I put pepper on my food before I taste it...

It’s a small café on a small side street next to a small, gargoyled cathedral. I’m in the Latin Quarter of Paris, a city far beyond my comprehension yet becoming strangely familiar as I’ve wandered its streets for the past four days. The restaurant is comfortable, nostalgic and, best of all, warm. I can tell by his accent that the owner is Italian but I continue to speak to him in French. He learns that I’m from America and insists on calling me “Baby,” which, in case you’re wondering, is a little awkward in a room full of native French people.

An old, waxy candle burns on my table, a baguette sits nicely in a wicker basket to my left, the service here is excellent and the water is free if I give the owner a kiss. The setting is beautiful, and I’ve set my mind to eat like I’m here with my lover, but in honesty I’ve never felt so alone. In a city of lovers, I have nothing more than my backpack and twenty Euros crumpled up in my pocket.

Onion soup is the first course: hot, rich, and very French. As I near the bottom of my bowl I am endeavoring to remember Miss Manners’ (1) rule for which way to tip your bowl when rescuing the remnants of soup from it. Toward myself? ... Toward the table? ... Unsure. Feeling a sudden burst of self-consciousness, I glance around. Lovers. As far as I can see - which, for now, is the wall to my right. I’m unsure for a moment. What am I supposed to do? I’m the only one in the restaurant alone. Suddently, pouring my own water and chewing silently while I carry on conversations (2) with myself in my head seems ... well ... out of place. What am I doing here? How did I get here? And how the heck did I get here without knowing what I was doing?

Breathe, Sacha.

I put pepper on my food before I taste it. When my second course (leg of lamb, potatoes, and greens) comes, I do just that. I’m nervous because I’ve never eaten lamb before, and when it arrives the smell remind me of something I once dissected in Biology class. My first bite is sweet, savory, tender, and delicious. Before I know it, my lamb is finished and the rest of my baguette nicely dries up the plate.

I am content ...

Almost.

Profiteroles. Since I’m being so honest right now, I should say that I ordered profiteroles because it was the only word on the dessert menu which I didn’t understand. I was in need of a surprise ... If I cannot be in love tonight, then let me be surprised! I was not let down. Profiteroles are delicious, and if you have never tried them, please go right now and do so. An espresso and a glass of water and my meal is finished. It’s time to hit the street again.

I don’t want to go. Something inside of me is desperate to stay here. I invent ideas to wash dishes, wait tables, sing in the corner, anything! But, instead, I ask for the bill. Ten Euros and a kiss later I’m once again wandering the streets of Paris with my knapsack on my back. 

Just days ago I had been exiting Chez Clement, a wonderful restaurant on the Champs Élysées, after enjoying dinner with all of my class mates. We had laughed, joked, and taken photos together all along that beautiful street ... but this was a different exit. I wanted someone there with me. I wanted to laugh and talk and take pictures. I just wanted another human being who cared about me and whom I cared about. I didn’t want to be alone. But that was the point of what I was doing, right? I wanted to be alone! I had planned this trip so that I could go where I wanted to go when I wanted to go there and I didn’t have to worry about anyone else holding me up! I was free! ... Or was I? Was I really just molding a cage? An invisible cage that I would be trapped in for the following days?  

At night, the streets of Paris go from enchanting to more enchanting. Even though I’m alone, homeless, and cold, it’s hard to feel afraid; there’s nothing fearsome about the small cafés lit up like a fairy land with smoking, laughing guests sitting both without and within. Enchanting. As I walk past, I begin wondering how many Euros they spend on their meals ... Maybe they’d be willing to have a stranger sit with them for a few moments, just to soak up their conversation, their friendship, the presence of another human being. But instead I walk on past and take a back street to the small shops of the Latin District. 

My intentions are to sleep on one of the benches in the Notre Dame park by the river. But I am so distracted by the sights and sounds around me that I arrive too late and the gates are shut. A handful of guards standing nearby ushers away any thoughts of climbing the fence, and so, I begin the hunt for a new bed.

The bed hunt is no easy task. I have to find the warmest, safest, cleanest place possible. Everything my father ever taught me at Senior Survival about staying warm while I sleep is flooding back into my mind and I’m slowly checking off a mental list in my head, preparing for a long, uncomfortable night. But, when the place is finally selected and I set my mind to be content, I then put on all of my clothes and curl up for the night. My plane was leaving for London tomorrow afternoon, and the idea of a change of pace/scenery was a beautiful one, so my dreams are vivid and chaotic as I imagine the days to come. Everything was about to change, and I needed change. 

I’ve learned a few things while on this journey of mine. Setting aside the many things I’ve learned about myself, there is a pile of anecdotes  I have acquired while looking into the homeless mind. Or, rather, while living in the homeless mind. A year ago, while writing for the Collegian, I penned an article about the homeless people on the streets of Portland after experiencing their lives firsthand on the Portland Mission Trip. As I sat alone in the dark, on the streets of Paris, I was reading and re-reading that article in my mind, realizing that I was living it. Understanding, now, the reality behind my words and wondering how much affect these days and weeks would have on me. 

I was in for a surprise. In all of my life, I’ve never talked to more pigeons out of sheer boredom (3), I’ve never spent more nights in tears, and I’ve never grown so much in the space of two weeks as I did whilst homeless in Europe. 

My next morning was filled with crusty eyes, a sore back, irritated flower shop owners telling me to move, and navigating the Metro to Orly airport. I climbed onto the plane tired, hungry, and ready. I was ready for change. I was ready for London.

1. I have decided that “Miss Manners” was misguided. I will be writing my own, better etiquette book which can be picked up in stores near you. 
2. Really, these conversations are more like debates, where I argue with myself over the correct conjugations of French verbs. 
3. Don’t judge. They were very friendly pigeons.