9am treats.

Picture it: Boulevard Saint Michel. A two-way street comparable to any urban city. There are strings of cafes, "do-it-yourself" shops, boutiques, and of course little markets or grocery stores. The market I stop in at every morning is what most people here call "The Arab". Not only do I myself find that title extremely offensive, but it's clearly politically incorrect. I understand the joke, or the stereotype, but it doesn't make it right. So, I will just call it my friendly Boulevard Saint Michel fresh-fruit market and petit grocery store.



Perusing the outdoor market baskets, I pick up my usual, a Gala apple and maybe a peach or two. I've gotta stock up on cheaper-priced snacks for the day ahead of me. I notice the wind pick up on this chilly Parisian morning so I quickly choose my fruits and step into the little store, eyeing the candy to my left while greeting the dark brown man to my right, behind the counter, with a friendly, "Bonjour!"

I set down my fruits and tell him, "C'est tout!" when a little girl catches the corner of my eye. Very innocent in nature, of course she is afterall a little girl. Probably about four years old, wearing two curly shoulder lengthed dark brown pigtails, which complimented her dark skin and deep brown eyes. A splash of contrast hits my eyes when I notice her bright pink shirt and electric blue leggings. Clearly someone's mom knows how to dress their child.

But today it wasn't a long stare or a playful smile that caught my attention, it was the chocolate flavored popsicle she was sucking on...at 9 in the morning. I checked my running watch to make sure it was for one, still working and two, to see if I was running late and somehow it was already noontime. No-- it was definitely 9 am. She stared straight up at me, and never once removed the plastic wrapped popsicle from her mouth. I'm not sure at what point she dribbled a little onto her shirt, but I assumed she was just saving it for later.

I knelt down to her eye level, so as not to appear so looming and "scary" in my colorful Parisian scarf, jeans and bright yellow tank top. I softly asked her, "C'est un peu tot pour la glace, non?" She smiled and giggled a little and she turned away and ran behind the counter. I assumed she ran to hide behind her father, who laughed as well. Peeking her head from around his back, the man gave me my total and as I pulled out my credit card-- no cash, he said, "Il faut payer 10 euros minimum." Damn. Gotta buy cookies or juice, or something.

So I ask for a minute while I pick up a few things I think the group at school will like. And like a good little watchwoman of the store, the girl followed me around the two aisles, popsicle in mouth, to ensure I didn't steal any of the precious goods. I grabbed a carton of my favorite cookies and a new juice I hadn't tried before; banana, strawberry & orange, with skim milk blended in too. When I caught glances with the girl, she ran into the other aisle, her giggles trailing behind her. I dumped the goods onto the counter and hoped it would be enough. But suddenly I felt a little breeze, not from outside on the street, but from right behind me. And the little girl whipped herself around me and back behind the counter again.

I waited for her to pop her head out from behind son pere, and when she did I stuck out my tongue to strike back. She removed the popsicle, only for a second, to stick her tongue out too. And when the man told me I still needed another Euro, I said, "Ah, what the hell, it's 5 o'clock somewhere" and turned to grab some French candies. I figured if she could eat sugar this early in the morning, then I could too. When in Paris, right?

So I knelt down once more and told the girl to enjoy her treat and I would enjoy my bonbons on the way to school. I collected my things and started to head for the door, wishing the man behind the counter a wonderful day and hoped he would stay warm. The little girl in the pink shirt and blue leggings followed me to the edge of her father's store, sucking silently on her popsicle, watching as I left to start my day. Little did she know, I left a little piece of my childhood with her as I pulled out my sugar coated candies, looked into the sky and breathed in the bright blue sky.

Centre Pompidou: Modern Art Collections

Les Promesses du Passe:

I don't think people give Modern Art enough credit, myself included. I think it's probably because the art itself requires a tremendous amount of understanding and reflection. The same holds true for other forms of art. The relationship between the artist and the movement at the time are completely intertwined. Because Modern Art can have so many topics or faces, it is much easier to ignore the artists' thought processes, than to take a minute and recognize the artist has an opinion, and a strong one at that.

Every movement of art has at least one thing in common...they were dictated by present day events, or maybe events that just recently took place. If an entire country faces new political structures, or harsh economic conditions, of course the ideas of teh people will change. The politically active will strike or speak out, the writers will whip out a pen or open their MacBooks...and the artuists will-- create, whatever they want. They all sit back & reflect, decide their opinions and choose a side, yay-or-nay. Then, they get to work.

Some choose to capture the moment and let the viewer decide for themselves, while others take the more active role and put their entire sources of energy into a piece that a view might not even like. But the point is not for everyone to like a novel, an article or a black and white photograph, the point is to express and to express true to one's own thoughts.

And while I think speaking to one another is pertinent to understanding another human being, languages will never be Universal", but artwork certainly can be.

***


Tous Ensemble, 1995

"Painting is not a metaphor for internal life. That is something I don't want from painting. In a way, it is rather a commentary on the world that I see. I would like that my paintings offer someone outside of myself the feeling of life's possibilities, that it awakens the energy to face, to confront things. There are all these roads, all these possibilities available. Except that each painting is nevertheless closed, isolated." --Shirley Jaffe

***


#172- Gallieni, Marie-Noelle Decoret, 2000

Black & White Photography.

Simplistic in nature. But it calls for a deeper thought process, one that makes you fill in the blanks to see the whole image. It may lack in color detail, but it calls more attention to the story beneath the image.

***


My Flower Bed, 1962

"Le seul moyen d'echapper a ces choses-la, etait tout m'interrogent sur ce qu'elles pouvaient etre, de les representer visuellement" --Yayoi Kusama

Those Familiar Baby Blues

There are few things in life more comforting than a big pair baby eyes staring up at you from inside of a stroller. And when those happy, sparkling eyes are paired with a toothless grin and a sometimes stuck out tongue, the combination is impossible to resist.

Today when I stepped on the Metro at Chatelet to go to Centre Pompidou, I noticed a younger woman struggling to get situated with her normal sized red stroller. The baby inside was fussing a little, but nothing alarming. So she bounced the stroller a little bit to get him to calm down, and she tried to hang a jacket over the edge of the stroller to maybe block whatever was in his visual perameters-- just typical Mom things to do to make your baby calm down. I hadn't seen her little boy yet as the stroller was facing away from me, but I could tell by his soft whimpers and almost playfully toned cries, he wasn't a pain in the butt baby I've seen a lot of lately.

But soon a few more passengers stepped on, politely moving past the woman and her baby, never looking into the stroller to note the precious cargo eyeing every one who passed by. A few bumped the stroller and quickly said, "Pardon" or "Je m'excuse" but after that, their days continued. The paper still had to be read, a metro-appropriate novel was flipped open, and iPhones were pulled out for entertainment. Since this was the first stop on the Line 11 Metro at Chatelet, I assumed a lot of the passengers had a long way to go.

When the doors shut, the Mom had the opportunity to resituate herself once everyone else had either taken a seat, or who, like me, grabbed onto a pole and just eased into the ride. As she moved the stroller around, I subtly changed my position on the train so I could peer inside to get a look at what was making such cute sounds.

I peeked around the corner of the stroller cover and was greeted by these large blue baby eyes. But these weren't just any blue eyes. Most of the time, when someone says "baby blue" you think of a very light, but brightly toned, blue. Almost like sky blue but with more color variation because it's an eye. These were not baby blue. Well, they were baby blue, but not baby blue. Instead, they had this richer quality to them, with subtle hints of grey and darker blue. But the grey helped maintain their lightness quality, rather than being a darker blue like most adults have. They were simply gorgeous.

After already being thrown off by him having such mature looking eyes, I realized the metro had suddenly become much quieter when we locked glances. His mouth closed, and he just breathed softly. Of course I smiled a little, wondering how this baby could stare at me for so long with such amazement. I couldn't tell if he was a subtly flirting baby, or if he was intrigued by me, but I could tell he was deep in thought. So I stuck my tongue out and watched as he opened his mouth a little bit as if to mimick my motion. Not quite to that age though. So then I expected a little giggle, or something along the lines of flirting. Instead he just closed his mouth again and recommenced the stare.

Almost afraid his mother would think I was staring at her child for too long, I looked away every few seconds, all the while the little one maintained his stare. I couldn't help but think it was a sign, and a great one at that. You can't ever go wrong with a pair of baby blues, so it must be a great sign. And I know in my heart it's a great sign I can carry with me.

And like I said, there are few things more comforting than a pair of baby eyes, and while that's true-- there are few things more inspirational than a sign of fate on the metro. The metro stop I got off at approached far too soon, because all I wanted to do was figure out what he was trying to tell me. But I decided I had figured out enough, waved to him goodbye and wished his mother good health as I stepped off the train and into the Parisian wind. I knew it would be a great start to an even greater afternoon.

Good ol' baby blues.

Les Langages

Since I've arrived in France, I've made every effort to communicate with the French. The language barrier was very hard for me in Austria, and I felt very much like an outsider. I could tell when a restaurant owner grew frustrated with me and I didn't even know how to apologize for not understanding him. But in Paris, I've been able to introduce myself, strike up a conversation and even dive into a rather intricate discussion. I've talked about my tattoos, discussed President Obama, and even asked people what they think of America. Sometimes it gets me into trouble, but we can usually come to some sort of agreement that not all Americans agree with the war and the world-wide destruction our country is causing on a daily basis.

But because I can communicate here, I can make it known I'm not just a loud tourist, drinking at the cafes with my friends. The French are able to see I am a student, diligent in my studies, and willing to learn about the culture. And while the men here are much more forward with females than in the US I've been able to handle myself. And in Austria, if the men had been the same way, it would have been much harder to do. I love being able to understand other people and hear their thoughts on the world and the latest news.

On the buses, the metro, and in the streets I pick up little tidbits of conversations, and while I don't always understand the idiomatic and slang phrases, I can get the jist of the conversation and be able to form my own conclusions. Yesterday I heard a bunch of Italian women speaking at the bus stop, and all I wanted to do was enter the conversation and see what they were talking about. I'm sure some of it was about me, because I saw four or five of them looking at me and then talking. Whatever. Let them talk. Either way, I was inspired to further my knowledge of languages.

The past few months, after working at Ponce Middle, I wanted to learn Spanish so I could communicate with my Hispanic students in the future, but now moreso than ever I want to study Spanish, and Italian so I can travel to these countries and understand the people. German isn't as beautiful, but I'm confident that if I study hard enough the language itself won't be that hard to learn.

I try to live my life through understanding other people, and if I can't communicate with them or don't follow what they say, then I miss a large amount of their being. Something else to add to my life's goals.

French Denny's = 24 Cafe with A Better Menu + Wine

The past few days have been filled with activity after activity. I think I'm finally catching up on sleep though. Thursday evening I went out with Joseph, Caitlin, Corrinne, Martin & Adrienne. We met up at the Saint Michel fontain and hung out at a cafe for a little while, people watching. The girls ordered a bottle of Rose Wine and as we were all talking, crossing conversations over the table, a man approached us on the street and just asked where we were from and how we were enjoying ourselves. We found out he was a Moroccan immigrant who had just received his Visa saying he could stay in France and was very very excited. He was also very very drunk. He was dressed pretty sharply though. A grey beanie on his head, I was lovin' it, with a light brown blazer, dark brown sweater underneath with a colored tie. He was probably about 60 years old.

I told him I was very happy he got to stay in Paris because life was beautiful here and his eyes brightened up and he reached out to clasp my hands in his and kissed them, saying God Bless you. And then when we finally released them after about 15 seconds of awkwardness, I jokingly said so I guess that means we're married now, right?? And he said oh yes of course, my second wife how wonderful! And he went in to kiss both my cheeks. Naturally the cameras come flying out and we all start taking pictures of the scene, and it is very clear he is trying to kiss my lips in the photos, while I am terrified trying to politely back away from him. So that is the story of my Moroccan husband.

Needless, to say, but I will say it anyway, we left the Moroccan man to find a new place to hang out. The cafe/bar we arrived at had a piano playing American music and a woman probably about our age, singing Whitney Houston songs, very monotone and off pitch, which was hilarious to us. We grabbed a few menus and started to look at what was available at 12:30 am. All of the drinks had something to do with sexuality, or living a sexy lifestyle. So we quickly looked for the dirtiest drink names and made sure it was something we would actually enjoy drinking. Most of them were very fruity drinks, not so strong, but we just got a kick out of ordering them from the very serious waiter. And when they came to our table they had sparklers sitting inside, illuminating the entire outdoor bar. The servers were cheering and soon all the tables around us were clapping too, I guess that's something they do here for sparkler filled sexual drinks.

After our slightly embarassing sit at the outdoor bar, the four remaining amigos decided to head somewhere we could dance. We saw this brown bar down the street, with lights pouring out onto the pavement from inside and decided to check it out. Inside Joseph and I immediately recognized the Hispanic House Techno music from Miami so we knew it was a Salsa Bar. Stepping inside they motioned us directly to the bar, I guess that's your cover charge for entering a place where they have music. The bartender was happy we spoke French to him and made us all mojitos. So we talked to him for a little while then decided to wander around and check the place out. The dance floor was a scene I had never experienced. Couples were dancing, facing each other, moving as one. They weren't always touching hands or hips but somehow they flowed perfectly, feeling every beat the song produced. So we joined in! Joseph taught us the basic salsa moves and away we went. Just dancing together, changing dance partners, moving around the dance floor. It was strange, I felt at one with the music, moreso than I've ever felt at a party in Miami and it was so much better this way.

Because the bartender was so nice to us before, we decided to ask him if there was somewhere we could go get food and come back, because by this point none of us had eaten in about 8 hours. He said the bar was closing soon but if we waited he would take us to a smaller bar we could sit in a booth at to listen to music and then we would go to a cafe for some omelettes or sandwiches. So we got to know him a little bit and he asked us about the program we were involved in. He is one of the darkest black men I have ever seen, and he was covered head to toe in black. A black bandana, with a black teeshirt and eventually a black leather riding jacket, black jeans and black boots. Plus he shaved his side burns and eyebrows so they appeared to have been scratched by some kind of wild cat. And his nose was pierced. But he was as gentle as can be. And when we walked by this gang of street dancers who had been harassing me all night, he handled the situation perfectly, told us when to start running and he stayed back a little to keep them away from the girls.

So at this 24 hour cafe, which we later named the classy Denny's we ordered omelettes, croque monsieurs and bread. I think Martin ordered a beer. Mind you, this is around 5 am, and we see specks of sunlight rising over the Seine river. The bartender had to go, and it just so happened to be his birthday, so after we paid the check we decided to walk along the river and see Notre Dame when the sun rised. So we jumped down the stairs to walk right up next to the river, and started marching to the French National Anthem. Around 6 am people start to pass by and join in on our singing, and then in the Seine Martin and I noticed a small bank that housed a few shiny coins. SO we slipped off our rain-soaked shoes and hopped in. Why not, right? When in Paris. I'm pretty sure it's illegal to wade in the Seine River, but there wasn't really anyone around and anyone who was up on the bridge was just watching us for giggles. Then we hiked up the stairs again, continuing our marching brigade and walked over the cobblestones of Notre Dame.

The sky had turned this beautiful blue color and the sun was high in the sky. Earlier in the week I had been terrified of what I learned about the architecture of the church, learning about how it was supposed to educate the illiterate and scare them into being moral. But this morning we had the church to ourselves. No teacher, no lecture, just bright skies and a tune to dance to. So we danced around the cobblestones, reliving the salsa club and dreaming of going to a Parisian ball while we're here. And then I decided to watch the clouds go by for a few minutes. Deciding what each cloud looked like we all discussed heading our seperate ways soon so we could sleep for a few hours before class. There weren't many classes to attend but since it was Friday that meant we were going to see an Absurd play at the theatre after class. So we parted ways, vowing our wolfpack would see each other soon enough. Joseph walked me home and we rested a few hours before art history class at the Louvre.

I'll save everyone a tremendously lengthy post and write about Friday & Saturday tomorrow morning. A bientot, my homework is calling my name.

The Rain in France

The rain here isn't like it is at home. Sure there are grey clouds covering the sky that cast shadows on murky puddles, and people bustle down the street with their rain jackets and umbrellas just the same. But I've noticed in Paris the rain just doesn't drip down on top of umbrellas and rooftops, it falls on the heads of a countless number of homeless people. We can all spot a homeless man on the street. They have the "typical look", long hair, a couple of missing or damaged teeth, and tattered layered clothing. There's usually a bottle in a paper bag sitting next to him on one side and either a cup for donations or a dog on his other. It's not a hard scene to find.

What I think a lot of people don't notice while they hurry along the street to their corner office buildings is that the rain only affects their life for a moment. Maybe ten minutes at the most. Between taking public transportation and wearing some kind of rain gear, they only get wet for a very short amount of time. I personally like walking in the rain, there's something refreshing about such a pure element falling on top of me I can't help but smile. I generally don't walk into a building after choosing to walk bare-headed in the rain complaining about the weather and how my hair is ruined. Hair never falls the same way twice so why would I expect it to stay the way I place it before leaving my room? It's not a feasible request.

But for someone who doesn't have a brush, access to a haircut, or maybe not even a secure cover from the rain, the homeless have a much bigger say in how the rain affects their lives. So, while people run down the street, newspaper in hand, racing to catch the bus that's about to leave, even though the next one will inevitably arrive in three minutes time, they cease to notice the suddenly greater number of homeless people wandering the street. They wander without shoes, sometimes with soaking wet socks, looking for a vendor who will allow them to rest on the stoop for a few minutes. Most of the restaurant and grocery store owners look them up and down and tell them to move on. The parks aren't dry enough to sit under a tree and all of the benches are exposed to the crying skies.

At the end of La Rue du Val de Grace, there is a homeless man I have seen every day since the day I arrived who sits on the bench all day long. Sometimes he stands up to stretch his legs, or is laying down taking a nap. But when he begins to greet someone, or lay his head down, something strange takes over his body. I'm not sure if it was from an accident, a disease, or what-- but his head cocks to the side and almost rotates his chin clear up to the sky. The first time I saw it, I was a little scared but then I took a closer look and realized he is smiling the whole time. I'm sure it's so he doesn't scare people walking by, but I see something more genuine about his smile. It could just be how I see the world in general, but the past few days I've felt bad because I know the cafe owner doesn't necessarily want him sitting on the bench next to his establishment, but it's clear this man isn't an insane drinker and has nowhere else to go. So this morning I saw him walking around while I ran by, his socks were soaked, and it was evident his coat had been rained on all night long. But he just paced the street, wearing a dry smile.

Walking back up the road to school I stopped in a Boulangerie and ordered a Croissant au beurre and a Croissant au chocolat. I paid the man 1.80 Euros and grabbed the paper bag. Stepping back out into the rain, I opened my umbrella to protect my iPod and felt the warmth of the bag in my hands. I started to smile a little as a Brett Dennen song started, "Aint No Reason". It's a very, very powerful song, and usually has the ability to bring tears to my eyes with just one line. But it's inspiring nonetheless. So I told myself it had to be a good sign the song came on shuffle as I was about to give this man some breakfast.

I turned the corner and touched his shoulder and said, "Bonjour Monsieur, c'est un croissant au beurre et un croissant au chocolat que j'ai achete pour vous." He started to grab the bag and asked me to repeat myself. So I did and he replied, "Ah, merci mademoiselle c'est gentil mais non je ne peux pas les accepter." My heart sank and I replied with "Non, ce sont les croissants pour vous. S'il vous plait, il pleut maintenant, je voudrais vous aider un peu." And it went on for a few more seconds until he placed the bag back in my hands and held them for a second as he thanked me again.

There aint no reason things are this way, it's how they always been and they intend to stay. So I held the bag of croissants and walked away from the man. My heart continued to drop and I felt tears well up. I understand he probably felt like a charity case, but it's those times when I feel the most helpless. Not that I'm helpless, but that I don't know what to do to make a difference. Maybe it's silly to think that I can change a person's life by buying them one meal for one day.

The wind blows wild and I may move, the politicians lie and I am not fooled. You don't need no reason or a three piece suit to argue the truth. It seems overwhelming at times to think that just one person can make a difference, can reach out and change something. Today feels like one of those days. The rain rolls down the window of my classroom, my apartment room-- my shelter. But what about those who aren't as fortunate as I am? The rain rolls down their damp clothing, their faces, and when it reaches the roots on their scalp it sends chills down their spine.

Two croissants don't change much in the eyes of a homeless man and maybe that was his reasoning for not accepting them. I'm a firm believer in Aesop's quote, "No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted." And maybe it's easier for someone who has belongings, a shelter to run to from the cold, and the ability to perform such small acts of kindness, to see how successful they can be. But in the eyes of someone who has nothing, and who wouldn't be able to return the favor, the croissants might taste bitter. It's like when Charlie opened the chocolate bar present and didn't find a golden ticket. It wasn't an answer to his problems, it was just a bar of chocolate. Bitter, and almost useless.

So the rain continues to fall, and the number in my head grows as I count more and more homeless people walking down the street, holding themselves closer to keep warm each time a cold drop hits their body. Hopefully the sun will come out, even if just for a few minutes to warm the heart and soul of those who need it the most.

I can't explain why we live this way, we do it every day.

Les Restaurants du Coeur

Setting: Rue Montparnasse around 9:15 pm. The sun still sits high in the sky, but a cool breeze runs through the streets as vendors leave their boutiques and grocery stores. The cafes are just starting to light up, while people chat quietly over wine and cheese plates. I cross the street diagonally when I see the ATM I desperately need to visit after four days of being without a single Euro. I see a few people standing in line, patiently clutching their debit cards like they would clutch a new born, casting sideways glances every few seconds at the homeless man sitting on the windowsill nearly five feet from the ATM.

He must be about 45 years old with long wirey hair that stands on end, mostly a dark grey color with some shades of salt and pepper. His beard is basically the same, long and wirey with a blend of darker grey shades. He's wearing old nikes that are starting to tear at the toes, a pair of ripped light blue jeans and a navy blue jacket you would most likely wear at the end of winter or early spring. Normally I would probably behave just as the others in front of me were behaving-- a little fearful that he would beg for money or approach me while at the machine, with no where to run. But tonight I notice something else. A group of people hopping out of a small mini-van and approaching the man. A tiny bumpersticker on the back of the van's window reads: Les Restaurants du Coeur.

I'm a little confused, so I take my time walking up to the ATM so I can try to watch the scene unfold. Were they intervening psychologists helping the homeless? Were they escorting people to a soup kitchen? Or were they just counselors? No, none of the above. They were just four or five people standing around the homeless man carrying on a conversation. They asked him about his life, if he had any family, and what he liked to do with his time. But then I noticed a plastic bag sitting next the man on the windowsill. The bag had a label identical to the bumpersticker on the van. My answer had arrived: the group was delivering food to the needy.

I should have realized when I saw the van park abruptly, turn on its hazards and the group hop out to greet him. But by this point I am so amazed that a group of people have stopped what they were doing to give this man a meal. All I can think about is driving around Miami with two extra pizzas from the SAAC Meeting, looking for a needy-person to give them to. And then I think about how touched the woman we found on US-1 was to receive such a big meal from a passing car. And even though we didn't even stop to chat, I remember seeing her eyes lit up and a smile beginning to form as she thanked us and yelled "God Bless You!".

I was moved to see that an organization exists in France doing just what I've always wanted to do, change the world one heart at a time. Maybe the man receiving the food was used to such a service by now, or maybe it really did touch him that someone was reaching out to a man who was just down on his luck.

When I returned to the apartment, still wearing a grin the size of Texas, I plopped down on my bed and opened up my two best online friends, Google & Wikipedia. I found out the organization began in 1985 by a comedian by the name of Coluche and it now consists of one national organization and over 100 other specialized departments. Everyone is a volunteer and the organization accepts donations for buying food and delivering it to the needy. The volunteers are not only trained for interactions with the people, but they are trained to welcome people who may or may not be ready for help, performing culturally productive activties to reintroduce people into the community, and even managing one of the travelling restaurants. The donors, both big and small, are also given a tax break. Currently the service project has spread to Belgium and Germany where it has been growing for a few years.

Two hours later I am still amazed at how giving some people can be. For me, I would rather give someone a sandwich or a cup of hot soup, than to just drop my cold pennies into their cup. I know money rules the world, but you don't invite friends over to give them money to go to McDonalds for a snack wrap. You invite them over to give them something more, some kind of nourishment. And its not just a physical nourishment, it's an act of consciously giving to someone and in my eyes that is much more meaningful.

So no, I don't drop pennies into beggars' hats. I cross the street, buy a few croissants for the same amount of change I would've dropped in a cup, and dodge traffic once again. Then I squat down or do whatever I need to do to be at their eye level, and let them know I'm there for human interaction. To let them know they don't need to bow their heads in shame because they live on a street while I live in a house, and drive a car. For that one moment in time I set aside from my own personal agenda, when I'm giving them something they truly need, I want them to know it comes from a human being who empathizes with their situation. My wish is that they see they're not alone on this planet. There is such thing as a human being who truly cares.

And that's why I was so inspired by the company's purpose and how the volunteers interacted so generously with the man. Whether or not he realizes their compassion, I do. And I only hope to be as inspiring for someone else one day.