Years ago, I fell in love with the windows of Paris. There is something in their unmistakeable ironwork that captures my heart and makes it sing.
They remind me of the feeling I have when I see a redwood tree: soberly yet dancingly, intoxicated.
When I’m here – as I am lucky enough to be right at this moment, sitting at an outdoor café table – I feel settled in a way that I can’t fully explain.
Like there’s something familiar in each of these rooms; something that belongs to me. I look at these windows and think about the time, nearly 20 years ago, when a voice inside me said clearly that I was at home when I was in Northern California.
So when I write about how happy I am to be here, I want to write another sentence too, about how happy I am to be home. But that doesn’t make sense.
Does it? Is it possible to be at home in a place I’ve never lived, where I have no roots and do not speak the language?
Such, I suppose, is the mystery of my France, a mystery I’m thrilled to have in the world.
The Wandering Introvert 