Blog is an ugly word. It's the word resulting from a small child who can't pronounce "bullfrog." B...l...oggggg. I much prefer whimsical, cantankerous, ephemeral, espionage. They have pizazz. Blog does not. Nevertheless, this is a blog. This is a record of my life in Paris, which will begin at 8:35 am RST on August 28, 2011. I will roll out of a large plane, disheveled and bewildered, and will learn, much to my chagrin, that I have wasted six years of my life learning the French language. I will not understand the frighteningly chic creatures who I will find, and they will not understand me. I only hope that my hand signals are as universal as I happen to think they are. I will cry in my cappuccino, be overcharged for bottled water, offend scads of people, embarrass myself, and perhaps fall in the Seine. All manner of thing will be well. In truth, my account will not be as thrilling as all that. If you are seeking worthwhile fiction, I would be happy to make a suggestion. May I start with short stories by Dostoevsky and Elizabeth McCracken? In contrast, this will be mundane. And non-fiction. I am not wise and I know very little. I will muse, lament, and ramble. I will explore Paris, culture, art, faith, life, what I learn, what I know to be true, and what I don't know at all. I will say what must be said.
