Women of every age, size, and culture have all experienced the moments of unexpected connection with random people or at random times or in random places. The amazing aspect of this meeting is the randomness of the stories. The connection can include a long sideways glance, a five-minute conversation, or a neighboring seat on a plane—but the times it has happened to me in the past were nothing compared to my day with Keiko and with Jena in the cyber café.

On almost every significant traveling experience, I’ve hit a wall. The wall includes the collision between rational thought and irrational feelings, compelling me to remember—even if for a matter of minutes—that I am a girl. I despise the near complete lack of control that I gain when this wall hits. Every misunderstanding leads to confusion, every comment brings about interpretation, and every action means exactly the opposite of what it means. I actually love it when emotion hits, because (unless I’m watching a movie) I love the feeling of surrender… of abandon… of the complete lack of control… maybe of freedom.

The wall came on Wednesday.

We spent the morning at Museo d’Orsay, which of the numerous museums that I’ve visited made the best impression. The paintings and portraits, photographs and sculptures are representative of characters and settings that are intriguing to me. Monet and Renoir, also Van Gogh… they painted exactly what I would’ve painted—and in the exact way I would’ve painted it.

The Monet that remains most in my memory is the woman in the wind, on a cliff, with a parasol. In one portrait we see her silhouette… in the next we see her entire front and a smile. I feel like Monet was flirting with her in his painting, making the woman blush, causing her head to face the eyes of her beholder. She was completely girl and loved it. I recognize that freedom of flirting… or being flirted with…! The museum was the perfect way to begin the day. We spent the majority of our time there with the impressionists, comparing colors and brush strokes, waiting on each other at different points. People really should go to museums by themselves… or with just one good friend—it is a great place to get to know people, or to just be known.

I became inwardly focused looking at these paintings, analyzing the drama of living in between Paris and real life. My emotions were softened and energized both, as we left the museum to catch lunch at one of John’s favorite restaurants, Willi’s Wine Bar. Drew and I ate the best tuna dish that I’ve ever tasted… and we ate it in 20 minutes. The bartender was British and began to discuss our visit to Paris with us. John had us on our feet within minutes to meet with a family friend. Herein begins the drama.

Keiko is Jean Cristophe’s wife. She is amazing. This woman, who was educated in Paris and New York, originally lived in Japan. Her composure resembled the personality and demeanor of many Japanese women, but her quiet confidence clearly came from a deeper understanding. Her ability to follow her husband, in ministry and back to Paris, awakes in me the desire to leave everything behind to be with someone whom I love. Keiko was full of patience and compassion, authentic in all her words. She encompassed what some might call the fragrance of Christ… a missionary in Paris. Crazy.

When we left each other, after the most amazing ice cream of the week, Jena, John, Drew and I b-lined to a cyber café in order to rent a car for the trip to the countryside. Jena and I sat down in the foyer—and almost immediately my eyes were watering. Prompted by a couple of words from John, and softened by the events of the morning, my tender heart was tired… the wall. Jena listened to my thoughts as my rationale fought with the girl in my subconscious… what an amazing moment for me to realize the nature of humanity. We are constantly broken, but we hardly ever recognize it.

On a lighter note—Jena, Drew, and I had quite an experience on the metro without Monsieur John. Three levels of despair could be described in our ten minutes away from him.

ONE: We began to go the wrong direction on the train: toward La Defense instead of going towards Chateau de Vincennes. The humor of our mistake is founded on the absence of John. I mean… can’t we do anything without him! But it gets better.

TWO: Because we had to turn back—Jena and Drew’s tickets failed to do their job. The gates did not open, and the three of us were separated from each other. Drew’s solution, though unethical, provided immediate relief for the separation anxiety. I watched him as he sped decisively through the exit gate, and observed in horror as the gate pointedly closed on his rib cage. The expression of surprise and pain covered his face and serves as the second most memorable expression of the week. The third most memorable expression fell over Jena’s face as she realized that she was all alone on the opposite side of the grand canyon of the Parisian transportation gates…! ‘What should I do?’ she asked me with her eyes. She tried her ticket again—and again it failed her. Faced with a compromise of integrity or one more second with the anxiety of solitude, she chose to follow in the steps of her fallen companion—right through the exit gate and into my arms. As if this drama was not climatic enough…

THREE: The fit of laughter died down when we were approached by an older chap reciting Hamlet to us. Back in the reality of the metro we realized that we were in fact on the wrong side of the tracks. We escaped the strange fellow by our own mistake and caught the opposite train in just enough time to come in contact with another strange fellow… no need to describe these strange interactions. It should suffice to say that our despair without John was complete… and completely humorous.

The wall provides a division in my week… a division between a romanced, rose-colored experience to a joyful, realistic view of the city and my companions. Truths are easily found in a satire… back to a satirical life.