Wandering back to Paris

The first time I ever wandered to France, I had been 18 years old, leaving the familiar soil of North America for the first time.

I remember feeling so foreign. French had been my best subject for 6 years, and I was sure I was equipped to communicate well. But when I arrived in Paris, it seemed that my every attempt to speak French was snubbed and swiftly shut down.

It's possible that I'm exaggerating a bit.... perhaps the sting of rejection was magnified by the emotion of youth. But that feeling of being instantly identified, and treated as an outsider is preserved in my memory like marmalade.

Fast forward, 11 years, and I'm really a foreigner now. The only non-Chinese person on the ship where I live, I exist out of place and out of my element. My towering stature, broad nose and wide eyes draw gasps of surprise and curious glances with each corner I turn. I'm not a confident speaker of Mandarin by any measure!- and what knowledge I have gained does me little good in interpreting the rhythms of the regional dialects more prevalently spoken here. Even if I hid under a hood and sunglasses, and kept silent, no one would be fooled into thinking I belonged here.

And so after spending months living effectively as a sideshow of strangeness in China, I had to laugh at myself for the nostalgic feelings that I began to feel, bubbling up like champagne. I was counting down the days until I'd be in Paris again, as one looking forward to going home.

Navigating France would be as easy as… tarte tatin; a piece of… gateau. I could ask for anything I’d need, without English, without a translation app. I could book train travel without help or hassle. I could order off the whole menu!! I could [kind of] blend in.

This Summer seemed the perfect time for another rendezvous with some serendipitous friends, and the city of lights.

Empty bottles in the planters. The telltale sign of a successful fête.

Travel Companions

Krista-- My "fake cousin" -- Our moms grew us up together, back and forth between New Jersey and New York.

Lucia-- Originally my friend's friend --we both attended his destination wedding last year as "just-ones", and ended up rooming together for the week. She's a wanderer who now calls Paris, home.

Travel Objectives for Paris

To say hey to Lucia
To be immersed in French for a few days; and reabsorb some lost vocab
To pivot to the North from the Paris train station, and make my way to see friends living in Brittany

Bonus: To meet grown-up Krista! As I was drawing my plans for France, I just so happened to catch an Instagram story posted by my fake cousin:

"Just booked! Solo trip to Paris, end of July!"

We hadn't seen each other since childhood, and I thought, what better place than Paris for a frien-naissance? I messaged her straightaway: "How committed are you to the Solo part of your trip?"

Sleeping Places:

Night one: The creaky top bunk of a co-ed hostel dorm.

Night two: Lucia's fluffy bed.

Night three: At Krista's hotel with her: a cousin sleepover like old times.

Local Color: My favorite scenes from the streets

Time Standing Still in the Cafes:

The first morning was mine alone, and I ventured out of my hostel, getting my up-to-date bearings for the little neighborhoods of Montmartre. My last memory here was of an eager peddler, chasing a teenaged-me down, and trying to persuade me to put my finger in a circle of string held out, ready to be tightened. I had fled. But today, the city appeared serene and even empty: no finger trappers in sight. I found a simply adorned bakery, ordered a Petit Dejeuner (croissant, baguette, butter, cherry jam, orange juice and black coffee), and claimed a table by the curbside.

There's an unusual chill in the air for July, and I pull the Hainan airplane blanket from my bag, and drape it elegantly over my shoulders. No doubt, the Parisians will find my confidence and timeless fashion sensibility both intimidating, and awe-inspiring.

I breathe in the unpolluted air, and can almost taste the pulp and peels of oranges being pressed into juice at a nearby fruit stand. The coffee-like aroma of expensive tobacco wafts over to me as cafe dwellers enjoy long leisurely drags. I smell the green summer leaves. I hear.... nothing. It's quiet.

Two young women motion for my attention, and greet me in shy English, glazed with Russian accents: "Excuse me, Madame? Do you mind if we sit here?"

I've already ordered a second breakfast, and by the time I've buttered my second baguette, I'm no longer a foreigner in this place at all-- I'm a fixture.

I motion with my hands at the chairs beside me, as though giving the space into their rightful possession.

"Of course. Please sit!”

What a glorious privilege to be able to offer welcome to a foreigner. A foreigner like me.

Now the soundtrack hums only with the occasional set of wheels on stone roads, and the deep tones of low conversation in Russian and French. The words are chosen carefully so there are no more than necessary, and it's evident that there's no need for enunciation or projection-- the hallmarks of successful communication where I come from! But no, not here. The eyes are fixed, and the ears are attuned to hear each partner's speech. And so the coffee talk plays like whispered music, a slow tempo.

There is a thick clock face, curiously affixed to a lamppost, and the hands move silently in time. No chimes, no bells, just a statement of the hours, which we in the cafes are happy to let laze away.

Classic Parisian Tact in the Marketplace:

Some beautiful dresses in a store window, drew me in from the streets, and I quickly gathered an armful of lace-crocheted frocks from the sale racks. I started to ask the shopkeeper to show me the fitting room--- but she pronounced her objection before the words were out of my mouth. She looked at my dresses, looked at me, and said heartlessly:

"Ceux-ci sont trop petits pour vous." ......Those are too small for you.

Alright then.

Adieu, Felicia.

Dancers Along the Seine:

On Thursday night, Lucia's friend, Michelle (another expat!) called to invite us out dancing. In Paris, in the Summertime, there is a thriving community of social dancers, who every Wednesday and Thursday night can be found spinning and dipping in the open spaces along the river Seine. Unluckily for us, that night, as we started to drive over to the action, it started to rain.

Michelle felt somehow responsible for the turn in the weather, and apologized for bringing us out of our dry habitats and into the coming storm.

"Should we still go? Or should we just go to a cafe instead?"

"We're already here!" I said. "Anyway, the ones who show up to dance in the rain will be the ones with the most passion."

We arrived just in time for Lucia to dance one song with a friend who asked her.... and then the clouds really gave way. The show could not go on... and so the whole assembly of us flooded into a cafe after all. With passion.

The next week, Lucia sent me these photos to show me what I missed:

"What it looks like when it doesn't rain."

Next time.

Lovers At the tour Eiffel:

After a day of many croissants and many kilometers walked, Krista and I imagined we'd kick off our Friday night with a picnic dinner at the Eiffel Tower, where we'd let the twinkling of the lights against the Paris sky enchant us. We picked up sandwiches from a little Italian eatery, and haggled for the best priced bottle of wine. We settled in on a prime spot on the grass, just before 8 o'clock. Almost immediately, the lights of the tower crackled to life, and we said, "Oooooh!", but didn't think to take a picture or a video.... we figured we'd just catch the next one. But as the last light sparkled out, all the moms and dads packed up their kids and left the lawn, and we realized too late, that those moments of twinkling don't come cheap. We'd end up waiting another 3 hours before the lights twinkled again, lighting up the dark.

While we waited, we drank our wine, and people watched. I saw a family of four trying to take a selfie, with all four of them, plus 1,063 feet of metal in the frame. I thought, No, No, and rushed over to rescue their future Christmas card.

A little later, a man approached me and put his phone in my hand. Clearly, I had successfully established myself on the lawn as a trustworthy photographer!

I followed him to where his beloved was waiting for the photo to be taken, and I noticed, he had set the phone to video. "Wait!" I yelled, and ran over to check with him to make sure this setting had been intentional.

He was a native Spanish speaker, and in broken English, he whispered to me: "Yes. Video. Because... I ask her ... marry me."

Everyone went back into position, I hit record, and the two declared their affections in that posture that can be identified in every language. The spectators, all waiting on the grass to behold a pretty sight, took notice of this one instantly. The field erupted into cheers and applause.

And later that evening, when the lights of the Tour Eiffel finally crackled like firecrackers, and danced like fireflies once more, we were ready for it. Oh what a night, in the City of Love.

Daily Bread:

Petit dejeuner for breakfast, petit dejeuner for lunch! All day, every day.

One server at a café heard my lunch order and let out a snort! She looked at her watch.

"Ok, You're on Vacation, you can do what you like."

And she brought me a carousel of jams, preserves and dark chocolate, and 2 baskets of bread.

JE NE REGRETTE RIEN.

Actually there was one day when I didn't have Petit Dejeuner for lunch, and instead, took a grocery store salad from Carrefour for a little picnic. Except I couldn't find a picnic spot, before my hunger overwhelmed me, and so I settled for a dead-end street. I shared the space with a man and his faithful dog, both sprawled out in a deep sleep on the pavement.

A woman looking down from her balcony, shot me a disapproving look, that said, "I know you don't belong here, you riffraff."

But I paid her no attention. I didn't belong anywhere.... and that's the paradox of the wandering life. I can feel exactly as at home lunching at a table, as on a curbside. My soundly dozing dining companions knew it too. The whole world belongs to the meek.

Extravagant Hospitality Received:

An Invitation from Greg; Greg from New Zealand:

I had arrived to my hostel at about 2 am on Thursday morning, and without a doubt woke up all the sleeping boys when I climbed up to the rickety, unmade top bunk. I slept late that morning, and when I woke up, the room was empty. I hopped over a flood in the bathroom to brush my teeth, and then arranged myself cross-legged on the skid-marked hardwood floor, repacking my suitcases.

I'd transferred through Israel the prior night, and the security check had been extensive. Now as I opened my duffels, I found my orderly arrangement of packing cubes in chaos, and a little note from the Tel Aviv port authorities, to let me know, "Hey, yup, we for sure needed to see what was in here."

As I'm taking inventory, the door of our 4-bunk room opens, and in comes one of my bunk mates, a tall man in his 40s. He introduces himself as Greg from New Zealand, and promptly apologizes to me for his loud snoring, telling me he hopes it didn't interfere with my rest. Not at all!, I tell him, and I apologize for arriving at such an ungodly hour, and making noise during peak REM time.

We talk for maybe 5 minutes, and he starts to head out again. I tell him farewell, we won't meet again, as I'm already checking out this morning.

He turns back from the door and pulls out his wallet; leafing through it to find his card.

He says, "Well, hey, I want you to know, you have a place to stay if you ever make it to New Zealand. I have a big house, and I host travelers and friends all the time. I just love doing it. You can come for dinner, and we'll barbecue."

He pauses, and shrugs, handing me the card. "If it's for you, it's for you. If it's not for you, that's alright, but just know, you're welcome."

A feast prepared by Lucia's little hands:

When I had said goodbye to Lucia in our Mumbai hotel room one year ago, she had gifted me with a small coin purse, printed with scenes of Paris. She told me I could come and visit her anytime. When I sent word to her that I would be coming to town, she didn't hesitate to confirm her offer to me. She said, "Emily, Have you already booked a hotel? If not, I can offer my humble bed."

When I arrived to her, she opened one Belgian beer and divided it into two glasses for us to share. We caught up on the year, and the striving, and the dreaming, savoring every rich, cherry-infused sip.

She had prepared for me a simple dinner, a heaping plate of canned green beans, brown rice, and thick-cut bacon. On the rim of the plate, in brown sauce, she had carefully inscribed the words:

"Welcome, Emily."

When dinner was done, she offered me a slice of a peach cake that she'd baked, and a popsicle of homemade sorbet that she'd blended and frozen.

We had just discussed the extreme pressures and time commitments of her current work situation, and the transition timeline she was counting down before she could settle into a new role and finally have some relief. I knew that she worked extremely hard during the week. Today was Thursday. She was prepping for a business trip tomorrow. She barely had time to rest or nourish herself. And yet she had opened wide her doors, and laid extravagantly her table, for unexpected company.

"Lucia," I marveled, between delicious bites of everything.... "How did you do all this??"

She blinked, as if not understanding the question. Then she held up her ten fingers, swiveling them back and forth in the air.

"With these little hands."

Since Lucia had to be out of the house and headed onto a train to Brussels by 5am, she put herself out, catching her precious few hours of sleep on the couch, and insisting that I sleep late, undisturbed in her room.

I tried to fight her on this outrageous magnanimity, but if you ever get the pleasure to meet Lucia, you will learn quickly: There is no bossing her. Yes, her voice is gentle and her hands are small, but the woman runs show.

Defeated, I passed out gratefully in Lucia's bed. And in the morning, what should I find but a love note, written in French, and yet another feast adorning the breakfast table. There was my mug of coffee already brewed, a kettle of tea, a flask of water, an omelette, and a basket overfilled with cakes and pastries.

We’d been out with the dancers well past midnight. She had left the house this morning at 5 am. How.... how did she do all this?

With her little hands.

Bless them.

A request form Lucia to her roommate, that he not bolt me inside the house when he left for work in the morning.

Co-Laborers at Work:

At an Italian cafe, I wandered in alone, and a server greeted me warmly in Italian; calling me Bella.

Having just barely worked myself into a French headspace, I was totally caught off guard. "Oh! Bonjourno!"

I ordered a house beer, a small one.
With my 3 Euro purchase, I bought the right to recline at a corner table, looking out into the bustling square of the Place de Clichy, watching the people of the world seek their bliss. I sipped golden beer from a goblet, listened to the sounds of music and motorcycles, and averted my eyes as lovers around me stole kisses.

As I stared happily into the square, my thoughts were interrupted, by a generously full little dish being set on my table... wordlessly, but with a force. Buttery, salty peanuts, bestowed on me, (that customer who purchased one count of the cheapest thing on the menu) like a gift from a friend.

Maybe this kind-eyed server had recognized me as one of his own-- knowing a fellow hospitality worker when he saw one. Maybe he just liked my smile. But I had the sense that he was just one of those purely and indiscriminately hospitable people: gifted in the work of making strangers feel at home.

Reflections on the light and love found in Paris

Can you count how many times I found welcome, and belonging in Paris this Summer?

Did you notice how many of the welcomers, were actually fellow foreigners?

Lucia, originally from Romania, came to France many years ago, and has properly made Paris her home.She made absolutely certain during my short stay, that I could feel it was my home too. When I left her, she insisted on seeing me to the train, even three subway changes away, and would not be deterred from carrying one of my heavy bags on her tiny shoulders.

She offered me the best of her time, her space and the work of her hands. And it was a lavish outpouring.

And this, not because she had known me well, and not even because I am an easy friend for her to have! In fact, Lucia and I clash almost more than we click… because we BOTH are that kind of woman who likes to run show! But because of who Lucia is, she will not let her obligation for hospitality be deterred by anything.

Michelle, who took me and Lucia out dancing and for a lively night in the city, was originally a dual citizen of the US and Mexico. Now she is a resident of France, and the friends she’s made, and the life she’s found here, she opened up to me. Strolling the rain-darkened pavement with her and her dancing troupe, in giddy pursuit of midnight crepes was enchanting.

Greg, wandering from New Zealand, and finding me, jet-lagged and a little cranky, repacking my things on the hostel floor, nonetheless offered me the coordinates of the house where he and his family lives. He told me, quite sincerely, that I could consider the door open to me. No strings, no time constraints. Just a place that belonged to him that he was happy to share with a fellow wanderer. And this, not because I was charming or especially kind….. at the moment that I met him, I wasn’t. But he opened up his life to me, not because of who I am, but because of who he is.

Krista, her sights initially set on the fearless, unencumbered experience of solo travel, gave up that vision, and a slice of her freedom to stroll and sip Sauvignon Blancs with a companion-starved me. And when I lost track of time (and Lucia!) on Friday night, she made room for me in her hotel room too. Not because our family relation is genuine… but because her generous heart is.

Our Latin American friends invited me and Krista straight into their love story, as the man got down on one knee and I held steady my breath and my hands. Italian restauranters twice made me feel at home. And I hope that those Russian ladies found a place of belonging in the cafe next to me.

And yes, this time, I was treated kindly by the French too! (Well, except for that pragmatic shopkeeper— the guardian of the dresses.) The cafe servers were patient and lovely to me, calling me Chérie. And a whole hoard of Parisian West Coast Swingers shared with me their riverside, their tables and their night.

But the authority and the power of the welcome of strangers was especially pronounced here. And what a sweet way to see the city now, to completely redeem my first, slightly bitter view.

“Also you shall not oppress a stranger, for you know the heart of a stranger, because you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” -Exodus 23:9

“Therefore, love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” -Deuteronomy 10:19

These commands of God seem to write themselves on the hearts of those who have known the harshness of unwelcome!

And I think it’s worth whatever discomfort we may have to wander through so that they do. Because in learning to be welcomers, we are learning to be like God.

God offers welcome to us strangers, not because of who we are, but because of who he is. And if we let him, he will teach our hearts to open wide too, till we radiate gracious invitation from the inside out.

The chance we have to offer hospitality, to offer a place to belong, is a gift without borders or limits. It's also a command. And it’s always a fountain of mutual blessing, and an anywhere-rendezvous-point with the spirit and heart of God.

This stranger is grateful to the citizens and resident aliens of Paris. Thank you for welcoming the strangers, who welcomed me. Thank you for making room in your city and in your hearts, for the whole wide world to bask in your light.