When you realize you've been hiding

It's 13:40. I'm sitting in my hotel room with the windows closed, curtains drawn, and the fan running at full speed. Outside, Paris is baking under 34°C heat with warnings of thunderstorms later. I can hear the city through the walls - muffled conversations, distant sirens, the occasional motorcycle - but I'm not part of it.

I've been in Paris for nearly three weeks now. Twenty-one days. The longest I've stayed anywhere since leaving Kristiansand.

This morning I woke up at 6:30 with good intentions. Really, I did. I was going to beat the heat, get out early, maybe finally visit the Musée d'Orsay or walk through Montmartre before the crowds arrived. I even got dressed, checked the weather app one more time, saw it was already 21°C at 7:00, and... sat back down on the bed.

Then I opened my laptop.

I've been reading about the rail strikes starting tomorrow. Nationwide disruptions through July 15th. TGV trains cancelled, regional lines affected, Paris Métro experiencing issues. The timing is almost poetic - as if the universe is providing me with another excuse to stay put.

Because that's what I've been doing, isn't it? Finding excuses.

The heat. The crowds. The language barrier. The restlessness that somehow turned into inertia. The vague plan to "make the most of Paris" that became sitting in cafés, walking the same routes, photographing the same plane trees along the Seine.

I have 203 days left. My flight home is booked for January 9th - my 51st birthday. And I'm spending day 297 hiding in a hotel room in one of the most beautiful cities in the world.

The truth about stillness

I wrote a few days ago about finding contentment in stillness. About not needing to rush through bucket lists. About being present.

And I believed it. I still do, actually.

But there's a difference between choosing stillness and hiding behind it.

I came to Paris because I had a booked flight from Osaka. I stayed because... well, I told myself it was because I was learning to slow down. To observe. To let the city reveal itself gradually instead of attacking it with a checklist.

But sitting here now, listening to Paris happen without me, I'm wondering if I've just been scared.

Scared of what? I don't even know. Maybe scared that if I actually do the things I came here to do - Versailles, Père Lachaise, the museums, Montmartre - I'll run out of reasons to stay. And if I run out of reasons to stay in Paris, I'll have to make a decision about where to go next. And if I make that decision, I'll have to confront the fact that I have 203 days left and still no idea what I'm supposed to be learning from all of this.

I left home to change myself before turning 51. To find some way to change the world by first changing myself.

But what if you can't change yourself by just... sitting still?

The heatwave as metaphor

The orange weather alert on my phone says everyone is in danger from this heat. Even healthy people. It warns about dehydration, heatstroke, the importance of staying in air-conditioned spaces during the hottest hours.

My hotel doesn't have air conditioning.

So I sit here with my fan, drinking water, waiting for the temperature to drop. Waiting for conditions to be perfect before I venture out. Waiting for the right moment that never quite arrives.

This morning, before I gave up and opened my laptop, I stood by the window and watched the street below. A woman was setting up a small table outside a café, moving slowly in the heat. A delivery driver was unloading boxes, pausing every few minutes to wipe his forehead. Two tourists walked past with a paper map, looking lost and uncomfortable.

Everyone else was just... doing things. Despite the heat. Despite the discomfort.

And I was watching from behind glass.

What I came here to do

I made a list when I first arrived. Things I wanted to experience in Paris:

  • Walk along the Seine and photograph the plane trees (done, repeatedly)
  • Visit the Musée d'Orsay (not done)
  • Explore Jardin du Luxembourg (not done)
  • Experience Montmartre in the morning (not done)
  • Try authentic croissants (done, once, two weeks ago)
  • Visit Père Lachaise Cemetery (not done)
  • Day trip to Versailles (not done)
  • Find a quiet café to write (done, many times)
  • Walk the Promenade Plantée (not done)
  • Simply sit in parks and observe (done, sort of)

I've been here 21 days and I've barely scratched the surface. Not because I'm taking it slow and savoring each experience. But because I've been taking it so slow that nothing is actually happening.

The restlessness I used to feel - that urgent need to move, to see the next place, to keep searching - has been replaced by something heavier. Not peace. Not contentment. Just... weight.

Tomorrow

The forecast for tomorrow is 34°C with possible thunderstorms. The rail strikes begin. The orange alert continues.

More reasons to stay inside. More excuses to wait.

But I have 203 days left. That sounds like a lot, but it's not. Not really. Not when you've spent three weeks in one city photographing the same trees and drinking coffee in the same café and pretending that stillness is the same as presence.

I don't know what I'm going to do tomorrow. Maybe I'll finally visit the Musée d'Orsay at opening time. Maybe I'll take the Métro to Montmartre before the heat becomes unbearable. Maybe I'll book a ticket out of Paris and finally move on to one of those bucket list destinations that feel increasingly abstract.

Or maybe I'll sit in this hotel room again, fan running, curtains drawn, waiting for perfect conditions that will never arrive.

The thing about transformation is that it requires action. You can't think your way into becoming someone new. You can't wait for the universe to hand you change like a gift.

I'm starting to understand that the restlessness I felt for so long wasn't the problem. It was trying to tell me something. And by learning to ignore it, by convincing myself that stillness was the answer, I might have just found a more comfortable way to avoid the actual work.

Outside my window, Paris is living its life. The heat is real, the strikes are coming, the thunderstorms are building.

But the city is still there. Still beautiful. Still waiting.

And I have 203 days left to figure out whether I'm going to actually experience them or just wait for them to pass.

The fan keeps running. The temperature keeps rising. And I'm still sitting here, writing about doing instead of doing.

Maybe that's the real transformation - finally seeing yourself clearly enough to realize you've been hiding all along.