Read Online The Secret Letters of the Monk Who Sold His Ferrari by Robin Sharma - Free Book Online
Authors: Robin Sharma
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sun began to set, I felt wistful. Paris was really a place to be with someone else. I watched couples holding hands as they walked, men and women leaning close to each other as they sat at small tables in the outdoor cafés. If Annisha were here… If Annisha were here, we would have to talk about our relationship. What went wrong, how I was frustrating her, disappointing Adam. Damn. The magic of Paris was evaporating. Change tack. What would it be like to be here with Tessa? That was better. The romance of the unknown.
I walked a distance into the park, before turning around and heading back up the wide avenue. I could see the magnificent outline of the Arc de Triomphe in the distance. I stopped in one of the little bistros for dinner. I was ravenous. I ordered a salad and a carafe of red wine. Duck to follow, and then a selection of cheeses to end the meal. This was the way to eat.
The bistro was crowded. I tried to listen in on the conversations around me. A mother and daughter, clearly on vacation. What would they do tomorrow? Shopping or take the train to Versailles? Some businessmen talking about a presentation they would do at the end of the week. A couple talking about their neighbor’s bad-tempered dog.
I lingered over the cheese tray for a long while, then paid my bill and headed back into the night. The sun had set, and the City of Lights was … alight. I made my way up the avenue to the Arc de Triomphe and climbed the three hundred or so stairs to the roof. I wouldn’t be going up the Eiffel Tower (elevators), so this was the next best way to look at the city. Once at the top, I walked around the perimeter of the observation area.The Eiffel Tower was shimmering to the west. Cars and cabs blinked their way down the streets radiating from the Place de l’Étoile. Tiny figures moved down the sidewalks, in and out of storefronts and doorways. So many people, so many lives; all different, all shifting and changing. Were all these souls living “authentic” lives? And if they weren’t, would they know it?
I was still uncertain about what my authentic life was, but I had a suspicion I wasn’t leading it. If I were, would there be so much that I wanted to avoid thinking about? Annisha? My father? Juan? If I were, wouldn’t I be feeling a lot happier more of the time? I turned to head back down the stairs. Around and around the steps, the stone walls cool and silent. With each turn I felt energy draining from me. It had been a long day. A long several days, actually. Since meeting Julian, it had all been a whirlwind. My home, my work, seemed distant now. And the coming weeks loomed ahead like gigantic question marks. Time to head for the hotel bed; time for the forgetfulness of sleep.
T HE NEXT MORNING , I took the metro to the Marais district of Paris, to a little café I remembered from a previous visit. A café au lait and a pain au chocolat. As I sat at the tiny table, I pulled out my phone. I answered a few messages and then switched to the Internet. I typed in “Catacombs of Paris.”
I had heard about the catacombs but had never seen them. Reading about them now, that seemed like a very wise decision.
Like people in other Christian countries, Parisians buried their dead in the consecrated ground of the churchyards. The problem, apparently, was that as the centuries unfolded, these cemeteries began to fill. And of course, as time marched on, thepopulations who lived around the cemeteries grew. By the late 1700s the earth of the graveyards was choked with the victims of plague, epidemics, starvation and war. For decades, the corpses were piled one on top of the other, and the burial grounds spat bones and decomposing flesh through the mud. The air around these fields was rank; the oozing soil was contaminating the water and the food supplies. Diseased rats invaded homes and public space, and in one particularly grisly incident, the walls in a restaurant basement crumbled under the pressure of the
I walked a distance into the park, before turning around and heading back up the wide avenue. I could see the magnificent outline of the Arc de Triomphe in the distance. I stopped in one of the little bistros for dinner. I was ravenous. I ordered a salad and a carafe of red wine. Duck to follow, and then a selection of cheeses to end the meal. This was the way to eat.
The bistro was crowded. I tried to listen in on the conversations around me. A mother and daughter, clearly on vacation. What would they do tomorrow? Shopping or take the train to Versailles? Some businessmen talking about a presentation they would do at the end of the week. A couple talking about their neighbor’s bad-tempered dog.
I lingered over the cheese tray for a long while, then paid my bill and headed back into the night. The sun had set, and the City of Lights was … alight. I made my way up the avenue to the Arc de Triomphe and climbed the three hundred or so stairs to the roof. I wouldn’t be going up the Eiffel Tower (elevators), so this was the next best way to look at the city. Once at the top, I walked around the perimeter of the observation area.The Eiffel Tower was shimmering to the west. Cars and cabs blinked their way down the streets radiating from the Place de l’Étoile. Tiny figures moved down the sidewalks, in and out of storefronts and doorways. So many people, so many lives; all different, all shifting and changing. Were all these souls living “authentic” lives? And if they weren’t, would they know it?
I was still uncertain about what my authentic life was, but I had a suspicion I wasn’t leading it. If I were, would there be so much that I wanted to avoid thinking about? Annisha? My father? Juan? If I were, wouldn’t I be feeling a lot happier more of the time? I turned to head back down the stairs. Around and around the steps, the stone walls cool and silent. With each turn I felt energy draining from me. It had been a long day. A long several days, actually. Since meeting Julian, it had all been a whirlwind. My home, my work, seemed distant now. And the coming weeks loomed ahead like gigantic question marks. Time to head for the hotel bed; time for the forgetfulness of sleep.
T HE NEXT MORNING , I took the metro to the Marais district of Paris, to a little café I remembered from a previous visit. A café au lait and a pain au chocolat. As I sat at the tiny table, I pulled out my phone. I answered a few messages and then switched to the Internet. I typed in “Catacombs of Paris.”
I had heard about the catacombs but had never seen them. Reading about them now, that seemed like a very wise decision.
Like people in other Christian countries, Parisians buried their dead in the consecrated ground of the churchyards. The problem, apparently, was that as the centuries unfolded, these cemeteries began to fill. And of course, as time marched on, thepopulations who lived around the cemeteries grew. By the late 1700s the earth of the graveyards was choked with the victims of plague, epidemics, starvation and war. For decades, the corpses were piled one on top of the other, and the burial grounds spat bones and decomposing flesh through the mud. The air around these fields was rank; the oozing soil was contaminating the water and the food supplies. Diseased rats invaded homes and public space, and in one particularly grisly incident, the walls in a restaurant basement crumbled under the pressure of the
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