Some of My Time in Paris

Black clouds burdened the moon, tore gaps in its brilliance. John fidgeted on his mat, adjusting his blanket to cover his feet. The planks of the park bench gave in response. Oh Lord, don’t let it rain again. He pressed his head deeper into the top of his backpack, his lumpy pillow when he wasn’t hefting it around Paris. A breeze chilled his face, the wind gaining strength. John gasped, and sat up. He smelled moisture in the air, tipped his head over the back of the bench. God, more sleep would have been nice, but by your will.

The streetlight behind stared back at him, blinking occasionally as tree branches waved in front of it. Time to move. The flexing wood of the bench provided much more comfort than the concrete slab under the overhang, but sleep would never come when being pelted by raindrops. He fetched his worn New Balance tennis shoes from the end of the bench and squeezed his sore feet into them. How far had he walked yesterday?

He had to walk to the park near Bastille for dinner and then all the way up to the Gare du Nord to the free cookie place. Then back to the park at the Square du Temple for bed. That’s about four miles, not including the rest of the day. Oh yeah, he had also gone to Notre Dame, spent thirty minutes on his face, praying. That’s another couple of miles of walking.

Paris is a magical city, yet the geography seemed Lovecraftian - non-Euclidean, frightening even.Shoes tied, John stood and straightened his green winter jacket, rolled up his mat, and hoisted up his backpack. The damned thing had gotten heavier. He dragged himself over to the gazebo in the center of the park and climbed up its steps.

Someone else had come before him, laid down at the far side. The homeless figure didn’t move or make a sound, wasn’t perturbed by his presence. John set his stuff down silently, laid out on the concrete under the steel roof. Head on his backpack, he hoped he would be asleep soon, get another couple of hours before breakfast. He closed his eyes and let his mind drift. His internal eyes saw her beautiful face.

Meagan volunteered at the free cookie place on Thursdays, last night. She had duel-citizenship, French-American. She was a student in her late twenties and worked at a hostel when she wasn’t volunteering at the Catholic-outreach-cookie-fest. Long brown curls poured over her shoulders. Her dark eyes and bright, dimpled face invited everyone. She and John hit it off the first time they met, clicked, each could tell the thoughts of the other with a glance. He looked forward to Thursdays.But regularly, when he thought of her free spirit, her face, her curves tucked behind her tight black sweater, he remembered home.

He had a wife and a house in California. He wanted to get back to Jen more than anything. God honors marriage. John honored his wife. But why couldn’t he have experienced life more before he got married? Why must he be alone now? He hugged himself and wished someone, anyone else was there to hold him. Jen filled his thoughts. The back of his throat tightened and he swallowed hard. Why can’t I come home?

---------

“My team is having a hard time right now,” John said to Herman across one of many tables set up in a church hall. They and thirty other homeless people waited patiently for the nuns to serve breakfast. It was seven o’clock and three dishes, soup and bread, cheese, and salad were on their way.

“What’s your team again?” Herman asked. Herman was a mentally ill American living on the streets in Paris without any documentation. He spoke English and had moments of surprising lucidity. These moments disappeared when he dwelled on his troubles, or gave in to his paranoia.

“My wife, and our friend Marlo and her son,” John said. “I call us a team because that’s how we work. My team was able to send me out to travel and do missionary work, they supported me. But then my family and so-called friends stepped in and tried to take charge of our lives. They won’t give us space. So now my team is fighting back, but suffering because of it.”

“Hmm, now how could they take charge of your lives?” Herman asked.

“Actually I am not sure of the details. I just know what Marlo is telling me through emails and phone calls. My family, the people I love, have apparently turned against us, and my team is hiding out in a cheap hotel someplace. They can’t afford to bring me home, and I won’t go to my family for help. So… Here I am.”

“Yes, here you are.”

A priest appeared and said a prayer in French. The homeless passed bowls of meaty, random stew, person to person, down the long table, and then ate. Marc, another acquaintance, an aging, homosexual man, sat next to John.

“How long have you been here?” he asked in his America-educated voice.

“I got here in May, 2006, so just over four months,” John replied.

“Four months?” Marc said.

“Yes,”

“Don’t take this wrong, but have you considered the possibility that your team doesn’t want you back?”

John picked up his spoon and stared at it, found his distorted reflection. “The thought had occurred to me, but, I’m dedicated to the team, and I trust them to tell me the truth. I don’t want to go to my larger family for help, and I know my team isn’t going to them.”

Herman gave a broken smile, “They’ve had four months. They could have brought you back by now. I mean, sheesh. They’re paying rent.”

The cheese came was handed out by a volunteer. John took a serving of the chalky, white cheese and noticed small dark veins. “Is this some kind of blue cheese?” he asked Marc.

“I wouldn’t eat that,” Marc said. “I think it’s off.”

“Ah.”

“You gonna eat that?” Herman asked.

“No I’m not. Marc said it was rotten, and it looks weird.”

“I like it that way,” Herman said taking the cheese. His big smile was back.

After breakfast, John headed over to the hostel that he had stayed at his first week in Paris. He stood outside the door and straightened himself up. Young tourists were leaving the hostel as he non-chalantly entered and walked through the lobby, as if he had stayed there the night before. He descended the stairs to the locker room and found his suitcase tucked in a corner.

He had deposited this blue behemoth there, knowing that being homeless and dragging around a hundred pounds of stuff wasn’t going to work out. He produced a key and unlocked the zippered suitcase. He dug out a dress shirt that wasn’t too wrinkled and a few other shirts. He then took dirty shirts from his pack and put them in the suitcase. Laundry day will be on Monday; the hostel’s big basin sink worked great for that.

John locked his suitcase and stuck it back in the corner. He continued to be surprised that the bag remained there. No one stole it or broke into it, and management didn’t throw it out. His friends said that he was lucky. Not lucky, it was a kindness from the Lord. John didn’t believe in luck.

Nine O’clock. John had two hours to get showered and go over to the Champs-Élysées, over two miles away. He piled on his backpack, strapped it across his chest, and walked. The main drag would take him most of the way across Paris, and passed near the public showers. The sky had cleared so he tried to look like he had a real purpose, that he wasn’t homeless but a backpacker tourist.

He arrived at the public shower in a half an hour - it opened early on Fridays. Paris had such lovely provision for the poor, a handful of public showers dotted the map, as well as up to four meals a day if you didn’t mind walking all over the place. John didn’t have to sleep outside either, although it was better than waiting around to be hauled outside Paris to a camp, only to be hauled back in the morning. It wasn’t too cold yet, and he could deal with the rain. The English section at the public libraries helped the days to pass, as well as napping under the sun in any of the grassy parks. Homelessness didn’t color his admiration for the city, or his gratitude toward the French taxpayer.

After cleaning up, John swapped out undergarments from his pack, and put on his favorite shirt, the blue Malaysian that he bought while in Penang. He wiped at the mustard stain on his jeans and set off again. Felt good to be clean.

John arrived at the American Cathedral at ten-thirty. It was an Anglican church near the Eiffel Tower, looking Gothic but through modern construction. He checked in at the front gate. Lunch was only an hour away so he made his way to the kitchen. He stopped short and wrapped his jacket around his backpack, carried it to a storeroom where he hung the green package on a hook. He entered the kitchen looking nothing like the broke, homeless person he was.

The hot kitchen was bustling with activity. Two of his favorite women, Philomena and Mia were cutting vegetables, and directing other church volunteers, mostly middle-aged rich women who wanted to help the poor. “Hi John!” Mia said with honest enthusiasm as she did every week. “How are you?”

“I’m good, good,” John replied putting on an apron. “How we doing in here?”

“I think we are on schedule,” Mia said. She glanced at the oven where she had berry pies baking.

“Excellent. How about if I set out the cheese?” John asked.

“That would be great.”

John turned to two young women who didn’t seem to have anything to do. “Hi, I’m John. Would you like to help me set out the cheese?”

The women looked at each other, then one said, “Sure.” “This way.” John lead them to the table where small plates sat, each bearing a wedge of the familiar chalky white cheese. He loaded the plates on trays, and handed trays to the women. The three of them took trays into the dining room and set them on a shelf against the back wall. They repeated this until the shelf was covered in plates of cheese.

Re-entering the kitchen, John turned to Philomena, a red-haired, Irish woman living in Paris. “Hi Phil, I noticed that the dining room is, yet to be prepared.”

She nodded and smiled, took off her apron. “Are the plates out there?”

John loved her Irish accent, “Yeah, but they’re not set out.”

“I thought that…” She sighed, and headed toward the dining room. The tables in the dining room formed a horseshoe shape in the long hall, each covered in a tablecloth. Sunlight shined in through the stained glass windows. The bustle and heat of the kitchen gone, the two workers set out plates, then silverware.

“Was somebody else supposed to do this?” John asked.

Philomena set out forks and said, “Seems like common sense to me. We asked the four of them to set out the plates.”

“Well, I guess they did set them out… Just without setting them out.”

Philomena laughed, “I think they were led by that one woman, and she never does anything.”

“Oh no, not her.”

“I just roll my eyes whenever she helps.”

They finished up with the thirty-six place settings and then went back to the kitchen. They passed a lineup of homeless people out by the front gate - wouldn’t be long now.

The kitchen was about ready to explode with food. Small pates of pie had filled in the table where the cheese had been. Large pans filled with chicken legs sizzled smelling wonderful. Volunteers prepared bowls of salad, baskets of bread, and pitchers of water. Huge tins of seasoned rice sat ready.

When the time was right, the volunteers brought out all the food to the dining room. The homeless had already signed in and taken their places, taking nearly every seat. With the important work done, a few of the workers comfortable with the idea, would eat with the homeless. John sat at a table with some of the men he knew from the street, each able to speak reasonable English.

The priest came in and said the prayer in both French then English, and a few volunteers distributed the food. The main dish was cooked with American flavors in an American style, and the French people loved it. Then the salad and cheese came around, followed by blackberry pie and coffee. Seconds were served.

The homeless thanked the workers, bellies full of quality food. One by one they left the church grounds, thanking everyone as they went. John, Philomena and the other regular volunteers had already cleared the dishes back to the kitchen, and were breaking down the chairs and tables for the regular church business.

John smiled wide as he worked. Such a blessing to help the downtrodden, even though he himself was homeless. It’s no excuse not to help. This is what God wants. Maybe this is why God had him here? In any case, whenever he did get home to California, he would have to check out the local care services for the homeless and volunteer. His heart was effervescent.

One of the men in the kitchen, possibly the one that bought the chicken, started singing, without shame, a familiar tune:

“Freude, schöner

GötterfunkenTochter

aus Elysium,

Wir betreten feuertrunken,

Himmlische, dein Heiligtum!”

John didn’t know the words but he recognized the tune from the song “Joyful, Joyful We Adore Thee”, as he knew it. This only sweetened his mood all the more. He wanted to sing himself, but didn’t know the German lyrics. The other strangers in the kitchen wouldn’t have stopped him from singing, no embarrassment to be had. He contented to fist pump to the tune, encouraging the singer.

Moments later John was retrieving his jacket-package and heading back to the streets toward République, a small park where dinner would be served in a few hours. Without shame he sang words he knew to “Joyful, Joyful” as well as other songs of praise, “How Great Thou Art” and even Stryper’s “Calling on You.” He received looks from people on the sidewalk but he didn’t care. These are all strangers, he would probably never see these people again. Nothing would kill his spirit on this day.