I have always said that every picture tells a story. This one captures a whole day without words. This Frenchman spoke to me while I sat in front of the Norte Dame writing postcards. I spoke English. He French. Sometimes he would tie together broken vocabulary to help me learn his native tongue. We shared about 90 minutes together. He toured the outside and inside of ND- and at random points he held my hand. It was both bizarre and familiar at the same time. I remember almost everything about him and the time he spent sharing a proud landmark institution in Paris. Though I admit- the details of his face are hazy. However, the way he walked, the sound of his voice, touch of his hand are imprinted completely. I am encouraged by these memories because it makes me feel hopeful that I am remembered in recollection by those many strangers that became friends in all the miles I have traveled and lands explored. It was a beloved day. The next day came time with the Stegmans. And I was pumped. From journal that day: "part of his charm was that I couldn't understand him. The apple. My French grandfather." It was a story in a picture for sure.
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