The Prologue: Paris, tu n'as pas changé . . .

I would say it was a dream . . .

The imposing image of la Tour Eiffel, the taste of la baguette, the melee of the strikes in the street, the sound of le métro—even the smell of le métro: each sight and every sensation of Paris takes me back to 2005, causing me to recall with more clarity than ever the second life I began here during my semester abroad.

And, it is as if I never left.

I have been plunged back into the very essence of what it meant to be a "hoosier in Paris"—a foreigner, yes, but one who had adjusted to the quotidian way of life in France. It is as if Paris fell into a deep sleep upon my departure only to rise once again the day of my arrival.

Paris, tu n’as pas changé . . . C’est moi . . .

I have been told by all who knew me prior to the current voyage that my French has greatly improved. Curious this is to me, as I have done very little to ameliorate my skills in the tongue since leaving the City of Light in May of 2005. Yes, I taught and took a course in French, but I cannot say that either of these guided me in honing my skills any more than the semester I spent abroad.

At first, I was unsure of how to respond to such a compliment. I improved? Why, thank you. But, if I am "good" now, does that mean I was "bad" before? And yet, realizing how much less effort I am required to invest in order to comprehend the French of my friends, I have found their assertion to be true.

Yes, I am the one who has changed. Not only have I returned more adept in my français, but I have come as one who no longer trembles at the thought of being within half an hour of la Tour Eiffel. Paris means many things to me: a full Scottish moon, spilled kitty litter, soft ballads above the Seine and vomit in a bookbag are but a few of the memories which come to mind. In short, Paris is no longer merely the Cathedral of Notre Dame, the Basilica of Sacré Coeur, and the Louvre. Each of these monuments are breath-taking and continue to bid me come and see. Yet, there is more. There is the story I wrote, the memories I made—the life I created.

Returning, I have picked up the pen exactly where I left it—only this time the pen is more sturdy, mature, and prepared for the journey ahead.

I would say it was a dream, the year and a half between May of 2005 and the day I returned to Paris. I am like Thomas of Hunter, caught between two dream worlds in the Circle Trilogy (author: Ted Dekker). Seth of Indiana cannot bring Hoosierland with him to the home of Seth of France. Visitors come, but they never can remain long enough to become a part of this world. I alone am able to travel between the two worlds.

Much took place during my time back in Indiana, such as the additions of one lovely lady and one beautiful baby to my immediate family. And, I know that in the end I will be forced to choose between these two worlds. One will be where I lay my roots, and the other will become exceedingly more and more of a simple dream world. Furthermore, I am persuaded to believe my love for those in the land of corn will rise triumphant over this second life in Europe . . .
But, until then, I am here. And a new journey is about to begin.

Seth, the Hoosier. Seth, in Paris. Seth, changed.

Cultural postscript: Among the interesting cultural discoveries I have made . . .

I have always wanted to land at an airport to find someone holding a placard bearing my name upon it. Alas, once again I was disappointed. However, I did find humorous the title printed on one such sign held by a man avidly searching among the crowd of those newly arrived: Anti Flirt. Is this somehow a French name cursed by fate to mockery due to its meaning in English? Or is it some new French office of tourism which strictly eschews fraternization among the gaga-eyed tourists? Perhaps the world will never know.

Each day we spend hours upon hours around the table, discussing among topics those often most forbidden—politics and religion. I am staying in the home of the grandparents of my good French friend, Alice, and at each meal we have at least four courses: the main, the salad/vegetables, the cheese, and the dessert. Often there is more than this. Of course the cuisine is exquisite, but what I enjoy most is the time spent together. The world may pass by our window. Let it pass! We take our time to enjoy each bite, to savor each moment.

And they never tire! The grandparents awaken before me, then never cease to profit from the hours of the day. We have gone on walks throughout the city, taken a boat ride on the Seine. After such excursions, we return to the house only to eat another meal and then sit down to a movie or a game which will not end until midnight!

And, I have learned that if one feels somewhat proud in ones proficiency in a language, one need only to play Scrabble in that language with native speakers and one will quickly return to the land of humble pie.

One final note: upon arriving, the grandfather bestowed upon me a bathrobe and slippers. Home-grown in Indiana with just a touch of red across my neck, a tremor of fear ran down my spine. What do I do with such things? Needless to say, the first time I emerged from the basement (wherein one may find the shower) in the bathrobe and slippers, I nearly ran up the stairs to my room where I could dispose of the luxury.

Again, however, I am changing. I feel somehow cultured and urbane every time I don the robe, which you will quite easily see in the photos.

A bientôt, mes amis.

("Welcome to Masterpiece Theatre...")