The trees of Luxembourg

I'm writing this from a bench in Jardin du Luxembourg, where I've been sitting for the past hour watching the light change through the chestnut trees.

It's 19:20 and still 27°C. The heat has finally broken into something almost pleasant, and the garden is full of people who've emerged from wherever they've been hiding all day. Children are sailing toy boats in the fountain. A group of students are sprawled on the grass with textbooks they're mostly ignoring. An elderly couple walks past every fifteen minutes, completing their circuit.

I came here this morning at 7:30, right when the gates opened. The formal tree arrangements I wanted to document were perfect in the early light—rows of plane trees creating geometric shadows, the perfectly maintained allées stretching in straight lines. I took photos methodically, walking each path, noting how the French approach to gardens is so different from the wild forests I know.

But then I found the Medici Fountain again.

I've been there before, of course. It was one of my first stops when I arrived in Paris. But this morning, with the water so still it perfectly mirrored the trees and the sculpture, I understood something I'd missed before.

I sat on the same stone bench where I'd spent two hours a few weeks ago, learning to be still. A young woman was sketching the fountain. A man was reading, his book reflected in the water. And I realized: I've been here 283 days now. Almost nine months in one city.

Nine months.

Back in Amsterdam, I couldn't stay three days without feeling restless. In Tokyo, a week felt like forever. But Paris has held me in a way I didn't expect. Not because it's perfect—the heat has been brutal, the crowds exhausting, the constant noise of a city that never quite sleeps wearing. But because I've learned something here about the difference between moving and changing.

I thought this journey was about seeing the world. And it is. But it's also about learning to see one place deeply enough that it changes you.

The trees in Luxembourg aren't the tallest I've seen. They're not the oldest or the most dramatic. But they're maintained with such care, pruned and shaped and tended by people who understand that a garden is a long conversation between humans and nature. That transformation takes time and patience and daily attention.

I watched the gardeners this morning, working in the relative cool before 9:00. They moved with the efficiency of people who've done this for years, who know every tree individually. One man was examining a horse chestnut, running his hand along the bark, checking for something I couldn't see. He nodded to himself, made a note on his clipboard, moved to the next tree.

It reminded me of my IT work, actually. Not in any grand way, but in that attention to detail. The way you maintain systems not through dramatic interventions but through consistent care. Daily checks. Small adjustments. Patience.

I left the fountain around 10:00 and walked the entire garden. It took three hours. I didn't rush. I sat on different benches, watched different groups of people, studied different trees. The oaks near the tennis courts. The apple trees in the orchard section. The perfectly aligned poplars along the northern edge.

And I kept thinking: I have 97 days left here. My flight to Amsterdam is booked for October 7th. It feels both impossibly far away and frighteningly close.

I had lunch at a small café just outside the garden gates—a croque monsieur and water, sitting in the shade. The waiter brought me an extra glass of water without asking. People here have started to recognize me, I think. The tall Norwegian who sits alone and watches the trees.

This afternoon I walked to Père Lachaise. I needed to see the cemetery again, to sit under those ancient trees where I'd shared a bench with the elderly woman during the worst of the heat. The paths were busy with tourists, but I found a quiet corner near some older graves, overgrown with ivy and shaded by a massive oak.

I thought about her words: "On fait ce qu'on peut." We do what we can.

And I thought about the Tour de France starting in a few days, all those cyclists racing through France. And the Bastille Day celebrations being moved to the 13th this year because of the Nice anniversary. And how Paris is preparing for these events while still recovering from the heatwave, while the planet keeps warming, while everything feels both urgent and impossibly slow.

We do what we can.

I'm not going to change the world with grand gestures. I know that now. But maybe change happens like the work of those gardeners in Luxembourg—daily attention, small adjustments, consistent care. Being present. Being kind. Noticing.

The light is starting to fade now. The garden will close soon and everyone will filter out through the gates. Tomorrow I think I'll visit the Musée d'Orsay—I keep meaning to go, and the forecast says it might hit 30°C again by the weekend. Better to be in an air-conditioned museum than melting on the streets.

But tonight, I'm just sitting here watching the chestnut trees and thinking about patience. About roots that go deep. About the difference between moving fast and growing strong.

97 days left in Paris.

I'm going to make them count.