but I probably couldn’t even get a job as a street cleaner because I wouldn’t be able to understand my boss when he told me to go to a certain part of Paris to clean a certain street.
Although crushed by my recent findings, I discovered and got to know Paris, sometimes with Doug, sometimes alone. We went to the Louvre and sawthe Mona Lisa and Venus de Milo—amazing; walked and people-watched along the Seine—hypnotizing, visited Notre Dame and The Luxembourg Gardens—ancient greenery and captivating; The Eiffel Tower—beautifully arranged steel to the sky; The Arc de Triomphe—majestic at the end of The Champs Élysées. These are places that once seen can never be forgotten.
One night we went to The Olympia, a famous theater on the Boulevard des Capucines in the 9th arrondissement, to see a French variety show. I didn’t understand most of the evening’s entertainment, except for a French female singer, Marie Laforêt. Other than back in 1963, when I first heard “Sukiyaki” by Kyu Sakamoto, I had never really heard or been enticed by any foreign language song. But that night, when she sang “Paint It Black” by the Rolling Stones in French, I was mesmerized. Besides falling in love with her immediately, that entire experience of being captivated by mystical foreign music forever etched itself in my mind. I knew then I would have to find that kind of music, wherever or whenever; it would now be part of my life forever.
In recent days I’d been walking back to the Hotel Namur by myself, as Doug turned in somewhat earlier than me. It was now around 9:00 p.m., and I still hadn’t eaten dinner. At least it had stopped raining. I’d been sitting too long and needed to stretch my legs. Down Boulevard Raspail to Rue Leopold Robert, looking down a small, quiet street, I saw a warm ochre light breaking the darkness. Just a nondescript small café, but it looked empty and inviting. I entered and slid into a small table beside the front window, a perfect spot to write down some of the happenings of the day, as I tried to do every night, in my travel diary.
As I was finishing my bowl of boeuf bourguignon, a group of people arrived, a hodge-podge of unknown nationalities. One of the guys sat in a chair next to me, smiled, and in what appeared to be a South African or Australian accent, asked, “American? Francais? Oder sind Sie Deutscher?” Before I could answer, he continued in English. “What’s your story, mate?”
I wasn’t sure what he meant, so I said, “I’m not sure I have a story.”
If he meant what was I doing here, that was a good question. It certainly looked like I wasn’t going to get a job. If anyone needed a story, I did and quick. Right now, I was stuck in neutral in Paris. Quite literally up the Seine without a paddle.
“Maybe you will, if not today or tomorrow, maybe very soon,” came his reply as he got up and walked over to his group. One of the girls brought out a guitar and started strumming.
I ordered another beer as a guy in his sixties walked through the door and sat in the midst of the group. He was different somehow. Longish hair, deep tan and wearing casual, almost Mexican-looking field worker clothes but with a sport coat, a look I’d never seen. I thought, remember that look. I sensed right away that maybe I didn’t have a story, but this guy certainly did. He had lived. There was an ambiance. This was someone who had traveled; this was a man with presence. Maybe he didn’t have wealth, but he had experiences and the results of those experiences. I thought, when I grow up, I want to be him. I want to exude that kind of presence.
One of the group handed him a beer, and after a sip, he started to hum in unison with the guitar player. Then, in a soft voice, he started to sing in French words that fit and flowed perfectly with the tune. I would have given anything to know what those words were and what he was singing—singing almost as if to himself—but everyone in the restaurant was now straining to hear him.
I was just about to give up on knowing what he was singing about when the guy who had asked me about my story earlier motioned me over to where they were gathered around a small fireplace. Beer in hand, I sat down next to him.
After a minute or two, my tablemate leaned over and whispered, “My name is Marcos. That’s Caesar singing, and Christa is playing the guitar.”
“Hello, I’m Paul.”
“Where are you from, Paul?”
“Chicago,” I responded and asked softly what the singer was singing about.
“He’s singing about some of the journeys and the places he’s seen as he has traveled throughout his life, and about certain types of knowledge and wisdom he’s long been searching for but still hasn’t found.” Just then Caesar stopped singing, and Christa started singing in a different language—Spanish, I think.
After a couple of swallows of beer, Caesar, almost on cue, started singing again but this time in English as Christa continued softly singing some lines in Spanish. I wondered if he could be translating what he had been singing earlier. Marcos was right; this man had traveled around the world many times. And the places he sang about were the most exotic and dangerous places.
My mind started to drift as I listened. I wondered if I could do that. I was already away from home, already on the road. My initial hesitancy upon landing in Europe and during those first days in Paris was quickly fading. I was becoming much more confident in my ability to maneuver, navigate and communicate in a foreign land.
“Who’s your friend, Marcos?” Caesar said, turning towards me.
“Caesar, this is Paul. It appears you’ve enticed him with your tales. I sense he could be a traveler also if given a chance.”
The next couple of minutes were spent updating Marcos and Caesar on my current predicament and what I had been doing the last five years.
“He says he doesn’t have a story as yet, Caesar.”
“I don’t know about any story, but I came to Paris to work. And that now looks dead. I really don’t know what I’m going to do. Maybe I’m at a dead end?”
“You can come with us. We’re on our way to Morocco. But I’m not sure you would find your story there, especially going with us. My feeling is you need to walk alone for a while to truly discover your story,” Marcos suggested as he looked to Caesar for additional guidance.
“I don’t know. Usually I do get a feeling about people and what they should be thinking and maybe even doing, but honestly, I don’t get any vibe from Paul. Maybe Paul needs—well, maybe, metaphorically speaking, he needs to venture deeper into the woods. Paul, have you ever heard the saying—if you don’t get lost, there’s a chance you may never be found? That can mean different things to different people. I know you feel trapped right now with your initial plan gone awry. But maybe Paris wasn’t the end of your journey but the beginning.”
Now that thought was interesting. Was this problem meant to happen? If this was the beginning, where would I go next? So, did I want there to be a next, and how much would it cost?
Another hour passed listening to Caesar tell stories, real stories, stories that seemed to hold you on the edge of your chair, one right after the other. Stories that now were becoming much clearer to me, stories I didn’t have and frankly had never really wondered about.
“It’s getting pretty late, everyone; I think I should be going. I guess I’ll just have to wait and see what tomorrow brings. It was a pleasure meeting you, Caesar. Morocco sounds exotic, but I don’t think that’s my road right now.”
“Paul, your road will find you. Don’t worry or try too hard to discover your path. I believe all of us come into this world with a purpose. Some have
