Paris

 “The way you start is the way you end,” was a saying Kyshun used often in talking about our work at Operation REACH. I don't think that will be true this trip. Tomorrow morning we pick up our Renault Wind Coupe Convertible and exit Paris for Amsterdam, leaving our first international stop behind us. With it, I hope to leave the weight of the first stop. As one who has committed to a year of traveling, planned for months, talked about it for even longer, budgeted, interviewed people, discussed, debated, decided and decided not to decide yet on many things related to “the trip,” the first stop carries a lot of weight. Behind our daily decisions is the subtle but driving goal to be good at traveling, to have done the right thing, to know our way around, make good decisions. Because, after all, if we cannot navigate a metropolitan city like Paris, how will we travel in the Gambia or Calcutta? And during the brief moments I stop judging my own decisions (Am I spending money wisely? Am I reading maps right? Are we missing some important sight or place we will regret later?), I am busy judging my travel partners ability to navigate a foreign country. And somehow in my judgment, all people I know and love (including myself) deserve death, but all strangers deserve the compassion and forgiveness of a saint. Funny how that works. And so with that perspective, I will write about our last few days in Paris.

Paris is an absolutely beautiful city, particularly in the summer time. One can't help but feel like the urban planners of days gone by far exceed today's. The parks, the cobblestone, the cathedrals, the architecture, the metro system. It all reveals a wisdom and foresight far beyond today's standard. And the people are generally beautiful too. All of them, Parisians, Italian tourists speaking their boisterous and beautiful native language, the Africans selling Eiffel Tower key chains, the French military armed with machine guns patrolling the Eiffel Tower for potential terrorism, black folk from all parts of Africa and Europe, Tunisians, Turks, throngs of tourists of all races photographing the Mona Lisa, the Sammy Hagar-looking German dressed in the white linen of some spiritual practice, Moroccans, Chinese, Vietnamese, Japanese, Pakistanis with their fruit stands at the entrance to the Olympiades metro station, the Jews at the Chez Hannah self-proclaimed “best felafel in the world” (perhaps they own it, because they don't work it, but the Stars of David are everywhere). Well, perhaps except the American college student. I have always felt that exchange programs for the most part float the American college fraternity and sorority bubble overseas for a semester in a different setting with the same experiences as home.

The Notre Dame is a magnificent Cathedral. Hard to imagine it being built in a time without power tools, trucks or computer design programs. The Sacre Coeur is equally as beautiful and sits on the good shoulder of the city above the windy streets of Montmarte with a saintly view. And the Louvre, where one finds oneself alternating from admiring the art installations to the building and architecture itself. The various gardens with their fountains and ample chairs, the Luxembourg, the Eiffel Tower, the random old buildings, the cobblestone streets, the creperies, the boulangeries, the trattorias, the epicuries, the brasseries with their chairs crowded along the sidewalk, all facing toward the street and overflowing with people drinking at happy hour, the Seine elegantly winding through the city's center with its tourist-packed tour boats and its evening lovers stretching out on its banks. It is Paris. Far better authors than I have described it far better than I in poetry, music and prose of days gone by.

Suffice it to say that all in all, we did Paris well. We walked it for hours each day, always stumbling into something beautiful and special. We found good live music daily, ranging from street musicians with drum sets and pianos to a free concert in the park with charming female folk guitarist Lail Arad (“Everyone is Moving to Berlin”) and local rock band Shaka Ponk (Annette doesn't want me to describe them as a French version of the Black Eyed Peas, but they seemed to have similar theatrics, lights and video). (Of course, that description is based on one hour watching Shaka Ponk and seeing the Black Eyed Peas Super Bowl half time set last year and one of their videos). We drank wine and ate crepes and baguettes in various parks while watching people of all ages play ping pong (next time I come to Paris I am bringing my paddle.) Yet despite all of the charm and beauty of Paris, I cannot help but be struck by how much of the history is a history of imperialism and egotism (leaving some impressive physical legacy). The Louvre would take days to explore, and seems to be an advertisement for how great its various Kings and other creators were. And the magnificence of Christianity is on full display in the cathedrals, just in case anybody was wondering if this religion was legit. The Sacre Coeur has a 20 meter Jesus blessing all races on the inside of its incredible dome over the altar, seeming to make a case for proselytizing further, wider and with more force. These buildings are decorated with knights and warriors on horses, lions and chariots. As the British Museum taught me many years ago, national museums are often showcases for the spoils of centuries of victory. France's is impressive and filled with depictions of Jesus bleeding.