One of the many things I love about having a regular yoga practice is that no matter where I go or what I’m doing, I can always touch home base by getting on my mat or going to a yoga studio. The classes might be different from what I’m used to, and the instructors might speak in a language I don’t understand. But if I really give myself over to the teacher, banish expectations, and stay open to the experience, I always feel welcome and as if I’ve landed on familiar ground.
This month, I was in Paris doing some writing-related work. After twenty-four hours, I was stressed and jet-lagged and, in general, pretty cranky and unpleasant to be with. My schedule had been booked for me by an editor, and I had almost no time to myself. What a waste, to be in the world’s most beautiful city and to be stressed out and in a bad mood. I was staying in the 9th arrondissement, not far from Montmartre, in a small studio apartment. I’d brought some Gaiam grippy gloves and socks so I wouldn’t have to travel with a mat (yes, the gloves and socks look a little silly, but they really do work), but I still couldn’t get motivated to practice on my own.
When it got to the point that I couldn’t stand my own company, I went online to search for a yoga studio.
In LA or New York, you can pretty much walk out of your hotel and find a yoga studio within a few blocks. Not so in Paris. In many things, France is way head of us. Fashion, food, health care, appreciation for Woody Allen. But when it comes to e-books and fitness, they’re still pretty far behind. Everyone I talked to said they wanted to try yoga or felt that they “should do it,” but I didn’t run into one Parisian who said he or she had a regular practice.
A little Googling led me to an Astanga studio that looked pretty accessible by the Metro. So I came up with an excuse, canceled my dinner plans, and set off.
I have a really bad sense of direction, so I got in the habit of mapping out a route before I went anywhere and writing down the details in my little always-at-hand notebook. (Rue des Martyrs to right on Haussmann, etc.) About thirty percent of the people you see walking around Paris are carrying maps, but you’re better off without, especially if it’s raining or windy and you’re also jostling an umbrella or bags.
The studio turned out to be in a somewhat out-of-the-way, mostly Arab neighborhood. It was dusk when I arrived, and I felt like an outsider for sure, surrounded by women in scarves and men wearing djellabas. It took a few strolls up and down a crowded residential street to find the address. But when I was pretty sure I was at the right door, I punched the code into the pad and entered into a serene courtyard with a Japanese garden, complete with softly bubbling fountains and beautiful plantings. There were a couple of people waiting at the inner door, yoga mats slung over their shoulders, and as soon as I saw them, I felt truly at home for the first time since I’d arrived.
The class was in a small, second-story room with one wall of glass looking down into the garden below and into the apartments across the courtyard. The students (maybe a dozen altogether) were a completely eclectic group-French, English, African, German. The levels of experience were equally mixed-from the British guy next to me who went up into a handstand during every vinyasa (and if you’re used to practicing Astanga, you know that’s a LOT of handstands), to the ruddy-faced guy across from me in socks and long pants who smelled pretty strongly of cigarettes. The teacher was Canadian and led the class mostly in English, with the occasional French tossed in. (A good vocabulary refresher for me in body parts.)
Astanga is a pretty intense practice, and if you really focus on it, it’s almost impossible to think about other things. For me, it truly does become a moving meditation. At the end of ninety minutes, I was in a completely different place than I’d been in at the start of class. My jet-lag headache was gone, my crankiness had evaporated, and perhaps most importantly, I felt as if I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
When I walked through the garden and out into the cool fall evening, I felt as if I belonged, despite the djallabas and the language. I’d found my little place in Paris, and no matter how stressful the coming days were going to be, I knew I could return here to be refreshed and renewed and in the company of people who felt like my yoga friends, despite the fact that I hadn’t spoken more than a few words to any of them. I’d found a community, made a connection, and as we know, yoga is all about connecting.
