Beyond Paris. Paul Alexander Casper
that look. I sensed right away that maybe I didn’t have a story, but this guy certainly did. He had lived. There was an ambiance. This was someone who had traveled; this was a man with presence. Maybe he didn’t have wealth, but he had experiences and the results of those experiences. I thought, when I grow up, I want to be him. I want to exude that kind of presence.
One of the group handed him a beer, and after a sip, he started to hum in unison with the guitar player. Then, in a soft voice, he started to sing in French words that fit and flowed perfectly with the tune. I would have given anything to know what those words were and what he was singing—singing almost as if to himself—but everyone in the restaurant was now straining to hear him.
I was just about to give up on knowing what he was singing about when the guy who had asked me about my story earlier motioned me over to where they were gathered around a small fireplace. Beer in hand, I sat down next to him.
After a minute or two, my tablemate leaned over and whispered, “My name is Marcos. That’s Caesar singing, and Christa is playing the guitar.”
“Hello, I’m Paul.”
“Where are you from, Paul?”
“Chicago,” I responded and asked softly what the singer was singing about.
“He’s singing about some of the journeys and the places he’s seen as he has traveled throughout his life, and about certain types of knowledge and wisdom he’s long been searching for but still hasn’t found.” Just then Caesar stopped singing, and Christa started singing in a different language—Spanish, I think.
After a couple of swallows of beer, Caesar, almost on cue, started singing again but this time in English as Christa continued softly singing some lines in Spanish. I wondered if he could be translating what he had been singing earlier. Marcos was right; this man had traveled around the world many times. And the places he sang about were the most exotic and dangerous places.
My mind started to drift as I listened. I wondered if I could do that. I was already away from home, already on the road. My initial hesitancy upon landing in Europe and during those first days in Paris was quickly fading. I was becoming much more confident in my ability to maneuver, navigate and communicate in a foreign land.
“Who’s your friend, Marcos?” Caesar said, turning towards me.
“Caesar, this is Paul. It appears you’ve enticed him with your tales. I sense he could be a traveler also if given a chance.”
The next couple of minutes were spent updating Marcos and Caesar on my current predicament and what I had been doing the last five years.
“He says he doesn’t have a story as yet, Caesar.”
“I don’t know about any story, but I came to Paris to work. And that now looks dead. I really don’t know what I’m going to do. Maybe I’m at a dead end?”
“You can come with us. We’re on our way to Morocco. But I’m not sure you would find your story there, especially going with us. My feeling is you need to walk alone for a while to truly discover your story,” Marcos suggested as he looked to Caesar for additional guidance.
“I don’t know. Usually I do get a feeling about people and what they should be thinking and maybe even doing, but honestly, I don’t get any vibe from Paul. Maybe Paul needs—well, maybe, metaphorically speaking, he needs to venture deeper into the woods. Paul, have you ever heard the saying—if you don’t get lost, there’s a chance you may never be found? That can mean different things to different people. I know you feel trapped right now with your initial plan gone awry. But maybe Paris wasn’t the end of your journey but the beginning.”
Now that thought was interesting. Was this problem meant to happen? If this was the beginning, where would I go next? So, did I want there to be a next, and how much would it cost?
Another hour passed listening to Caesar tell stories, real stories, stories that seemed to hold you on the edge of your chair, one right after the other. Stories that now were becoming much clearer to me, stories I didn’t have and frankly had never really wondered about.
“It’s getting pretty late, everyone; I think I should be going. I guess I’ll just have to wait and see what tomorrow brings. It was a pleasure meeting you, Caesar. Morocco sounds exotic, but I don’t think that’s my road right now.”
“Paul, your road will find you. Don’t worry or try too hard to discover your path. I believe all of us come into this world with a purpose. Some have called it a road, others a story, and many more refer to that something, that enlightenment, by other names. If I’m not mistaken, as you leave this café tonight and make your way back to your hotel, you’ll have a lot to think about. Maybe a direction will reveal itself. Peace be with you, Paul; maybe we will meet again. I hope so.”
After walking for a while, I realized there was no way I’d ever fall asleep with all these thoughts bouncing around in my head. I had made my way down Boulevard Montparnasse and saw it was late enough that I could get a cozy outside table at La Coupole. I sat down and ordered a beer. And almost immediately a young Parisian couple wearing amazing coats sat down beside me.
“Excusez-moi, monsieur, vous avoir une cigarette,” came a request in French with a German accent.
“Would you like a Marlboro?” I responded as he held up two fingers and said thank you in almost perfect English. With only a week in Paris, I was certainly jealous and surprised at how many Europeans spoke two or three languages. It was so different from the States. It was an ability I’d like to have myself someday.
“Where are you from?” he asked as we moved a little closer to each other.
“Chicago,” I answered as I lit all three of our cigarettes.
“Danke,” came his reply in German. “Have you been in Paris before?”
“No, my first time. I love it. Unfortunately, it’s very expensive. I had hoped to get a job here, but that’s not going to work out. Do you live in Paris or do you travel here often?”
“We live in London. We’re just stopping in Paris for a day or two on our way back from Moscow.”
“Are you traveling for fun or business? I’ve seen some people here wearing the same kind of coats both of you are wearing. So different, where did you buy them?”
“Well, we just like to travel. We travel, really, just to travel. We make some money here and there along the way. The coats are sheepskins from Afghanistan. I’d like to have fifty more of them; they are beginning to be the thing in Europe, and they are so hip. We bought our coats in Moscow from this guy who just came back from Kabul in Afghanistan. He was honest with us; he bought each one for $5-$10, and he sold them to us for $200 each. I could sell them for more than that to my friend Freddie who owns the Granny Takes a Trip boutique on Kings Row in London.”
It didn’t take long to have the proverbial light bulb go berserk, blinking wildly in my head. This was interesting, this was more than interesting, and this was exciting. I could do this; I could be rich. Afghanistan! Wow, of all the places as I thought of the world, I’d have to say Afghanistan had never come up. Where was that in relation to India? It seemed like a long way away, a very long way away. At that moment I blurted, “Afghanistan? How would you ever get there?”
“Well, there might be a number of ways to get there, but if I were you, I’d take The Orient Express,” my new acquaintance responded. “That would be so cool. I’ve never ridden on it, but you can catch it right here in Paris. Are you thinking about buying some coats and selling them?”
I think he kept on talking for another minute or two, but immediately upon hearing the words “The Orient Express” I was gone, again starting to daydream about sitting in a luxurious train car streaking through Eastern Europe on my way east to the exotic, to adventure, to halfway around the world, to Asia. Now that just might be the start of what could be “My Story.” How in a million years could Caesar have known that I would find my story so soon?
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