This was my third trip to Paris and on our last trip we discovered what instantly became my favorite church in the entire world — Sainte-Chapelle; the Holy Chapel.  It was a royal chapel built in the Gothic style within the medieval Palais de la Cité, the residence of the Kings of France until the 14th century.  It is located in the Île de la Cité in the heart of Paris, which is one of two remaining natural islands on the Seine; the other is the Île Saint-Louis.  Sainte-Chapelle is considered among the highest of architectural achievements, commissioned by King Louis IX to house his collection of the relics of Christ, including the Crown of Thorns, one of the most important pieces in all Christendom.  Although damaged during the French Revolution, the chapel was restored in the 19th century and contains one of the most extensive collections of 13th century stained glass in the world.  The King purchased his Passion relics from Baldwin II, the Latin emperor at Constantinople, for the sum of 135,000 livres.  His money was actually paid to the Venetians, to whom the relics had been pawned.  They arrived in Paris in 1239, carried from Venice by two Dominican friars.  For the final stage of their journey they were carried by the King himself, barefoot and dressed as a penitent.  A scene depicting the Relics of the Passion can be seen on a south side window of the chapel.  The relics were stored in a large, elaborate silver chest, the Grand-Chasse, on which King Louis spent another 100,000 livres.  The entire chapel, by contrast, cost only 40,000 livres to build.  It is truly the most magnificent church I have ever had the privilege of seeing.  And it lies in relative obscurity just several blocks away from Notre Dame.  In 1246 fragments of the True Cross (on which Jesus was crucified) and the Holy Lance (the spear that pierced the side of Jesus as he hung on the cross) were added to the King’s collection along with other relics.  The chapel was consecrated in 1248.  Just as the Emperor of Constantinople could privately pass between his palace into the Hagia Sophia, so now King Louis could go directly from his palace into the Sainte-Chapelle.  The two-story chapel has obvious similarities between Charlemagne’s palatine chapel, a parallel that Louis was keen to exploit in presenting himself as a worthy successor to the first Holy Roman Emperor.  The chapel itself seems like a reliquary turned inside out, with the richest decoration on the inside.  I suppose that is one of the reasons why I love it so.  Each shaft separating the great windows depict the twelve larger-than-life sized apostles.  The most famous features of the holy chapel, the stained glass, reduce the stone wall surface to little more than a delicate framework.  The chapel tragically suffered its most grievous destruction during the late 18th century in the French Revolution.  It has been a national historic monument since 1862.  The principal of the Gothic architectural revolution in 13th-century Europe suggests heaviness, darkness, and a brooding past.  Sainte-Chapelle irradiates that cliché and is a stroke of brilliant practical engineering.  It is a miracle of light and there is nothing I can say to describe the incredible beauty of this ‘small” chapel which King Louis of France had commissioned.  My thought is that one could not build such an exquisite labor of love and not believe.  It is like standing in the middle of a tremendously high crystal filled with every colored jewel imaginable.  Each panel has meaning and tells the story of the Bible, beginning with Genesis.  The early Christian theologian and philosopher, Saint Augustine, once said,

“Faith is to believe what you do not see; the reward of this faith is to see what you believe.”

One can stand right now in the midst of this Holy Chapel and be struck by awe.  There is a simplicity of magnificence which can clearly be seen.  For me there is also a palpable holiness which lingers.  If faith is believing in that which is unseen, surely the earthly reward of Christian faith is present in Sainte-Chapelle.

My mother always loved the French Impressionists.  She had actually studied art and instilled a love of the French masters in me from a very early age.  So for the chance to actually see Monet’s garden?  To say it was a dream come true would be an understatement.  The whole reason I had a little koi pond installed after we got married was because of my deeply rooted love of Monet.  I have three different types of water lilies growing and there is not a day which goes by and I have viewed it that I have not thought of my mother.  On this morning our guide picked us up and drove us to the small town of Giverny which lies about 50 miles west and slightly north of Paris, in the old province of Normandy.  The cultivation of grapes has been an occupation since Merovingian times and I was fortunate enough to have our guide ask if I wanted to stop at the village church.  It was Sunday and upon entering through the back as a service was being conducted I felt an extreme privilege.  No one glared at me as I stared in awe and very circumspectly studied the statuary and examined the ancient stonework.  Dating back from the Middle Ages, it was built in the Romanesque style although additions have been made.  Our guide may never have known how grateful I was to have gotten to go inside that church.  After I exited we made our way to Claude Monet’s house.  He apparently made up his mind to move to Giverny from looking outside of a train window.  In 1890 he had enough money to buy his house and land outright and set out to create the magnificent gardens he wanted to paint.  Some of his most famous works came from the archways of climbing plants entwined around colored shrubs.  The water garden was formed by a tributary to the Epte river, which feeds from the right tributary of the Seine.  It contains the now famous Japanese bridge, the pond with its water lilies, and the wisterias and azaleas.  I am a fan of weeping willows which is why I chose this shot.  I was told with appreciation by our guide that the pond was different in October.  I had never seen it in spring but I suspected it held the magic melancholy that October casts wherever she may be.  We spent most of the day here and I enjoyed placing a tiny snail we discovered into our little girl’s hand.  She shrieked and marveled at the tiny creature she held and it was a visceral reminder to me that life continues.  It began to lightly rain as we made our way to Versailles.  So late in the day, I believe it was absolutely the most magical time I had seen the chateau.  In the chill and devoid of the throngs of summer tourists, it became indescribable.  Our guide deftly led us in and out and of what few tourists remained, and we were treated to a tour of the deserted grounds that superceded the natural.  The last place we visted before the magnificent chateau closed was the main palace itself.  The Hall of Mirrors held a stately, yet subdued and welcoming light reflecting off the myriad of floor to ceiling mirrors while rain fell softly outside the windows.  Reflections of light were everywhere but not overly bright; rather they were somewhat incongruously soothing in their grandeur with the onset of dusk.  Versailles held a quiet feel that was at once comforting and almost sacred.  I have a picture of our child dressed in toile completely alone in Marie Antionette’s bedchamber which I will always cherish.  It is haunting but not in a scary way.  On the contrary, it felt welcoming but sadly empty.  We found ourselves in a unique position, wandering about the corridors in autumn’s early twilight.  I shall never forget it.  The French-German theologian Albert Schweitzer once said:

“The willow which bends to the tempest, often escapes better than the oak which resists it; and so in great calamities, it sometimes happens that light and frivolous spirits recover their elasticity and presence of mind sooner than those of a loftier character.”

I am not suggesting Louis XVI, the last King of France, and Marie Antionette, the last Queen of France — who was never reported to have said, “Let them eat cake” when referring to the French peasants — did not have frivolity in their lives.  Most certainly they did.  But I believe there was an underlying compassion within them which led to the presence of what I felt on this day.  I have been in famous churches where I did not feel the presence of God.  And I have been in secular places in which I have felt God was present.  Who is to say that I am correct?  I have only my heart, and my love of God, to guide me.

I have said before that any day in Paris is a good day.  It is a city teeming with life, beauty, history, and magic.  On this day we decided to start at the top in Montmartre.  Located on a large hill in Paris’ 18th arrondissement, it is dominated by the stunning white domes of the Basilica of the Sacré-Coeur.  At the beginning of the 20th century, during the Belle Époque, many artists had work studios around the area including Claude Monet and Vincent Van Gogh.  On our honeymoon this was where we had our portrait made and where many artists still gather.  The two churches at the top are of great import to me — Sacré-Coeur of course and the oldest church in all of Paris which lies inconspicuously in its shadow, Saint Pierre.  However, I shall save them for another blog.  We took the funicular after enjoying French beer (1664) at the top of the myriad of steep steps one always sees on Pinterest in black and white photos.  Although I speak fluent French, I have made a couple of funny now, but embarrassing then gaffes.  On our honeymoon we ate on a Chinese boat and I had never seen or heard of lychees.  I freaked because I thought they were some sort of eyeballs in a bowl!  (Now they are my favorite fruit.)  At the bottom of the hill there was a street vendor selling something which smelled absolutely delicious.  I stood awkwardly contemplating the look of incredulity on the vendor’s face as I told him I had no idea what it was.  Of course he told me in French and I still had no idea.  Finally his wife must have overheard me speaking English with my husband saying I wished I knew what they were.  “Zey ahr ze chessnuts, madame” she said to me in English, looking as if I might be a little touched in the head.  Exclaiming I had never tried them (which I’m quite sure she had already surmised,) I happily doled out three euro on a bag.  They were nutty and warm and I found myself hoping we’d get to come back during the holiday season sometime.  Nat King Cole’s “The Christmas Song” played through my head as I thought how magnificent the lights would be on the Champs-Elysées.  We went back to our favorite playground for our little one which lies across the Seine with a direct view of the Eiffel Tower.  I happily sat on a park bench nibbling my new discovery as I watched my baby doll playing with my husband.  The air had the barest hint of a chill in it and everything seemed to hold a glorious perfection.  We took a boat tour that night and it was indescribable passing under the city’s lit bridges filled with angels.  RIGHT as we disembarked the Eiffel Tower lit up!  And it didn’t just illuminate — it had a million twinkling lights running up and down its length.  I believe it goes for about ten minutes on the hour at night and the rest of the time it remains solidly lit.  We decided to cap off our magical evening going around the Champs-Elysées in this cool pedicab you see pictured here.  It was the most splendid, tricked out one I’d ever seen.  Just when I thought it could not get any cooler he turned on LED lights overhead and started blaring the current new hot song, “Happy.”  Our little one was rocking out and I watched my husband trying to loosen up and get into it.  I will never forget looking back as we rode down the most famous street in the world while it started to lightly rain.  There was a sheen on the street given off by the headlights that created a sort of blur.  I suddenly understood “La Vie En Rose” written by the French chanteuse Edith Piaf in 1945.  The Canadian-American actor Will Arnett said, “I am happy because I’m grateful.  I choose to be grateful.  That gratitude allows me to be happy.”  As I looked back on the day I realized three different songs had gone though my head, and they all involved being happy.  I was so grateful to be back in my beloved Paris I decided to create a new song playlist … entitled “happy.”

This was the day we set out for tours of Vaux-le-Vicomte and Fontainebleau.  We began with the baroque French chateau Vaux-le-Vicomte, located about 34 miles southeast of Paris.  It was here that the architect Louis Le Vau, the interior artist Charles Le Brun, and landscape designer Andre Le Nôtre began their collaboration, creating the “Louis XIV” style.  Once a small chateau between the royal residences of Vincennes and Fontainebleau, the estate of Vaux-le-Vicomte was purchased in 1641 by Nicolas Fouquet, an ambitious 26-year-old member of French Parliament.  To secure the necessary grounds Fouquet purchased and demolished three villages, with the displaced villagers then employed in the upkeep and maintenance of the gardens.  It was said to have required more than 18 thousand workers and cost as much as 16 million livres at the time.  While Fouquet’s intentions were to flatter the king, his plan backfired.  Jean-Baptiste Colbert led the king to believe that his minister’s magnificence was funded by the misappropriation of public funds.  Colbert replaced Fouquet as the superintendent of finances and had him arrested.  The king then seized, confiscated, or purchased 120 tapestries, the statues, and all the orange trees from Vaux-le-Vicomte.  After which he summoned Fouquet’s team of artists (Le Vau, Le Brun, and Le Nôtre) to design what would become the palace and gardens of Versailles.  That afternoon we headed to Fontainebleau, a town a little farther south of Paris, known for its opulent palace by the same name.  Built by French royalty with parts dating back to the 1100’s, its formal gardens feature ornamental lakes and sculptures.  This hamlet was endowed with a royal hunting lodge and a chapel by Louis VII in the middle of the twelfth century.  A century later, Louis IX (also referred to as Saint Louis) held Fontainebleau in high esteem and referred to it as “his wilderness.”  The Palace of Fontainebleau was transformed into a royal chateau between 1494 and 1547 by the great builder-king Francis I.  During that time every monarch, from Francis I to Louis XV, made important renovations at the Palace of Fontainebleau.  In 1762 the Treaty of Fontainebleau, a secret agreement made between Spain and France concerning the Louisiana territory in North America, was concluded there.  The horseshoe staircase at its front remains both haunting and impressive.  I remember our little one was so happy feeding the ducks at the royal lake; a respite from stuffy old rooms.  Given that she was the only person under the age of about 40, I think she did terribly well.  The American longest-serving First Lady of the United States, Eleanor Roosevelt, once said:

“I think, at a child’s birth, if a mother could ask a fairy godmother to endow it with the most useful gift, that gift should be curiosity.”

I have always had an insatiable thirst for knowledge.  One of the things that drew me to my husband is that he inherently has it as well.  I believe our baby doll is already displaying that need to know and learn and we are thrilled.  With the desire to sate her innate curiosity, she will have the world at her fingertips, ma petite poupée.

This was the first birthday I had ever spent away from my mother.  It was October 9, 2014 and I turned 44 years old.  My father passed when I was 28 and I knew my mother was in frail health.  I wanted to escape to the city that I love and focus on the happiness within my own family of three — my husband and my little girl.  She would be turning three when we got home and I was having her birthday at the house with a Madeline theme.  This day would not prove to be epic in the way in which I was searching.  Breakfast started off delightfully with croissants and Nutella.  I wanted to revisit Notre Dame — the cathedral dedicated to the Blessed Mother Mary, where my child took her first steps less than two years earlier.  It was a chilly day and afterward we went to a little cafe across the street and I enjoyed this cup of chocolat chaud.  No one, but no one, does hot chocolate like the French!  I remember on our honeymoon, on a sweltering day in June, the first thing I did after we checked into our hotel was to go across the street where I ordered us two hot chocolates.  They are THAT good!  And so I found myself sitting on the corner overlooking Notre Dame enjoying a simple cup of hot chocolate.  There was no party; no great fanfare; just me and my precious little family all together at my favorite place on earth enjoying one of the many things the French do best.  That night I had made dinner reservations at La Petite Chaise (the little chair) based solely upon my love for history.  Founded in 1680 during the reign of Louis XIV (the “Sun King”,) it is open literally year round.  Yes, we brought our almost three year old.  But I will tell you, she was an angel!  Note I did not say she was always an angel, but she has known what we expect of her in public from the beginning.  The service was snooty, the average age of the patrons well into their ’80’s, and I was disappointed.  But you know what?  That is life, isn’t it?  Some days we want to be perfect and they just aren’t.  Other days we’re not expecting it and it turns out to be a treasure.  When we got back to our hotel, our little one had fallen asleep in the middle of our bed in the “French” fox pajamas I’d gotten her that said “Bonjour” with hearts and fox couples all over them.  The evangelical Texas Christian pastor Charles R. Swindoll — also born in October — said, “Life is 10% what happens to you and 90% how you react to it.”  I could choose to focus on losing my original family of three (my parents) or I could be grateful to God for the great blessings He gave me when He allowed me to meet my husband and conceive our precious child.  I have always said that ANY day in Paris is a good day.  And I have meant it.  Rain, heat, or cold; nothing can compare with her history and her beauty.  There was no party, no singing, and no cake.  I had the privilege of spending my birthday with the most handsome man I have ever met and our beautiful, miracle child here only by the grace of God.  In a way it was simply an ordinary day in the city I love most, and I was blessed to be able to spend it with my precious new family.  This was my birthday in Paris.

I have a pet peeve.  I have always had it.  I detest other people in my shots; I just cannot help it.  There are those who would say it dates the picture (in a good way) or that it lends perspective to the grandeur of whatever is being photographed.  I don’t care.  I remember my daddy got angry with me on our first trip to San Antonio because I stood in front of the Alamo for 45 minutes trying to get a shot without someone else’s rump in it.  Poor Daddy, it was hot and very crowded.  I never did get it; to this day it drives me nuts.  Over the years I have gotten better and bolder.  I have gotten better in the sense that I have learned to move vantage points and, thanks to the iPhone, editing out the bottom, top, and/or sides is incredibly easy.  I have gotten bolder in that I will say, “Excuse me” in more languages than the Pope can say “thank you” to get selfish people to MOVE IT!  Sometimes they’re unaware and I give them my best smile.  I then offer to take a picture of them in return and they are thrilled.  Thus, I have accomplished my mission and have also done a kindness for someone else.  Unfortunately there are those who just push in ruthlessly.  Time is so precious on vacation!  I have realized I do not have the luxury of politely standing by, keeping my family waiting for 20 minutes, while I try to make a special memory for us — no matter how priceless it may be to me.  I always try to be mindful of others and freeze in my tracks whenever I see someone trying to get a picture.  They are genuinely thankful and I get it.  A few years ago “photo bombing” became sort of a funny thing.  I think it’s hilarious when an animal jumps in but not when some bratty kid deliberately does it.  In fact it makes me livid.  I am a not a fan of Napoleon but my husband was really looking forward to going on top of the Arc De Triomphe, which we had never done.  I asked someone if they would please take our photo and this little punk Dutch kid who was about 10 years old walked through our shot.  I asked if they would kindly take another and the then little snot did it again.  I looked over and he gave me the most devilish grin.  He was photo bombing our forever memory on purpose!  I felt my right eye twitching incessantly as I whispered to my husband, who thought it was funny — obviously I did not.  So I was left with a great picture that had the kid’s entire body right in front of us or this one.  The American author Ken Poirot wrote, “Photobomb me at your own risk!”  I feel the same way!  I managed to edit the little stink out of the second.  (He was to the right of this picture.)  In the end I am counting this war as a victory at the Arc de Triomphe.

It was a random Tuesday in October and my darling husband had taken us back to Paris for my birthday.  We had only been previously in summer and in spring.  The city had a different feel; a touch of melancholy, more quiet, but — as always — absolute magic.  We like to stay near the Eiffel Tower and on our first evening as we were walking by I looked up and snapped this picture with my iPhone.  I am so proud of this shot.  The moon was full and my favorite color blue was emanating from the Eiffel Tower like a welcoming beacon.  I noticed the whole thing was lit up differently but had no idea why.  Since it was autumn it was darker much earlier.  In summer it does not get fully dark until around eleven at night.  We enjoy revisiting our favorite places in Paris but the experiences are always different.  Going up the tower at night gave us a new perspective.  On that note, when we went down to the first floor I could not help but notice practically every adult looked absolutely PETRIFIED.  They all seemed to be shuffling with a stiff, sideways gait like crabs almost too scared to move.  This was around the time selfie sticks were just becoming popular and I also wondered why there were all these teenagers reclining on the ground taking pictures of themselves.  Aside from the self-absorption that seems to accompany those years, regardless of the country of origin, I could not understand why they were all on their backs.  And then it hit me.  I looked down and realized with no small degree of shock that we were standing on a brand new addition … which was ALL SHEER GLASS.  On our previous trip to Paris a year and a half earlier we saw the construction but had no idea what was going on.  And now, of all the times; of all the days, it turned out we had fortuitously and inadvertently stumbled upon the debut of the first change made to the iconic tower since its opening in 1889 as the entrance to the World’s Fair.  This was the first time in 125 years the most visited landmark in the world had made any change.  And I could not believe we were actually witnessing its history-making opening!  Looking down, one could clearly see people milling around 187 feet below.  I stared in rapt fascination underneath my feet while visitors from all over the world surrounded us literally clinging to the walls.  Gustave Eiffel, the creator of “the Iron Lady,” once said:

“Can one think that because we are engineers, beauty does not preoccupy us or that we do not try to build beautiful, as well as solid and long lasting structures?  Aren’t the genuine functions of strength always in keeping with unwritten conditions of harmony? … Besides, there is an attraction, a special charm in the colossal to which ordinary theories of art do not apply.”

Maybe the glass of champagne I’d had 189 feet at the top had added to my courage.  Maybe I had such a deep love for La Tour Eiffel it superseded my normal fears.  Whatever the case, I was so incredibly grateful that we were actually there — despite the lack of any announcements in the media anywhere — for opening day.

I only had this last morning to look for shells, as we were leaving in the afternoon.  So I grabbed my bucket and shovel and dashed out at first light, leaving my sweet little family still sleeping.  This time I decided to wander as far as I could down one side of the beach to where there was an alcove.  Careful to heed the warning signs about swimming there, I was walking knee-deep in water when the smooth sand suddenly shifted and gave way to hard rock, cutting deep into my feet.  But then the tide receded and I noticed what looked to be the perfectly spiraled top of a conch shell peeking up out of the midst of the white rocks.  I had never seen a conch shell in the water before so I was not entirely sure.  It was as if the ocean had lifted her mysterious veil for a moment, allowing me a glance at some of her secrets.  As I knelt to investigate, a harsh wave of salty sea knocked me over.  Emerging sputtering and fumbling around through stinging eyes, I realized with complete shock that the “rocks” were actually deeply embedded conchs!!!  But the sea was not going to simply relinquish her treasures that easily.  Learning her dance, I worked for hours in time with the rhythmic waves, digging when I could with part of a sharp piece of shell.  Laboriously I freed big, fully intact conchs from their hiding place beneath the sand and sea.  My husband had awakened at some point and came to inform me we would be leaving for the airport in just two hours.  “OK,” I said, not even looking up.  I paused in my quest long enough to go up to the closest beach bar and ask for a “grand bolsa,” hoping they’d gotten my meaning.  Grinning broadly, a man produced an enormous clear, strong bag that would be perfect for hauling back my treasures.  By now I had drawn a small crowd and everyone was digging around in my spot!  Inwardly grinding my teeth and sighing, I tried to remind myself I held no claim over the ocean.  And the sea was gracious enough to reveal her some of her gifts to me after a week of searching.  I figured I was destined to find the ones I did and to just be thankful.  Knowing I had to go anyway, I had been guarding my big trash sack full of conchs like a wolf hovering over a pile of bones.  Hating to leave, I went to lift them but they would not budge — AT ALL.  I saw a strong looking man passing several feet above me and hollered, “Señor?  Señor?  Por favor?” praying he would stop.  He saw what I was trying to do and very gallantly went to lift my bag.  Like a woman whose dress had just been stepped on from behind, he started to walk and was literally halted midstep.  I saw his eyes widen and feared he might relinquish his silent agreement to help.  Instead he tucked his head down and resolutely dragged the huge sack up the cliff.  Once we were on top of level beach again I gave him my best smile mixed with a hopeful, pleading look and pointed at the slightly far off distance to our hotel.  The wonderful Mexican man lugged the incredibly heavy bag all the way back to where the beach boys all stood together staring.  Trailing along beside him, I just kept saying, “GRACIOUS!” over and over, hoping he knew how grateful I was.  As fate would have it, Burk appeared (no doubt to remind me of the time) and the exhausted man slung the sack at my husband’s feet, giving him a look I interpreted to mean, “good luck.”  Looking down at the giant bag in horror, my beloved proclaimed, “Baby Doll you can’t bring all this back and we have to go.”  Realizing I probably looked crazed, I informed him I was NOT leaving without them.  I had seaweed in my hair and smelled sort of fishy.  The hubs tactfully suggested perhaps I should shower before we left.  I sensed he was about to chime the time to me again so I sweetly asked him to just please carefully bring my seashells into our room and I would start the shower.  Then I pulled one out of Mama’s playbook:  I sent my husband on an “errand” to get him out.  One by one I removed my precious treasure and, with a hint of melancholy, rinsed all the sand away that had bound them to the sea.  This is a picture of most of them drying on the shower bench.  Scaring the wits out of me, the hubs reappeared and hollered the time at me through the bathroom door like a deranged cuckoo clock.  Half-heartedly picking the more obvious strands of seaweed out of my straggly, ocean scented hair, I threw my clothes in with my husband’s.  That freed my luggage for packing my priceless pieces from the sea.  The Canadian author and speaker Tom Wujec said:

“The word ‘question’ originates from the Latin root, quaestio, which means ‘to seek.’  Inside the word ‘question’ is the word ‘quest,’ suggesting that within every question is an adventure, a pursuit which can lead us to hidden treasure.”

This trip began with a question when I sought to see if they had any shells on the beach.  Despite assurances to the contrary, I pursued my quest and was lucky enough to have an adventure that would uncover the best hidden treasure of seashells I had ever encountered.  I had hit the mother lode.

My husband’s skin tone had returned to normal and on this day we all ventured out to tour the ancient ruins of Tulum.  It was very hot but less humid than Coba’s jungle.  Situated on almost 40 foot tall cliffs overlooking the sea, there was at least some ocean breeze to provide a little relief.  At one time it may have been referred to as the “City of Dawn” because it faces east and the rising sun.  Tulum was one of the last sites inhabited by the Maya and was at its height between the 13th and 15th centuries.  It managed to survive about 70 years after the Spanish began their “conquest” of Mexico.  Old World diseases brought by the Spanish seem to have created high fatalities, disrupting their society to the point that the city became abandoned.  A colorful little train took us out to the site, which had wide, white paths out in the open sun; very different from the shaded jungle of Coba.  The views were breathtaking.  My then 88 year old grandmother-in-law was incredible walking around with us while the baby had the luxury of her stroller.  But her little face became so red and her soft baby head was covered in sweat.  What I remember most was the stark contrast of everything in vivid colors against the whiteness of the ruins and the blue of the sea.  Coconuts waited to be opened to drink in the center of brightly colored tables surrounded by chairs each having their own cheery color.  There were handmade hammocks for sale in every shade under grass thatched roofs.  Even the bowls for feeding the stray cats were in bold colors of yellow and red.  As you can see, my little one made a friend.  She was leaning in to kiss him as I snapped this picture.  He was a sexy thing.  After a long day of sightseeing, we all headed back for a little siesta.  That night the three of us enjoyed a lovely dinner on the beach.  The sea and sky blended into one seamless, infinite darkness and we had the lighted, wrapped palm trees to illumine our table while our feet were tucked into the sand.  The French poet and novelist Victor Hugo once said:

“There is one spectacle grander than the sea, that is the sky; there is one spectacle grander than the sky, that is the interior of the soul.”

This was a day full of exploration — from ancient ruins to ancient cultures; from sun, sky, sand, and sea to kissing a lizard.  We enjoyed it all touring Tulum.

The next morning I left my still sick sleeping husband and my little baby snuggled together as I decided to head out the few short steps down to the beach.  I figured if I was within hollering distance they’d be OK.  Feeling slightly guilty, I tried to let go and just relax.  I took this picture of my delicious smoothie being delivered beachside and then decided to peek in on my babies.  My little one was sucking her thumb asleep next to her daddy.  He was still sleeping but looking the exact same greenish hue as the drink I was going back to enjoy.  I crept back out, reclined under my umbrella, and just breathed.  Now it felt like a vacation!  I was free!!!  I didn’t have to worry and I could simply enjoy!  This is how I always thought a Mexican beach vacation was supposed to be!  Solicitous and with (as previously mentioned in another travel blog of mine) the requisite cute beach “boy” factor.  Ahhhh…  No life guard duty; no sunscreen application on hostile persons … just ME actually RELAXING — for no reason!!  It was heaven!  I eventually switched my drink to a pineapple one with some type of liquor and I decided to go on a quest for seashells.  I searched and searched and was able to find some although they were small.  I noticed a giant Buddha statue with special shells around him and thought it would be horribly wrong if I took those offerings.  The Vietnamese Buddhist monk and peace activist Thich Nhat Hanh said:

“Each of us is like the waves and also like the water.  Sometimes we’re excited, noisy, and agitated like the waves.  Sometimes we’re tranquil like still water.  When water is calm, it reflects the blue sky, the clouds, and the trees.  Sometimes, whether we’re at home, work, or school, we become tired, agitated, or unhappy and we need to transform into calm water.  We already have calmness in us; we just need to know how to make it manifest.”

I was not sure I had any calmness already in me, but the lull of the ocean waves and the caress of the sun enabled me to actually let go and relax.