Paris

The hooded figure slid his hand next to mine and picked up my suitcase without saying a word. He carried her all the way down the metro steps without turning around, set her down and walked quickly on. “Merci beaucoup,” I called, but I never saw his face.

So would go much of my experience with the people here. Quietly kind. It’s more than courtesy- there’s a loving warmth underneath the properness that is subtle but unmistakable. There is a gentle love of life, of humanity, of the breath that we share but don’t often speak of.

I sense that actions certainly speak louder than words here. Not that words fall short, but they only carry weight if backed, and so they are. I find it both refreshing and calming, a relief to the chaos I feel back home where words are thrown around with little care what they mean or where they land.

It strikes me that so much can be endured-even tragedy- and yet still revered when embraced for what it is. Nothing in life is ugly if lived fully and surrendered to in full. Held together. I feel that walking along the Seine. An unspoken pride, love, and I dare say joy that survives all tumult, poverty, suffering, war, revolution here. For such ancient paths beneath my feet, a youthful, spritely, eternal spirit fills the air, as if born this morning, undead yesterday, and whispering sweetly for tomorrow.