Welcome to Paris

The first time I met Paris, I was on my way to Italy with nothing but a typewriter in a briefcase and a pair of blinders that my English teachers gave me. I never took them off, for fear of what getting lost would mean.

And then one day, a boy who knew a lot about nothing told me that Paris had made him feel something, and that if I ever wanted that typewriter to click, it was worth a visit--not just for the typewriters sake, but for my own, and every day I would ever live. I listened, and took the blinders off.

The first day I was in Paris, I was nothing but bread crumbs in the squares of the towering monuments.

Is this even Paris? Surely there's a mistake.

I checked and re-checked my map, thinking of the blinders I left on the country road to get there. Tightening my scarf around my vulnerable neck, I set out on the streets, determined to find what Paris could teach me.

I didn't speak the language. I'd never heard anything like it. And even though I didn't understand it, the words were so beautiful. The day I heard them speak was the day I forgot my briefcase at my hotel room.

The next day, I came upon a man who was painting with words. A group followed him with their own easels, like the masses following Jesus. But the man was not Jesus.

He swore, he tossed easels into the gutter, and shouted in the faces of the tourists as they fled to their brochure destinations. I watched the scene with fascination, because the man looked no different from any other homeless artist surviving on nothing but the merit of their paintbrushes. But what I didn't know is that this artist wasn't judged by his paintbrushes, but by the world he saw when he lived off them.

I kept to the back of the crowd, scribbling notes on my arm with a free ballpoint pen I got from a college fair. The first day of the vagabond's lessons was the day I decided to trade my scarf for a notebook.

I took pictures, I painted, I wrote, I listened to every word the group let loose. There was no subject that couldn't be touched, because in life there is no "inappropriate", and this was a class about living.

And one day, I forgot my easel on the rim of the fountain where we always gathered. It was the closest I had ever dared get to the others; so close, I could hear them breathe their poetry. I rushed back to find my easel and to my surprise, I found that the others were gathered in a circle, holding it as tenderly as a mother, soaking in the harsh marks and the clashing colors, then passing it on.

I held my breath as the easel came to the hands of the master. He adjusted his cheap glasses and grunted, flipping my painting of the Eiffel tower over as if he was expecting more to it.

"Percival!"

His shout carried across the courtyard.

"Yes?"

I approached the group and stood with them. The vagabond handed back my painting, smiled, then said,

"Welcome to Paris."