If you had a free round-trip ticket to anywhere, where would you go?

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France. More specifically, Paris.

Now, before anyone starts imagining me standing beneath the Eiffel Tower wearing a beret, holding a baguette, and attempting to look sophisticated, allow me to put that particular image to rest. I have enough trouble looking respectable in my own country. There’s no reason to embarrass myself internationally. Besides, I suspect the French have enough problems without adding me to the equation.

My reasons for wanting to visit France have considerably more to do with its literary history than its tourist attractions. Writers such as James Baldwin, Richard Wright, Ernest Hemingway, and countless others spent portions of their lives there, writing, questioning, arguing, and attempting to understand themselves and the world around them. Some left their homelands searching for opportunities. Others sought freedom from circumstances that constrained their lives and creativity. Their reasons were as varied as the people themselves, but something about their journeys has always fascinated me.

Perhaps it’s the notion that sometimes we must leave familiar surroundings to discover something about ourselves that was there all along.

I’d like to visit some of the cafés and neighborhoods where these writers spent their time. Sit at a table, order a cup of coffee, open my notebook, and write. Not because I believe some lingering literary spirit will descend upon me and transform my scribblings into a masterpiece. Although, should that happen, I certainly wouldn’t complain. I’m not entirely unreasonable.

Rather, I would enjoy the connection to those who came before me. The men and women who wrestled with language, challenged conventional thinking, and contributed their observations to a conversation that continues long after their voices have fallen silent.

I have profound respect for those writers. Not because they achieved literary recognition, but because they dared to examine the world and put their observations into words. Their work wasn’t always comfortable, convenient, or particularly popular. Sometimes it challenged the very people who needed to hear it most.

And that, I believe, is part of the responsibility of writing.

However, I wouldn’t travel thousands of miles simply to admire the places where famous writers once sat. Literary history would be part of the experience, certainly, but it wouldn’t be the entirety of it.

What interests me most is discovering the things that connect us.

We spend an extraordinary amount of time identifying what separates us. Nationality, religion, ethnicity, politics, culture, language, and whatever other distinctions we can manufacture to convince ourselves that our experiences are somehow unique to our particular corner of the world. Some of those differences are meaningful and deserve understanding. Others are little more than imaginary fences we’ve constructed and subsequently forgotten how to climb over.

Yet beneath those distinctions, there are experiences that seem to follow humanity wherever it goes.

People fall in love. They experience heartbreak. They worry about their children, struggle with disappointment, celebrate small victories, and occasionally wonder what the hell they’re doing with their lives. They laugh at inappropriate moments, make questionable decisions, and spend considerable portions of their existence trying to understand other people who are equally confused.

The language may change. The customs may differ. The circumstances certainly won’t be identical.

But the humanity remains.

I’d like to wander through neighborhoods that rarely appear in travel brochures. Visit small cafés, local markets, bookstores, and the ordinary places where people conduct the business of living. Watch the world unfold without attempting to direct it. Listen when the opportunity presents itself. Ask questions when appropriate, and remember that being a visitor doesn’t automatically entitle me to understand everything I encounter.

There is something profoundly interesting about observing people without immediately attempting to explain them.

Perhaps I’d see an elderly couple sitting together in comfortable silence, communicating through gestures developed over decades of shared experience. Maybe a young father struggling to convince his child that the world will not end because they’ve been denied another pastry. Or two friends engaged in an animated disagreement that dissolves into laughter before either has successfully made their point.

I might not understand a single word being spoken.

But I suspect I’d recognize the emotions.

Of course, I could be completely wrong about what I’m witnessing. That elderly couple might be furious with one another, the father might be negotiating something considerably more complicated than a pastry, and those two friends could be discussing the proper way to prepare dinner.

That’s why observation should be accompanied by humility. We don’t always understand what we’re seeing, and our assumptions have a remarkable talent for making fools of us.

I know. I’ve conducted enough personal research on the subject to qualify as an expert.

Still, I would photograph the things that caught my attention and write about the experiences that moved me. Not necessarily the extraordinary moments, but the ordinary ones that reveal something about the human condition. Sometimes the smallest interactions tell us more about people than the grandest declarations ever could.

And somewhere along the way, I would return to that café table with my notebook.

My words may be weathered, but they are true.

I’ve never approached writing with the intention of producing something for others to admire. I don’t sit down wondering whether my words will survive me or whether some future generation will discover profound wisdom buried within my paragraphs. The moment I begin writing for that purpose, I risk turning the truth of the moment into something it was never intended to become.

I write because something has captured my attention, troubled my thoughts, or demanded examination. Sometimes the result is thoughtful. Sometimes it’s uncomfortable. Occasionally, it’s a spectacular collection of nonsense that somehow manages to make sense by the final paragraph.

Such is life inside my head.

Truth over Popularity—No Exceptions.

If something I write happens to resonate with another person, wonderful. If it survives beyond my lifetime, that’s rather extraordinary. But neither possibility is the foundation of my work. I would rather write something honest that disappears tomorrow than manufacture something impressive that never reflected what I genuinely believed.

Perhaps that’s another reason the literary history of Paris appeals to me. Those writers didn’t all share the same experiences, beliefs, or perspectives. They disagreed, challenged one another, and approached their work through vastly different circumstances. Yet their contributions became part of a larger conversation about what it means to be human.

A conversation that remains unfinished.

I don’t need to write like Baldwin, Hemingway, or anyone else. Their words belong to them, shaped by lives I haven’t lived and experiences I cannot claim as my own. I respect their contributions precisely because they were theirs.

All I can offer is my perspective, shaped by the years I’ve traveled, the people I’ve encountered, the mistakes I’ve made, and the lessons I’ve managed to learn along the way.

Perhaps France would provide another chapter in that ongoing education.

I might discover something that challenges a belief I’ve carried for decades. I might encounter a perspective that forces me to reconsider something I thought I understood. Or perhaps I’ll simply spend a pleasant afternoon drinking coffee, watching people, and realizing that humanity is every bit as complicated in Paris as it is everywhere else.

Any of those outcomes would be worthwhile.

Because the purpose of the journey wouldn’t be to discover some grand universal truth or return home transformed into a wiser, more sophisticated version of myself.

It would be to experience another small portion of this enormous world with curiosity, respect, and an open mind.

And then write about it.

So, if someone were generous enough to hand me a free round-trip ticket, France would be my destination. I’d visit the places where writers once gathered, wander beyond the familiar tourist attractions, meet people when circumstances allowed, and spend a little time discovering what connects us despite everything that appears to separate us.

Somewhere along the way, I’d find a café, order another cup of coffee, and open my notebook.

The conversation began long before I arrived, and it will continue long after I’ve gone.

I’m simply grateful for the opportunity to add a few honest words while I’m here.