Road 2 Elsewhere, Excerpt #35*: "License my roving hands, and let them go/Before, behind, between, above, below."

John Donne is one of the great things about being an English major.

THE FRANKNESS OF LIFE, of appetite, in Paris, had been evident when I hit the streets on day one. In U.S. grocery stores, a shiny plastic veneer shielded me from the key ingredient in a bird for my mom's chicken fricassee: Death. Along any shopping street in Paris, the recently guillotined birds were draped along store facades, and a tang of rot hung in the air. To a Parisian cook, it smelled like dinner. To a suburban American, it was like being an accessory to a crime: murder most fowl. 

They were in the same category as my French teacher at the Alliance Française: Upfront with their fragrance. There is a body here. You have a problem with that?

THE ONLY THING BETTER THAN LIVING IN PARIS is leaving it for someplace else, while still remaining in Europe. 

Growing up I was used to crossing borders. But what did it mean to quit Connecticut for Rhode Island? Difference sans distinction. Paris to Fribourg—France to Switzerland—by train? Like Cape Canaveral/Moon for a 21-year old experiencin…