I never actually wanted to leave Rotterdam, but I need to get to Brittany, France for work obligations. I have very few obligations these days, but this is one of them. Besides, I could desperately use the money. My preferred method of travel is hitchhiking. Not only does it save money on expensive train fares, but I also consider it a more eco-friendly option as well. In my opinion, travel is not the place, but its people, and hitchhiking is a great way to meet new people and continue learning the language of the country. I move much quicker than my last trip and am in Paris by early evening; without a place to sleep.
I remember my last time in the city, where I stayed as a writer-in-residence at Shakespeare and Company bookstore. For almost a month, I saved up money waiting tables and supplementing my crash course in French that began before my arrival via thumb, or ‘autostop’ as it is called here. I flounder trying to make conversation with my French good samaritans, completely butchering their language with my Spanish. After time, I did improve quite a bit and now I can fully comprehend what’s being said and at least clearly get my point across.
Now that I am back, it brings back all sorts of memories. I remember walking the Pont de Neuf, Paris’ largest bridge, and meeting Franceso.
“Welcome to my exhibition!”
He would say proudly to all passer-by. His works, or “masterpieces” as he endearingly refers to them, are crudely posted on the side of the bridge, a nearby bench, and the very ground we are walking on. Dressed as French as he possibly could, with an accent even more culturally accurate, he is wearing a beret, striped t-shirt, and navy pants held up by suspenders that appear to be a “masterpiece” of their own. Always willing to give a struggling artist a chance, I stop to admire his work. I find a female portrait in watercolor, painted on the back of an old mariners map, that catches my eye. I ask a price. Upon his first suggestion, I understand that the artist must also eat, but quip:
“I am a struggling artist, too!”
He gives me a struggling artist price and even throws in a “mini-masterpiece,” where I ask him to please write me a message to remember him by. I still keep that card as a reminder of what being a true artist is. It reads:
Dear Brock, ce’st le temps pour saunter le monde! (It’s time to jump into the world!)
I haven’t forgotten Franceso, and after dropping my bag off at the bookstore, I return to many of my old Paris haunts, where the memories pan through my head like a silent film of spirits past. In a completely different ’arrondissement’ of Paris, I pass a familiar face but continue walking. I remind myself that, like seeing my elementary school teacher in Greece, faces often appear familiar to me while traveling. Except this time, I realize that the face I see is a Parisian who very well could still be walking these ancient streets. I turn around and return to the group the man is with.
“Francesco! Is that really you?”
He is dressed much better than last time, in a fashionable over-sized jacket with leather boots and a blanket that appears to have been reborn as a scarf. I pull out the tattered rag of a masterpiece, and tell him that I have taken his message to heart. I look him up and down.
“Business must be going well for you, Franceso.”
“It’s ok,” he muses, “but you must come up to my gallery.”
He points above and we ascend the steps to his new gallery.
“It’s a squat, but it is my squat, and now I can have real exhibitions!”
Now I understand how he can afford some decent clothes after I learn about his non-existent rent. He asks me where I am staying and when I tell him I have left my backpack at the bookstore to foray the streets of Paris for an evening, he laments:
“It’s going to rain soon, you will sleep with my masterpieces tonight.”
My goal of inhabiting a squat, if only for an evening, is accomplished. All thanks to a man I met one year ago and happened to encounter purely on a fluke my first night in an enormous city. As I begin to come out of my deep slumber, I am greeted by the sounds of Paris waking up. Amidst masterpieces as beautiful as the antiquarian books Hemingway surrounded himself with at Shakespeare and Company, I am reminded that life itself is a masterpiece. Although my view of Paris’ magic may be different from others, I recognize that this is also the point of travel. Finally, it makes me happy to share my experiences of discovering that very personal magic exposing yourself to the world can bring.
I hope you find your own “temps pour saunter le monde!”
Now is the time to jump into the world!
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