jardin du Luxembourg and through the Latin Quarter before stopping for one last beer.

Seven hours (or was it eight) of nonstop talking.

I suppose what we did is a little risky. We could’ve taken an instant dislike to each other, but instead the opposite happened.

Thank you, Ellie, for a great day. It’s nice to finally have a face and a voice to go with the name.

Florida is home to some pretty swanky resorts, and Islamorada–on Matecumbe Key–is home to one of the very swankiest. At the Checca Lodge you can be swathed in luxury with minions ready to fulfill your every whim. You can wine. You can dine. You can be massaged, mani-ed and pedi-ed. You can revel in the privacy of the 27-acre grounds, gated to keep the riff raff out.

We just got back from Islamorada. And I guess you could best describe our lodgings as the anti-Cheeca.

Many of the plastic chairs had broken slats. One of our windows had to be propped open with a shoe. The refrigerator in our room made strange clicking noises all night long.

But when this is the view from your private deck, a noisy refrigerator doesn’t really matter.

We stayed at a funky old place called the Sands of Islamorada. We had a queen-size bed, a little kitchen and a bathroom.

And a private patio.

The building was perpendicular to the water, so there were only two waterfront units. That’s ours on the bottom. There was a constant breeze and an ever-changing view.

Here’s sunrise:

I’m not really an ocean person. If I had to choose between ocean or mountains, I’d take mountains every time. I like changing seasons, fireplaces and thick socks. But in January–when spring is months away from Middle Tennessee–the Keys are hard to beat.

Travel is about change–change of scenery, change of habit, change of routine. We only had a few days there, but they were worth their weight in gold.

This isn’t the first time I’ve written about the Keys.

I hope it isn’t the last.

Oh–the guy in the header visited us one day and then scurried up a nearby palm. Not sure if he ever came down.