Fourth Form of Madness

Yesterday I decided it was time to sample yoga the French way. After a quick web search I located an Iyengar studio called Himayoga (actually my husband did) in the 9th Arrondissement. We decided to walk there for a 10am class as it was such a lovely day and it is a good warm up. After a lovely walk through the sleeping streets of Paris (apparently I am the only crazy one who thinks of going to yoga on a Saturday) we arrived at the studio which at 10min to 10 was still shut with the shutters down. Encouragingly there was one student waiting so we decided to walk around the area. We walked straight into the Moulin Rouge which was kind of cool. Then we walked straight into the sleazy nightclub area and girly clubs, which at 10am were still going from the night before. I’ve got to admit I was pretty impressed by that, it reminded me of my days in London when me and my girlfriend, Tanya, used to visit nightclubs just like that. I only pray that we looked better than the people coming out of them!

We returned to the studio where quite a crowd of yoginis and yogis had gathered. That was an encouraging sign. At 1 to 10 a very chiselled, statuesque looking woman, wearing a really nice mac (in 30 degree heat mind you), sauntered down the road. She looked like a well cut young Kathleen Turner. Whilst I settled in, brought a mat and generally explained to anyone that would listen that I didn’t understand French (much to my embarrassment) everyone else set up their mats. This left me the only position available so I set my mat up beside the wall. I was then told in much French and a little English that this was the teachers spot and was promptly relocated to right infront of the class wall that was floor to ceiling windows and faced out to the street. Great the whole street was going to be getting a great view of my bum everything I basically bent over – which is in yoga is most of the class. Luckily it was also behind the only French guy in the class that looked like he could be easily in their movies. As I adjusted my top and wondering if I could relocate myself behind the huge column that stood before me, he started speaking to me in French. He must have said 5 bonjours before I realised he was talking to me. Finally I responded with a bonjour that clearly established I was Australian. After that he spoke english to me what I thought was very gracious as I was the lazy girl who had not bothered to learn French as well as my husband.

Young Kathleen Turner reappeared and what an entrance. She had on tiny little black footy shorts (tinier than any I have ever seen) and a tight top. She certainly did look like a professional dancer. Soon we were triangling, down dogging, handstanding and headstanding like it was not Saturday morning and most of the class weren’t suffering from hangovers. The French guy ended up being a wonderful temporary yoga buddy who translated all the explanatory parts that the teacher was saying Three quarters of the way through I must have committed a yoga no-no when I thought Kathleen had said savasana and I laid down gratefully and cleared my mind and let my body sink into the ground. It turns out she said halasana, I know this as I was brought round to her face hovering above mine asking if I was okay and would I care to join everyone else. French guy explained that I looked far to peaceful to disturb. I had a great time and it was a really challenging class. It was good to focus on my breathing and not let language barriers or the high level of the class disturb it’s constant rhythm. Actually I felt almost that yoga gave us all in that room one language that we could understand each other. By the time the class started chanting (something I wish we had in more Australian classes) I was joined to them in this mutual bond and felt very moved and teary as their beautiful sounds and earnest practice surrounded me.

In the afternoon, husband and I decided to go on the “tourist tour” of Paris. We caught the Metro to the Champs-Elysees, the Arc de Triomphe and the Eiffel tower. There is a song by “Art verses Science” that goes “The Champs-Elysees is a busy street”. That song needs a re-write, it is a very very very busy street! After strolling down the Champs-Elysees the best you can when you are surrounded by more than half the world population, we paused briefly to take some photos of Arc. The traffic flowed none stop around it as we watched almost 3 near accidents. Then we walked down to the Eiffel tower where the other half of the world’s population were waiting for us. We brought an ice-cream and sat beneath a shaddy tree. I had no inclination to go up it so it was nice to sit beneath it and savour it’s many angles and depths. Then I had the great idea to walk home. Ouch. My feet and legs are still aching. Whilst we did see more of Paris and its beautiful buildings (some of which we are still trying to identify what they were) I now can’t put my foot down without a serious ache in them and my shins. Even husband was exhausted, I didn’t feel so bad when super fit husband was also done in by the walk!

We treated ourselves to a traditional Corsican meal to help relieve the aches and pains. Husband had the wild boar stew (why not when you are in Paris) and I had linguine with prawns. I think my husband was over come with the gameness of his boar but still ate it all helpfully washed down with a beer. I loved mine. It looked like a whole block of seriously orange cheese had been mixed in with the linguine which made it a tad like macaroni and cheese but I just felt like something sinfully naughty and off the scales and I found it. We hobbled home to watch the new Tron movie on the Mac. Well I tried but I fell asleep after 5 minutes!