The art of leaving well

It's 8:22 in the evening and I'm sitting by my window, looking out at the rooftops of Paris. The temperature has finally dropped to something bearable—23°C according to my phone—and the sky is that particular shade of blue that only happens just after sunset.

I have 97 days left here. October 7th, 11:25 departure from Charles de Gaulle.

The number sits differently now than it did a week ago, or even yesterday. Not with the weight of urgency, but with something closer to... gratitude? Is that the right word? I'm not sure.

This morning I woke at 6:40 and walked to my usual café near Place de la République. The owner had my coffee ready before I sat down—no words needed anymore, just a nod and a small smile. I stayed for two hours, writing in my notebook, watching the street wake up. The plane trees along the boulevard are in full summer leaf now, their canopy creating pools of shade that will be desperately needed when the next heatwave arrives mid-July.

I didn't plan those two hours. I just... stayed.

A month ago, maybe even two weeks ago, I would have been restless by minute thirty. Would have felt that familiar itch to move, to see something new, to check off another location. But this morning I just sat there, watching an elderly man feed pigeons despite the signs asking him not to, observing a young mother struggle with a stroller on the uneven pavement, noticing how the light changed as the sun climbed higher.

The woman with the stroller reminded me of something the museum guard said at Musée d'Orsay last week: "Prenez votre temps." Take your time.

I've been taking my time. Not in the way I planned when I left Kristiansand 309 days ago—that version of "taking time" involved constantly moving, seeing everything, filling every day with experiences and destinations. This is different. This is... staying. Really staying.

I checked the news earlier. The heatwave that hit on June 24th—the hottest day on record at 40.3°C—is coming back in mid-July. The hospitals are already preparing. I remember that day, remember the elderly woman at Père Lachaise who said "On fait ce qu'on peut." We do what we can.

I'm starting to understand what she meant.

This afternoon I walked through Jardin du Luxembourg. The gardeners were there, as always, doing their meticulous work. One was adjusting a support on a young linden tree, making tiny corrections to the angle. Another was checking the irrigation system, turning valves, testing water pressure. Small adjustments. Consistent care.

I've watched them for weeks now. They never rush. They never seem frustrated by how slowly trees grow. They just... tend. Day after day, the same careful attention.

I sat by the Medici Fountain for a while. The water was perfectly still, reflecting the trees and the sculpture of Polyphemus discovering Acis and Galatea. The same fountain where I spent two hours a few weeks ago, when I first started to understand what it meant to be present instead of productive.

A couple sat down on the bench next to me—American, from their accents. The woman was planning their next three days in Paris, pulling up maps on her phone, talking about hitting the Louvre, Versailles, Sacré-Cœur, all the major sites. The man just nodded, looking tired.

I didn't say anything. It wasn't my place. But I thought about how I would have been that woman 309 days ago. How I was that woman, actually, in so many places. Amsterdam, Athens, Jerusalem, Tokyo. Always planning, always moving, always afraid of missing something.

I'm not afraid of missing things anymore. Or maybe I am, but I've realized that what I was missing wasn't in the next city or the next experience. It was right here, in the staying.

There's an open-air cinema at Monnaie de Paris starting tonight. They're screening Persepolis—I saw it years ago in Kristiansand, but I might walk over later. Or I might not. Either way is fine.

The forecast says it'll be 26°C tomorrow, climbing toward 32°C by Saturday. Another hot week coming. But I know the shaded paths at Père Lachaise now. I know which cafés have air conditioning. I know where the gardeners work early in the morning when it's still cool. I know this city in a way I haven't known any other place on this journey.

And in 97 days, I'll leave it.

Not because I have to. Not because the restlessness is pushing me out. But because the ticket is booked, and sometimes the structure of a fixed departure date is actually a gift. It gives you permission to be exactly where you are, fully, without the constant question of "when should I go?"

I have 97 days to keep learning what the gardeners already know: that transformation isn't about dramatic change or constant movement. It's about showing up, day after day, making small adjustments, tending carefully to what's in front of you.

97 days to practice being present.

97 days to learn how to leave well.

Because that's part of it too, isn't it? The leaving. Not rushing away out of restlessness, but departing with intention. Acknowledging what a place has taught you. Carrying it with you properly.

I don't know if I'm changing the world. That goal seems almost laughable now, sitting here watching the lights come on across Paris. But maybe that was never the right question. Maybe the question is: am I showing up? Am I paying attention? Am I learning how to tend—to this journey, to these experiences, to my own growth—with the same patient care those gardeners give their trees?

I think I'm starting to. Finally.

The sky is almost dark now. I can hear music from somewhere—accordion, predictably Parisian. The temperature will drop a bit more overnight, rise again tomorrow.

I'll wake early, walk to the café, let the owner make my coffee without asking.

I'll take my time.

I have 97 days.