The car slowly pulled away from the curb, and I waved as it carried away the French girl that I thought I could have loved. She bounced around in my mind like a bowl full of magnetized jello in a field of random magnetic flux. I shivered, wondering why I had come all this way across that vast ocean to see a girl who I had known for only 30 days. Earlier in the trip I had cursed my stupidity, had went over and over in my mind at machine gun speed the points and tenets of my stupidity. Now I let my thoughts flow through my skull like ether diffusing into a room after its container has been opened. I was ready to let everything out, to forget everything, to be myself again- something I hadn't been doing completely for five months. Not knowing exactly where I was going, in mind or body, I wrapped my hand around my walking stick, and started off down the streets of Paris. I knew that I would be spending the rest of that day, and that night, alone in Paris and that I would be catching a train early the next morning. Besides that all I was sure of was that I had money and my walking stick. I planned to find the rest out, that night, if I could, in the city of lights.

My walking stick is a chin-high staff made from a 5 year old sapling from Germany's black forest. It has a hole through its center about 5 inches from the top in which a leather cord is fed through, added for easy handling. It widens near the top and narrows as it reaches the bottom, finished off with a bronze cap that has worn away from use, partially from walking in Paris. The stick was given to me that summer previous for the occasion of my reaching the rank of Eagle Scout in the Boy Scouts of America. Three round metal plaques adorn its top face and symbolize the three main elements of my scouting experience: scouting itself, service, and leadership. I take it with me where ever I go and it serves as a source of comfort and protection, as well as a companion. Even though it is inanimate because it goes where I go and shares all my experiences with me, in this way it is a friend. I have taken it to the tops of tall mountains and it has not bent under my weight, but held and admired the beauty of the world with me. Today it would give me comfort and security in a land I did not know, nor where I knew anyone (at least that I could get to). And when beauty finally revealed itself, my stick was right there with me.

I came quick off Rue Paganini, it was only a short street that the apartment was on, and took a right onto Boulevard Davout. I made it to the stairs of the Porte de Montreuil Metro station without much though, except a dab of faint nostalgia for the Pizza shop in which Emmanuelle (the girl) and I were almost kicked out of for giving the owner five 1 Francs instead of one 5 Franc. Some French restaurant owners are quite anal about the kind of change you give them, and knowing this I specifically gave him the "wrong" change. I find it satisfying to poke at people's peeves if I think those peeves are ridiculous or offensive. The change peeve is one that particularly annoys me since I think businesses should accept all change; they are like banks in that they deal with money. As I passed the Metro station (the subway) I was prompted to walk down the stairs into the caverns that had so many times provided me with a means of transportation. But today I would walk; I would walk from the Porte to the center of Paris where there would be a New Year's celebration that night. I had some thinking to do.

The Porte de Montreuil is on the very edge of Paris, and we (the girl and I) stayed in an apartment in this district only a hop and a jump from the subway. When the girl was still with me we always took the subway to the inner districts of Paris (Paris is divided into twenty districts, we stayed in district 20). The subway was expensive, but it took from 15-30 minutes to get to most anywhere in the city. Besides, the price could often be avoided by jumping the corals or using one ticket to push two people through, which Emmanuelle and I indulged in when we could. The subway in Paris is not like in New York, alarms and sirens will not go off if you pass the gates without dropping your token. In the Paris Metro you will quite often see a business man in a suit, or an elderly person hold the gate for someone, or if they are feeling confident enough, jump the gate themselves. The ticket agents do not care if you jump right in front of them either. Emmanuelle told me, though I never witnessed it myself, that people jump in front of the police all the time and they don't do anything. That's one major difference between here and there, people look out for each other in France, even in the biggest city (larger than Manhattan) in the country. They have a closeness between strangers that would probably, if attempted, get a person shot in New York. They have no need for alarms.

Walking through the long, winding tunnels I felt like a rat in an experiment whose goal was to find the cheese with the least difficulty and with taking the least amount of time. But whenever I emerged into one of the waylays (where the trains actually ran) a large space enveloped me. The size of some of these waylays are enormous and they would certainly scare the least sensitive agorophobe. And when I thought of the train tunnels that ran through hundreds of square miles of underground I realized I was actually in a large stream. Though I could only leave the stream at certain places, it would carry me anywhere in the city I desired, and faster than any above ground means of transportation. In actuality I was not trapped much more than if I was walking the streets of the city. There are more ways to go above ground, but not infinite ways- one may not walk through buildings (unless one has the Gaul to do so) -and the speed of travel is much reduced. The time from one place to another effects our sense of space dramatically. Since people cannot comprehend far distances by the actual distance, they must use time to understand these distances. We don't care how far somewhere is as much as how long it takes to get there. If we walk, 10 miles seems quite far, while in a car it is nothing. The subway thus shortens the length of the city. "It's a small world" has meaning everywhere.

So Emmanuelle and I often took the subway to avoid the long walk over a distance half the length of Manhattan. Today I would take this walk and it would take me nearly four hours. But as I continued up Boulevard Davout I did not feel the pressure of time closing in on me. Instead I felt a freedom I had not felt for more than five months. For those five months, August through December, I was in a constant state of emotional flux. I went from one moment thinking that I would go to France and this girl and I would have a wonderful love affair and everything would be perfect, to the next realizing that I was a stupid idiot and that it would never happen and that I should concentrate my thoughts on what was real. I in fact had a great girlfriend here, at Cornell, who I had met the first day of orientation and it puzzles me now to think why I still kept those fantasies about France in my head when I had something real and wonderful right at home. And then, as I continued to walk down the streets, though I felt relief from the departure of my "lost fling", I cursed myself over and over again (as I had done most of my time in France) for giving up the beautiful reality of my girlfriend at home for the empty deception in this nation I walked in now. I was a closed box, ready to explode.

Emmanuelle is short, about 5'4", 164 cm to be precise, with long blond hair and nice, round brown eyes. She wears basic round, calico glasses that I think add distinction to her face. Her cheeks are white as light pink roses, and when she blushes they flush with poignant red. Her body is well figured and not shaped like one of those toothpick girls so popular in our Western culture, but she is by no means "overweight". When I was with her, in my eyes she was perfect. We met in America, in John F. Kennedy Airport. But not as strangers. My friend Lori had told me that previous school year that she had a French exchange student that would be coming that summer to spend time with her and see the United States. I volunteered to pick up the girl with Lori because Lori was too afraid to drive in New York City. I made jokes that I was going to hit on the girl, and when I first saw her I actually didn't think much of her. She was tired and not "at her best" and didn't say much (the American accent was hard for her at first). Eventually, during the month she stayed here, she and I got to know each other better. After two weeks of Emmanuelle's stay Lori, Emmanuelle, another friend, and I took a trip to Maine for a week. It was to be an important time of events for Emmanuelle and me, and would direct me to Paris.

I kept walking North down the boulevard (it was long) and looking around realized that I was entering a part of Paris that could be considered a "ghetto". The buildings were shabby and the people became darker and darker as I walked (This refers to skin color. In France as in the United States people of other than "white" background are usually subject to poor economic conditions and forced to live in poorer areas.). Many of the buildings were falling apart, or were poorly managed. But I did not see any bars surprisingly. I held my walking stick tight and sped my legs up, wishing to leave the section as quick as I could. But then I relaxed, remembering that I was in Paris and not New York. Something about the people in Paris gave me a sense of safety, maybe it was just from an observation of their culture and how it differed from ours, I do not know. Someone I met in France told me once that "people don't get mugged in Paris." It seemed true enough to me. All the nights Emmanuelle and I walked the streets (you can't take the subway everywhere) we never once encountered a problem. And she, a small female whose type would never be found walking even in SoHo at night was not concerned at all of our safety and told me I was dumb for carrying my walking stick everywhere we went. Like the people in the subway, the people who walked the streets (they were of course the same) were of a different sort than we have in our cities. It seemed to me that the people of Paris have a common concern for everyone in their city; they would not cause violent crime (though of course it does happen sometimes) because it would bring disgust and danger to their community. I observed that Parisians have a respect for their city (though they litter like crazy) in this way. They respect peoples' desire to walk down the streets without fear, to feel open and not closed in by this fear. I felt this too, and it added to my sense of freedom. Susan, my girlfriend here, was still on my mind though, and this weighed me down.

I finally reached the next street I was destined to follow, Rue Madazini, and I took a left, heading west towards le centre-ville (center city). This street led first to Pere lachaise, the largest and by far the most amazing cemetery in Paris. The whole area is enclosed by a large stone wall, and it holds forever the once rich and honored dead of Paris. It is also the place where Jim Morrison is buried. Emmanuelle and I had come to this place twice to see Jim, but the first time we were forced to leave before we could get to his grave because of closing time. The second time, after great difficulty (we got lost), we found the tomb. Not knowing what to expect, I found that it was plain and ordinary, but was unlike a normal tomb in that in front of its head stone there was an open rectangle of granite in which many various objects had been placed by mourners of the mysterious man of rock. These included: cigarettes, bottles of alcohol (full and empty), notes, flowers, condoms, pills, and other commodities of the sex-drugs-rock&roll era. Emmanuelle told me that people use to leave hypodermic needles too, having used them to shoot up with first. It was only after a police officer was assigned to watch the tomb (later being removed) that people refrained from this behavior. I wondered if it punished Jim Morrison's soul to see this, to watch his death repeated in front of his own coffin over and over again.

I had no special reason for visiting Jim Morrison's grave, other than the fact that I liked his music quite a bit and felt required to see him, being a fellow American. I sensed a special kinship between him and I, we were both travelers in a strange land, our hearts laying somewhere else. I felt good and secure standing over his grave, it built up strength in me to last until I returned home. But Jim would never go home, and I think another reason I went to his grave was to give him security; I would want that if I was trapped forever in a foreign land. And as I looked at the papers and drugs and flowers placed on his tomb I felt disgust. This man had died believing he was free from the burdens of his life. Yet his ever-loving fans, with the wish to make him live forever, continue to cast these signs of their affection onto his grave, never allowing the earth above his body to see the sky and breath the open air. Death is ironic in this way: you are freed from the miseries, pains, and worries of life, yet you are ever after subject to the whims and desires of the living. If the living wish to keep a person alive, and if they wish to litter his grave with tokens of their love, there is simply nothing that person can do about it. I felt as if my coming could do nothing for him then, might even anger him, for he was already buried deep in the obsessions of others.

The cemetery had more to offer than just good old Jim. The other tombs were by far the most poignant feature. French tombs (at least the rich ones) are much different than American ones. Each looks like a small house or temple, in which the body is kept in a sarcophagus or under a large stone. The "houses" are all stacked next to each other like in a row. As we walked down the narrow "streets" (they were more like broad paths) of the cemetery I couldn't help but think of the people trapped inside. I felt like I was in a miniature village in which no one ever saw the inhabitants because they stayed always in their homes to avoid the fear of the openness around them. The houses were the only part of the cemetery that made me feel closed in though, picturing myself alive in one of them with no way to escape. The cemetery was in fact so large, and everything in such miniature that even though I was surrounded by walls I felt like I was a giant in a little kingdom. It is ironic that such small places like the cemetery and the subway, in such a small country as France, were teaching me what open space really was. Emmanuelle was also teaching me what space was, though her lessons focused on the spaces between people, and why and how they exist. But for the moment I wasn't thinking about Emmanuelle though, I was thinking of Susan.

Susan is a little taller than Emmanuelle, about 5'6", she has brown hair (dyed with red highlights that have faded some) and deep brown eyes. Her body is more voluptuous than Emmanuelle's, though she is not "fat" either, and more rich. By this I mean her body has more beauty and character. Her deep brown eyes are almond shaped, and I think they are one of her most striking features. Her and I grew close here, while I blocked the future out of my mind. And though I had her, and felt strongly about her and cared about her, my mind still yearned for the excitement and adventure of France and all its potential. It was hard to tell Susan that I had to leave her because of previous arrangements with someone else. What I did not realize then was that even though I had known Emmanuelle longer, I had spent more time with Susan and the two of us had become closer than Emmanuelle and I ever were. I realized this now, and sulked because of my mistakes. So France was also teaching me to see reality, was making me grow up.

I continued past the cemetery coming, with every step, closer and closer to my destination. In fact I was specifically heading for a sandwich shop in the Opera district where I previously found what I considered a "good deal". My plan was to go there, eat, and then mull around the shop area until it got late and then I would go to Le Avenue Des Champs-Elysees. That's where Emmanuelle told me all the activity would be happening. For now I was heading down a rather steep street with one of the high walls of Pere Lachaise on my left. I had never been down this street before, and the wall was high enough that I felt like I was in a different part of the city. I saw a man walking up the street towards me and as he approached I felt the anxiety of someone from the East coast when they see a strange person coming their way. Eyes down, glance over quickly, make sure you stay far on the other side of the sidewalk, and never, ever bump into him. I kept these rules in mind and the man passed me. He brushed my side just as casually as water in a stream running into a rock in its path. I was shocked for a minute, wondering why this man had not followed the rules. Then I remembered where I was again, and I felt good about it, I felt refreshed, as if the entire burden of Western culture had been lifted off my shoulders. It was nice to not have to worry about people being bothered by how close in proximity you are to them. I remembered back to my time with Emmanuelle and her friends and family. The French have a different interpretation than we do of personal space. They are much closer with each other, and less concerned about invading each other's space. Friends when they meet share la bise, an alternating kissing of each cheek multiple times. When I met Emmanuelle's friends and relatives for the first time almost all of them kissed me on the cheek in this way, even though they didn't know me. In America newly introduced people may share a handshake, but never the exchange of salivary excretions on each other's face. Even more shocking to me than this custom was the way Emmanuelle treated me. She let me into her space, in deeper than some girlfriends I've had, even though she did not want to be close to me, emotionally close that is.

The reason I had come to France (besides to see the country which was quite an important part) was to see Emmanuelle, because we had had an affair (really more of a fling) when she was an exchange student with my American friend Lori back in July. In Maine we "got together" the night after a group game of strip poker (in I was happily the only male). The rest of the trip we were constantly sneaking kisses and hugs, hiding our affection from Lori for fear that she would grow jealous and be angry. Mentioning this of course opens up the topic of Lori, but she is a whole different story and does not figure prominently in this story. So I will not speak much of her. When we returned home Lori did find out about our relationship by walking in on us one time at her house. As we feared she did become angry and treating us like children would not let us see each other for a while. Since there were only 10 days left before Emmanuelle had to leave, we found this unacceptable. So for five nights I ended up driving to Lori's house at midnight and picking up Emmanuelle, who had climbed out the window, to spend the night on the road together. Those were happy nights, free of responsibility and exploding with possibility. When Emmanuelle left for France we were both sad and sometime later she invited me to come stay with her, and I accepted.

We kept in touch some but not really, and when I arrived in France I was almost not surprised to see that she had a boyfriend and wanted nothing more to do with me past the platonic sense. But even though we would not be together, when we stayed in the apartment in Paris she had us sleep in the same bed. Actually there was only one bed and it was really a mattress we had brought and placed on the floor. It was large enough so that we would not collide in the night, but I still found it strange that she would sleep in the same bed with someone she no longer wanted to be romantically involved with. I know none of my ex-girlfriends from here would do that. It took me the longest time to figure out that that was just one of the ways the French treated personal space. Because they were always in each other's space they had to come up with ways to deal with the other people. Emmanuelle automatically assumed that I would respect her space, because she had shown that she trusted me enough to let me into it. I must say I was confused at first, but luckily never violated this space.

From these experiences with personal space I gained new views of how people could interact together. Though everyone was so much closer with each other, and I was allowed less room to breathe, the honor and respect of being let into one's space gave me a freedom I had not felt before. I was free to be myself. I did not need to put on an impersonal mask that would distance my emotions from these people, they did not and would certainly see through anything I tried to wear.

On my way to the sandwich shop I realized I was hungry and that there was still a long way to go, so I stopped at a sidewalk stand and bought a Thun Panini, tuna sandwich. With this, and my bottle of water I carried, and a nice bench I sat and ate comfortably facing Boulevard Saint-Denis (not to be confused with Rue Saint-Denis), observing the traffic flow before my eyes. Here another example of foreign space condensed in my mind. I remembered driving with Fabrice, the boyfriend of Emmanuelle's mother. When we came into Paris that first time I was petrified. He drove so close to the other cars that I could have stuck my tongue out and licked the one next to us. And all the drivers drove like this, you thought Manhattan was bad. This closeness was a product of French society and culture. The people who had changed the city so cars could drive the streets had decided that the people would only need a minimal amount of space to do so. The French have so little space that they are always trying to conserve it, and are use to small spaces since they have always lived with them. It would probably be considered a waste of space to give cars all the room they have in the United States. Even the cars are smaller in France, to reduce the amount of space needed. In America we don't know the value of space, and we take it for granted like so many other precious gems.

When I had been with Susan before I came to France the two of us had been close and I valued out relationship. But I did not see it as the best possible relationship, I saw a relationship with Emmanuelle as the best, and I thought she was perfect. Now I see Susan as ideal, though not perfect because there is a falseness in perfection, and there is a beauty in imperfection. The human being is imperfect and accepting this imperfection in others allows us to love them. It is the differences between us, and the deviations from the "normal" that make us love each other for what we are. Though Emmanuelle was not perfect, I looked at her as perfect, and this gave a superficiality to our relationship. I did not see all the features that made her a separate person from everyone else. In Susan I see her for who she is, with all her wonderful deviations and differences, and I love her for those.

When I finally reached the Opera district I was no longer hungry and decided just to walk around the shops. Printemps and Les Galleries Lafayette rose above the blocks, and their lights and attractions dominated the streets. I was in a magic wonderland. But I had a plan, now I would head towards the Plaza of the Concorde, and then the Champs- Elysees. On the way I came upon L'Eglise de la Madeleine, a large church (more like a cathedral) with Greek columns all around its perimeter, that divided the street in half. I had seen the building before when I was with Emmanuelle, and then and now I gazed at it in awe. It stood out above its huge white columns like a colossus, a Mount Olympus in Paris. I had asked Emmanuelle about it and she told me some saint was buried there, though she did not suggest we explore it. I looked at it now and wondered why I had passed up such a sight. Cars were forced to go around it like the water in a stream goes around a large boulder. The very dynamics of the traffic were shaped by its foundation. I, a pedestrian, decided to take a look inside and crossed the river of traffic to the island in the middle. As I approached the building the pillars towered over me and my awe increased. I reached the oversized doors that looked like they would require a giant to be opened. They were closed, being night now, so I retreated and walked around the side, gazing up always.

I found a side door and decided to try to get inside again. As I climbed up the narrow spiral staircase I found that it led to a large open chamber. This happened to be the main room, where services must be held. When I walked inside I observed a few musicians in chairs in orchestra formation warming up. Beyond them were rows of chairs lined up as if for an audience, yet they were empty. The church itself was magnificent, the architecture and design overwhelmed my thoughts. I wanted to see more. I was not sure if I should go further, but just at that moment a group of people came out behind me and entered the chamber, so I followed. We walked down the corridor between the chairs and came to the back of the church where there were a handful of nervous Frenchmen in suits buzzing around like mosquitoes. I stood for a while trying to figure out what was going on, I couldn't understand what anyone was saying so listening in didn't help. Luckily no one tried to say anything to me or I would have immediately been identified as an American and probably asked to wait outside. The reason for this I found out shortly.

I finally asked someone where an exit was and he luckily happened to be an American. Telling me where the exit was he also told me that a Mozart concert was to be held that night, about 25 minutes after my arrival. I thought this was interesting, but was about to leave until I realized the situation I was in. I knew the concert had a price (it's Mozart), but because I had been so unlucky previously in France I decided to see if I could stay without paying, to reimburse myself. When the busy Frenchmen started letting in people from the outside who had tickets, I walked with the group of people already there and pretended I was one of them. I succeeded in my disguise and gained a seat behind the American with whom I had spoken previously. So I was able to enjoy the concert for free, and I say now that there is nothing more beautiful than free music. As I sat there the lights were gradually dimmed and more and more people filled the seats around me, and as this occurred a sense of great elation grew within me. I knew I was going to get away with it, I felt like the concert was my gift and I cherished it. I listened to the singing of bows and strings and my entire perception of my situation changed. From this gift, this beautiful music, I felt all the bad times wash away. The music liberated my soul and no matter what space I was in I knew I would be all right. At that moment nothing mattered but the sweet, beautiful music that rolled off of instruments like wind rolling off the tongue of Poseidon in the calms of the Mediterranean Sea. The music made me realize how rich life really was, and how much I had been taking for granted. Though I had come to France looking for romance and had cold water splashed in my face, I had found an inner peace with myself, and it was from living with these people who showed me that space was not defined or definite. The music simply opened my eyes to what I had learned. I had triumphed over my loss, I knew that I could exist, as long as I had my space and was allowed certain things in it. At this moment the music occupied my space, and it cleansed me of doubt and despair.

Space is living and fluid, and even if one person removes herself from your space, there are many more beautiful things to fill it with. True inner peace cannot be achieved if one treats his space as a rigid box, it must "bend like the reed in the wind". And so, knowing these things now, I left the church and went out into the streets of Paris, to the Champs-Elysees. I didn't know what I was going to find there, but I knew that I would be all right now. I had accepted my defeat, ironically, from what I had learned from living with these people, Emmanuelle's people. In fact I credit her most with allowing me to see the clear path. The entire time she respected me and my space, and didn't once deny my feelings. She even let those feelings into her space, but made it clear they could not stay. As a leaf in a stream flows without resistance or hesitation, I let the current pull me on.