I was riding a bus through the streets of Paris. I was emotionally quite moved, because it seemed as if I had finally moved to Paris, something I had long wanted to do. I loved Paris. The thought that Paris could actually be my home made me feel quite happy. True, it was a large city and had large-city problems, but if Paris were my home, I would become involved in those problems. As the bus stopped a moment and I threw a crumpled piece of paper into a drainage hole, I thought I could even become involved in making sure the sewer system functioned properly. Although the air wasn't completely unpolluted, it still smelled fresh and clean. I could walk in the Luxembourg Park if I needed to be among trees.

My happiness was severely tempered by the fear that I wouldn't be able to find work to stay in Paris. What could I do? Perhaps I could practice international law. I didn't relish the idea, but if practicing law would allow me to stay in Paris, I would do even that.

***

I was in a lobby, perhaps in an airport in Paris, waiting for a pizza I had ordered. The pizza was brought in by a black fellow (about 30 years old). He quickly told me that it cost $5.50, and that he normally charged a tip of 30 cents, which brought the price to over $6. I gave him the money and then an extra quarter tip. He seemed happy, and I felt happy simply by talking with someone who lived and worked in Paris.

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