Fears, freelance and crepes

26/1 - In my Nov. 6, 2016 post, I wrote that my sole purpose in France is to learn French. Within the past few days, I've come to understand that my reasons for being here go much deeper than that.

I wrote that I may not understand those reasons until a later date. I was correct.

Though I've only lived here for three months, Cherbourg will always be my home because of how it has helped me evolve. This has been (and still is) a metamorphosis. And those unknown reasons for being here back in November?

I've discovered personal fears. I've been able to think intellectually again. I feel refreshed!

I spent a year in England, but these past three months on the south side of the English Channel have been more fulfilling, as if I've spent years here. This is truly the time when I tapped into my inner Self and seriously examined it, finding aspects about myself I never explored before.

My goal for 2017 is to iron out these parts of me, such as conquering my revulsion to intimate vulnerability. I've had such bad luck in the past with relationships that it has developed into a legitimate fear, like a fungus, and this is why I choose to safeguard myself rather than try. Affirmative thinking possessed me, and led me to the belief that I am not supposed to find happiness within a relationship; that was only for other people to experience.

The discovery of this corner of my psyche was emotional because I am choosing to let it go, to clear it out. It was intense. Compare it to clearing out a blocked chakra, which is a center in the body where spiritual energy flows.

When I had this revelation, I imagined myself squeezing the hell out of a pencil in my hand, holding it away from my body with a straight arm. Eventually it gets uncomfortable. But the only thing holding that pencil inside my hand is...my own hand. I chose to drop it. My fear was like that pencil.

I felt clear. I felt positive. I felt relieved.

Many other valuable ideas have come to my attention - Energy and intensity, the concept of respect, taking life for granted, humility. My time in Cherbourg has truly been sobering and humbling.

Writing is fun again. I arrived in Cherbourg broken, but the opportunity to step back to the sideline of the rat race of life has been so beneficial to me that I can't adequately put into words. I am seriously recharged, and excited to reenter the real world to apply all that I've learned here in Europe.

I arrived with a shallow desire of living abroad once again, to simply live in a different country, with the selfish purpose of traveling more. The time for me to leave France, whenever that point comes, will not be a disappointment. I will have been (and am) a changed man having experienced a bit of enlightenment.

I've experienced and learned much more than I ever imagined.

27/1 - While having a cup of coffee at the cafe today, I was entranced by the woman making crepes and goufres (Belgian waffles) 15 feet away from me.

She had blond hair tied back behind her head and a black sweater. She was a one-woman wrecking crew, as efficient as possible. She handled cash from a steady flow of customers, even while the crepes took shape and the waffles solidified from liquefied batter.

After she poured batter on the circular hot plate and used a wooden tool in the shape of a "T" to evenly spread it, I saw how steam shrouded the plate and rose into her face, making each as unclear as the distant future. It was a transformation with the help of heat, of energy. I imagined the molecules solidifying, their physical characteristics evolving into a different state of being.

I watched her expertly handle a long, flat, steel tool to flip the crepes onto their uncooked side, flipping the instrument itself to help roll the crepe flat. She fearlessly folded the crepe with bare hands while still on the hot surface. Each squirt of chocolate sauce or powdered sugar was in her muscle memory.

This woman was a crepe-making virtuoso, hypnotizing those nearby with her expertise in creating this French staple. It was a form of art. 

I had a brain wave.

I'm like one of those crepes. My time in France represents the cooking time for the batter to become solid. I'll eventually return as a work of art.

31/1 - Throughout college, the concept of freelance writing and editing never appealed to me because I was always one who preferred a constant, steady job. So, I never gave it serious thought or consideration.

The developments of earlier this month during my three-country trip necessitated investigation into freelance. This is actually the best time for me to give it a go because I'm in a place where it's difficult to find a steady job. It's the time when I must adapt, and this means freelance.

Friends have suggested two freelance websites, and suddenly the prospect of staying in France seems not only possible, but positively simple...

Within the past several days, excitement for the future has flared up inside me, like a lantern. Even the study of French, helped along by the availability of national newspapers in the library, has been more fun as of late. The instances of me completely forgetting how to speak French are more rare, and it's beginning to flow naturally.

I'm bursting at the seams with positivity. My smile stretches beyond the confines of my face these days.

Nous sommes ici parce que c'est là que nous sommes supposés être

We're here because it's where we're supposed to be.

Prague, John Lennon and a jazz band

19/1 - The Greek philosopher Socrates preferred spoken word over the written word.

We can squeeze much more meaning out of what is spoken. We can take note of rises or falls in the tone of voice to emphasize a point. We can observe the speaker's face or body while speaking, because much of communication comes through body language. And sometimes, listening to a great speaker tell a story is much more captivating than reading. With the written word, it's final. What's there is there, and nothing can be added. No additional meaning can be extracted. Socrates also believed the written word gives one an "illusion" of knowledge, which means we think we're experts after reading so much about a given subject. Only experience provides that.

I think Socrates would have approved of Karel, the Czech walking tour guide who gave us some background information during a three-hour glimpse of Prague. He bounced up and down on his feet. He was always moving from side to side. Single words were emphasized with forceful nods of his head, and he'd roll the "r" sound and make certain words sound Scottish. Karel would have fit right in on a theater stage giving a monologue or soliloquy because his speaking was intense; it seized attention and refused to let go. It seemed right for all of us to form a semi-circle around him during his speeches.

Karel showed us some of the older Synagogues in the Jewish Quarter of Prague.

This brings me to...me. I spent a couple of nights in Prague, the capital of Czech Republic! I hadn't known much about it before arriving, but I do know I had never heard a bad thing about the city. During the tour for example, I learned of some familiar everyday things that have Czech origins, such as the word "robot" and contact lenses.

Prague marks two things for me. This is the 20th country I've visited in my life (this number excludes countries I've only seen in the airport, like Sweden and Latvia). This was also the first time I have been offered cocaine to buy on the street. A kid a little bit shorter and darker than me approached me on my way back to the hostel during my first night. I pretended to be French during this brief conversation, but I don't know if he bought it (though I'm sure he did). The coke was good stuff. Colombian. I never bothered to ask for a price. As someone with a heart condition, I will never touch cocaine. I politely declined and chuckled to myself a few moments later because of the absurd things that happen to me sometimes during travel. This has been a theme on this trip because I was boldly approached three times in Krakow by women offering drink specials in an attempt to attract me to a nearby gentleman's club.

Prague is an everlasting city in an area that seems to be in perpetual motion; this has been the Czech Republic since 1993, after Slovakia peacefully left Czechoslovakia. It has seen communism, the icy clutches of Nazi concentration camps, monarchy and democracy. Karel said Prague has been in at least six different states in the past century!

The Czechs are particularly proud of having a democracy now, as there are whole photograph exhibits in the Dox Centre for Contemporary Art dedicated to Vaclav Havel, the country's first president who passed away in 2011. I saw several photos of him meeting Ronald Reagan and George H.W. Bush in the late '80s and '90s, and Prague's airport (which is one of the most calm and relaxed airports I've visited; there was hardly any traffic) is named after Havel.

This is the outside of Dox Centre for Contemporary Art. One of Havel's quotes is here: "The tragedy of modern man is not that he knows less and less about the meaning of his own life, but that it bothers him less and less.

Despite the large turnover, Prague continues to be beautiful and unique. It's a mish-mash of different architecture and colors, and its skyline is filled with spiky towers and castles. Karel even showed us a museum near the city center dedicated to the concept of cubism, even in the very structure of the building itself. As I left the train station upon arrival in Prague, I noticed something about the buildings. They're like a selection of ice creams with how many colors one can see - white, yellow, light blue, pistachio green, mocha brown.

Charles Bridge is Prague's first bridge. It's a cesspool of tourists, including me. The castle where the president lives is in the background.

Another thing I noticed (quite a lot, actually) is how bone-chillingly cold it is here! During the tour yesterday, our group endured a temperature of -12 degrees Celsius, or close to 10 degrees Fahrenheit. I thought Krakow was cold. But, I guess that's Central Europe for you. In fact, during the whole five-hour train ride from Bohumin to Prague (I took a bus from Krakow to Bohumin; I couldn't tell you when we crossed the border from Poland), I saw nothing but a blanket of snow, sometimes as much as a foot deep.

But compared to my previous adventures in Paris and Krakow, Prague has been a wind down of sorts.

I haven't had any profound experiences here. I've just been enjoying some of the views and a glass of local beer (or three). They are cheap here, with 100 koruna (CZK) converting to less than $5 USD. So even though I drank two fudging fantastic stout beers last night for 118 CZK, which is a bit pricey for Prague, I still spent only about $5. I would have to pay more than that for one average beer in Paris.

20/1 - Prague reminds me of Lisbon because of the millions upon millions of tiles used to construct sidewalks and their designs. But, like Lisbon, time has given the sidewalks an uneven surface, so you have to watch your step.

The most notable thing that happened during my stay in Prague happened after I had checked out of the hostel. As I walked through the Old Town square, there was a jazz band playing. I stood there for 10 minutes. I closed my eyes, captured by the muted trumpet, alto saxophone, standing bass and steel guitar. I smiled. This was life. Travel and music. Peace and contentment. All in one brief moment.

My goal for the final few hours in Prague was to find Lennon Wall, a large stretch of wall near Charles Bridge where it's legal to paint anything you want on it. There are messages of peace, and of course John Lennon's face at the top. This wall was used as a form of protest and resistance during Prague's communism days. These days it's little better than a tourist attraction good for a selfie (or eight). But, the messages still ring true. Love each other. Be true to yourself. Enjoy the journey. Don't worry.

Lennon Wall is literally a blank canvass, but one that won't hold your message for long.

My visit to Prague had its moments, but it wasn't as intense as Paris or Krakow. I didn't arrive expecting to have the kind of experiences I did in the aforementioned cities. I was tired so I took it easy, opting for relaxing with a beer by the pub window, perfect for people watching. It was also difficult to explore more of the city on foot because of the low temperatures. So, I didn't feel quite as fulfilled as I did in Paris and Krakow, but that moment with the jazz band made up for it.

21/1 - I'm back in France, but I need to spend one final night in Paris because I missed my train. This means one night in a hostel. It's frustrating, because I just want to go home. There is always a point during travel when it becomes a bit old, when all you want to do is go home and check out. This is me now. But, the sudden change of plan was something that seemed appropriate. I had to laugh while battling the Paris metro, because that's all I can do. 

And speaking of the Paris metro, it's a madhouse. It's like an anthill, with millions of inhabitants intent on nothing more than catching their respective trains. Each and every person walks with pace and intent, and this creates a stream of humanity much like an angry stretch of river rapids. Any form of hesitation will result in a mushroom cloud of shame, or at least a few bumped shoulders.

22/1 – I’ve returned to Cherbourg after having to spend an unexpected night in a hostel in Paris because I missed my train. In total, this was 12 days of travel, at least 12 hours riding trains, four hours on two different airplanes, three countries, three Couchsurfing hosts, 18 hours of French tutoring, some icy temperatures and one melancholy tour.

I’m not disappointed that it has finished; rather, I’m happy that it happened to me because now I have those memories and stories. And quite frankly, I’m glad to be home in Cherbourg - despite the temperature of the flat having nosedived while I was away - because I was tired. I was looking forward to doing nothing for once, letting my mind wander, slacken and relax in my own quiet space, like taking off my shoes and loosening the tie after a long day of work.

This is because sometimes to travel means to work. I got lost plenty of times in Prague’s narrow, cobblestone-lined maze that calls itself the Old Town and had to figure out how to return to a more familiar area. It was difficult for me to orientate myself in that city, much more than others, but I’m not sure why. I walked in the completely wrong direction for long periods of time, thus losing myself entirely. I figured out Krakow eventually, but not Prague. Perhaps the collision of so many different political eras, building architecture, skyline spires and history in Prague creates a sort of invisible, undetectable force that causes one to lose their sense of direction. Or, I was just stupid.

I was also cold for long stretches at a time, in Paris, Krakow and Prague, and sometimes with wet socks and feet from traversing snow, so I had to endure the effects and put them out of my mind. I had to instantly change tactics in Paris. Twice. Though one situation was much more serious than the other, I had to overcome that brief but intense moment of sheer panic. Often we notice that when the person we’re traveling with submits to panic and despair, we strangely become calmer. I’ve noticed that before as well, such as on that road trip with Danny a couple of years ago.

It's nice to have a travel partner, but what if we’re traveling alone? Who (or what) will help us return to clear thinking after an unexpected alteration of plans?

This, my friends, is difficult, because in these situations we can only rely on ourselves. We have to have an iron will, an ability to not let anything rattle us, but we also must relax and let that moment of peril pass. Over time, I’ve learned to laugh at the situation as it unfolds. It’s a way I’ve found to appreciate being in the moment, because the circumstances always improve. Countless instances of bad luck have turned out to be great stories in the future, so I remind myself of that in order to keep a level head.

We must also learn to harness the burst of adrenaline that results from panic. If used correctly, it helps us focus and zero in on possible solutions to a problem, but incorrect implementation results in lashing out at complete strangers who have no control over the mediocre hand we’ve just been dealt, along with anger and extreme stress.

Here ends my latest adventure. I hope you all enjoyed following it and the raw emotion which poured from my writing. I just need to commit to a new trip now!

Krakow, Auschwitz and street sausage

16/1 - Every hour on the hour in Krakow's St. Mary's Basilica, a man opens a window in the tallest tower and plays a 30-second tune with a trumpet for the whole Old Town to hear. It's a tradition that stretches back to the days when it was necessary to keep a lookout for attacking forces; in other words, it goes back centuries.

Krakow is older than the country of Poland itself. It's the city that gets its name from Krakus, the Polish prince who slayed the Wawel Dragon and founded the city over its lair; to this day there are various images of dragons around Wawel Castle because the Poles believe dragons fend off demons. It's the city that was essentially, surprisingly, untouched during World War II. It's a city that has had so many influences in architecture, including from the Nazis! 

But most of all...Krakow is cold. And under the oppression of snow at the moment. The flight into Krakow was a sight unlike any I've seen for quite a long time. Snow was all I could see for miles, and it was a nice change to step off the plane into the frigid, icy air, fresh from a recent snowfall.

I'm once again Couchsurfing, this time with Kristina and her boyfriend Thomas. Kristina comes from St. Petersburg, Russia, and Thomas is, conveniently, French, and both are my age. Their apartment is large and clean, and the bathroom is bigger than anything I've used in years! Luckily, I already feel like I'm friends with them because they speak a lot and have been welcoming. This feels like it will be a "normal" stay, whatever that means.

Poland marks the 19th country I've visited in my life, but I'm not here just to be here; I'm on a mission. The first thing I did when arriving in Krakow was sign up for a tour of Auschwitz, the infamous Nazi death camp during WWII that was the site of many a Jewish death. I know this journey will not be a happy one. In fact, I expect to be disturbed and traumatized by this. But, this is a necessary visit, one that is good for my education. Auschwitz should never be forgotten, because it was a travesty of human history. The tour will take place tomorrow. 

17/1 - The sky was gray and the Auschwitz and Birkenau camps covered by a layer of snow and packed-down ice. The air was near freezing. A small handful of snowflakes drifted down from the sky. A light breeze nipped at unprotected skin.

As I ride back to Krakow in the shuttle, it's difficult to explain exactly what I felt. Disgust? Sadness? Apprehension? It began as soon as we parked in front of Auschwitz. I felt light headed, an ever-so-slight reluctance to advance farther.

I was part of a tour with 20-25 people. The tour guide spoke into a small microphone that transmitted to a receiver we wore around our necks, which fed into headphones that covered our ears. We could hear her perfectly, even if we were lagging 30 feet behind. She had short hair and electric blue eyes. She spoke in a gentle, Polish-accented voice and seemed to really enjoy her job. She had the privilege of meeting several survivors, some of whom during their return to Auschwitz.

Upon having a glimpse of the simple, blunt and bleak entrance emblazoned with "Arbeit macht frei," I felt a chill quite unrelated to the cold weather. That familiar taste rose in my mouth and I felt a flash of nausea.

Throughout the tour when the guide told us of specific numbers and living conditions of prisoners, I furrowed my brow out of revulsion and at times made a face as if the odor of rotten eggs had permeated the entire complex. But there was no such smell, not even in the blocks where so many people were housed. I expected to detect a faint smell in them, but time has mercifully erased that particular memory in all of the facilities.

Stolen possessions of victims are still in Auschwitz. I saw a pile of eye glasses, a display of Jewish shawls and shoe polish, a collection of suitcases with names on them, a large mound of hair brushes and shaving kits, a clump of old leather shoes and a hoard of teapots and other kitchen utensils. People had no idea what they were in for. The guide said 80 percent of people were never actually prisoners; they were immediately sent straight to gas chambers upon arrival.

This heartless evil revolted me, and I felt my first serious wave of emotion. The presence of so many tangible items made the victims that much more real.

The guide showed us a room inside one of the barracks which contained rope and sheets made with human hair, mostly from women. I saw a hill of human hair, a disgusting reminder of what happened here. I did not need to snap a picture to remember that image.

I felt another episode of emotion. I noticed myself looking away from the large collection of hair because I felt I was staring at something I shouldn't have. I was uncomfortable. I saw other people standing where they could look inside the exhibit, but I had no more desire to lay eyes on that atrocity so I hastily exited. I didn't look back.

She showed us the one surviving gas chamber between Auschwitz and Birkenau and instructed us to not take pictures. The dull, gray, featureless, rectangular room, in which 800 people were crammed, seemed colder than outside. Sound reverberated easily, such as from our footsteps; it was like walking inside a cave. We could see the squares in the ceiling where cyanide and Zyklon B were dropped into the chamber by the SS guards. I imagined the terror in that room during the victims' final 15 minutes of life.

I had to leave the chamber . I saw people taking pictures even though being instructed not to. I felt a stab of annoyance.

We stepped into the Death Block, building No. 11. I saw tiny rooms in which 15 people were stuffed with little fresh air as punishment. I saw individual cells where prisoners were forced into for days on end, but the cells are so tiny that a person would be unable to sit. I saw how dark, bleak and cold the basement of the Death Block was. I will never be able to imagine being forced to stand for days on limited rations of bread. It is torture. I'd be waiting impatiently for death.

Upon exit of Auschwitz, I felt yet another rush of emotion. My eyes burned. But we still had to visit Birkenau.

Birkenau was never finished because the most prisoners it kept at one time was about 95,000. It was supposed to house 125,000. Most of the 300 brick buildings are nothing more than foundations now because the Nazis began covering their tracks once they realized the war was coming to an end. They burned and destroyed the evidence. But, I walked the same distance from the arrival platform, where there was an example of a cattle car in which approximately 80 people were transported to the concentration and death camps, to the two remains of gas chambers as so many unsuspecting others did during WWII. They are crumbling rubble now.

I saw the building where female prisoners scheduled to be gassed were kept until there was room in the chambers, and upon entry I noticed a musty smell for the first time all day. Though the guide told me afterwards it was the chemical used to preserve the boards that made up the bunks, it still made my short time inside vivid and abhorrent.

This shack had a rocky dirt floor and three-tiered bunks made of plain wooden boards, under a non-insulated wooden roof. It was dark, with the only light filtering in through the grimy windows. It was bitterly cold. The bottom bunk was the most dangerous because rats would bite and scratch the women nearest to the floor. There weren't enough blankets. Prisoners huddled among themselves for warmth in these bunks, usually between five to seven people. It was housing for dirty beasts, not humans. I imagined the feeling of terror for those waiting to be gassed to death. I had to exit.

But between the gas chambers is a memorial to those murdered during this time. The same message was repeated in at least 15 languages that were used by victims of the camp. I shed a tear after an attack of hot, intense grief. I recognized the messages written in English and French. On most of the languages, people had deposited a rose to symbolize remembrance. Each one said the same thing:

Forever let this place be a cry of despair and a warning to humanity, where the Nazis murdered about one and a half million men, women and children, mainly Jews from various countries of Europe. Auschwitz-Birkenau 1940-45. 

We can still walk among the same facilities that murdered more than one million people, hear stories of unimaginable horror, see where the atrocities took place with our own eyes. What we will never able to experience from that time are the feelings of terror, hopelessness, fatigue, starvation, frost-bitten feet, oncoming death. We can only imagine the odors of gunpowder, of blood, of death, of the stink of piss and shit, of rooms crowded with emaciated, beaten and broken people.

I've written before about intensity, about living an intense life. The visit to Auschwitz was an intense emotional experience, one I will never forget. I have to fight back welling tears while writing this. The visit had a similar effect on me to when I went to Normandy American Cemetery in 2010, but on a larger scale. It was disturbing.

I do not have a desire to visit Auschwitz again. Once is plenty. But, I'm grateful to have had the chance to see it because it's an important part of European history. It shouldn't be forgotten.

18/1 - I feel better since the visit to Auschwitz. It helped to write as soon as possible on the ride back to Krakow. It also helped to get a tour of the nearby Jewish Quarter from Thomas and have a couple of beers at two local pubs. He showed me places where locals go to get cheap food, including a sausage stand on the street near where he and Kristina live.

The vendor pulls up every night at 8 p.m. in an old, but reliable, blue van and anchors a tarp to the van which provides cover for his barbecue and the serving table. He roasts maybe eight sausages at one time over a flame which burns from a specific kind of wood. All of the sausages are pierced onto one long roasting fork, and he methodically flips the fork over in order to give both sides of the meat equal time on the fire.

When the man is roasting, no one is served. The line of people (which is always long) is forced to watch the dancing flames lick the sausages and see the fat bubbling up and dripping down into the burning wood. It's a bit hypnotic, I must say, because people need something to focus on other than below-freezing temperatures. No one speaks.

But when these fat sausages are ready, the man hands them off to his partner who handles cash and places each sausage on a plate with mustard and a large roll of bread. Each costs 8 Polish Zlotys, which amounts to about $2 USD. It's a filling meal, and one that will last throughout the night.

Today is my final full day in Poland. Tomorrow I'll take the train for more than six hours into the great city of Prague in the Czech Republic, the 20th country I will have visited.

Nudism, French lessons and maturation in Paris

13/1 - This story begins with a nudist.

Some of you may remember when I Couchsurfed with a nudist in Madrid in 2015. For the past three nights in Paris, my Couchsurfing host was...a nudist! But this time, I stripped all the way down. But rather than be self-conscious, I was a bit surprised at how comfortable I felt to simply sit in the nude while eating, watching television or drinking a glass of wine with another person.

It takes one to be secure with one's own body to exist naked in the moment. For some, the absence of clothing equates to the absence of security. We are all more vulnerable sans clothes, because there is nowhere to hide and nothing to lose; the naked skin is the foundation of our Selves.

My host, Marco, was a former rugby player and is someone who seems to relish the opportunity to prove someone wrong, even his girlfriend. I won't go into detail, but he's about as comfortable being nude as one can possibly be, and it made for some rather memorable moments. 

Anyway, I'm in Paris until Monday morning. During this time, I'm taking quite intense French lessons from Marie-Amance's father, Phil. He's from Montreal, Canada but has lived in France for more than 40 years. Our lessons take place in his apartment in the 18th District of Paris. It's little bigger than a studio because his bed and the kitchen table sit in the same room, and the kitchen and bathroom are almost as big as each other. Phil's narrow balcony provides a view of one of the spires of Sacre Couer Basilica.

We've spent three hours per day for the past three days chatting in French, pouring over textbooks, drilling specific sounds, emphasizing verb tenses, conjugating and repeating, repeating, REPEATING. 

My brain is dead. At the moment I feel mentally tired, as if my mind has been thoroughly beaten with a meat tenderizer and then squeezed of its remaining juices of knowledge and ability, like a sopping-wet rag being wrung of its moisture. 

14/1 - Some of you may remember that I Couchsurfed with a man named Pascal in 2015 when I visited Paris with Angel. I'm again staying with him for my final few days in the city. His apartment is just as I remembered it: every inch of wall space is taken up with some sort of book, artwork, knick-knack, ivy, porcelain frog or phrase, yet the flat is spotless. You could eat off the floor!

My first time in Paris was in 2010 during my first trip to London. I hated it because of how helpless I felt when trying to communicate. The city was beautiful and the sight of the Eiffel Tower wondrous because it's sheer size made you feel as if it was simply part of a backdrop, but some of the thrill was eliminated because I was so unsure about the simple act of speaking. I hadn't taken just a step outside of my comfort zone, but a giant leap to the point where I couldn't even see my comfort zone anymore.

Nowadays, I'm quite comfortable. I can actually communicate! I can read things in the metro. I can understand simple announcements. It's fine to open my mouth here to speak, because people sometimes automatically switch to English for me. But, the Eiffel Tower itself is under much more security since the terrorist attacks. One must go through security if they wish to simply walk into the plaza directly underneath the tower. Those metal detectors are symbols of a country shaken to the core by mindless attacks so much that "normal" life is no longer normal.

But as Pascal said, I might be enjoying Paris more now compared to six years ago because I'm more mature. It's fine for me to travel alone in an unfamiliar place now, whereas before I needed to stick myself to another person who knew the local language. But that's correct. Paris is now a familiar city, in every sense. It's not like I'm traveling in the typical sense; I'm just visiting a large city once again in which I have business.

As for today's French lesson with Phil, it went much smoother because I actually ate breakfast instead of only drinking a lonely cup of coffee. Pascal was kind enough to offer toast, jam and tea. So, I didn't feel slow or stupid, and it was much easier to carry on a conversation in French.

And speaking of French, it was never one of those languages I envisioned myself learning when I was younger, like the idea of living in France. But, life is a chaotic adventure, a frenzied machine with a mind of its own that shifts and shimmies on the road we think on which we travel. But at random moments that contraption has been known to suddenly veer off course.

I'm living in France and studying the language on my own because, well, that's how it's supposed to be. It's what I should be doing at this moment. I will not question this. 

15/1 - Today was my final lesson with Phil, and I'm tired. I'd be happy to return to Cherbourg tonight because I'm mentally exhausted, but alas I still have six more days of adventures. 

Pascal is the director of a dance organization, and he invited me to a dance performance of sorts. It was headlined by Nadia Vadori-Gauthier, a woman who is known for dancing in tribute to the terrorist attack on Charlie Hebdo a couple of years ago. During her tribute, Vadori-Gauthier filmed herself dancing every day for two years, even if it were just for a minute.

In one of her clips, which made me laugh, she had set up shop in a restaurant booth with bobble-heads of Donald trump and Hillary Clinton. She incorporated the bobble-heads into her dance and became a bobble-head herself at times. In other videos she danced in the middle of traffic, along a blank stretch of wall and on top of a table in a crowded lecture hall while the class was in session.

The recital took place in a small studio under the streets of Paris in the dance organization headquarters. Pascal said the space was much too small for the amount of people who showed up, which was about 150 people. There were theater seating on one side of the stage, which rose up maybe 10 rows. Other people were forced to sit on the ground on two other sides of the stage, including me.

The style of dance could be described as interpretive. It ranged from a group of eight performers twitching violently while humming in tune with each other, but then strolling away to the sidelines while whistling, to a man and woman executing a sort of ballet. Each wore gray T-shirts, jeans and danced with bare feet on the black floor, and the sound of their feet making contact with the floor was the only sound during these few moments. It was a thing of beauty when he would take her into his arms and she would stretch, thus showcasing her delicate-yet-powerful female form.

Programs like this are just a tiny part of what makes Paris such a great city. In 2015, I wrote about how the city offers a surprise around each and every corner, like a grab bag of Christmas poppers. It's a cultural capital of Europe, and a place that will eventually open the mind to previously unknown experiences. Even Pascal, who has lived in Paris for 37 years, said he still discovers new things about his home.

In 2015, I fell in love with Paris. In 2017, I simply fostered the relationship.

My time in Paris is finished. The next stop on this journey will be to Krakow, Poland where there is snow on the ground amid below-freezing temperatures. The purpose of my visit here is not a happy one: I'll visit Auschwitz, a place much colder than the weather in the deepest part of winter in the North Pole.