An American in Paris

I told everyone that I was taking a "sabbatical" in Paris.

As soon as I was snuggled into my window seat on Air France, I began to wonder why I needed to describe my monthlong stay in France in such exalted terms. In truth, I was really just wanting to defy the benchmark of turning 60 by doing something I had always wanted to do as a younger man -- live in Paris -- if only for a month. In my 20s, I had the opportunity to do just that, but instead, forsook my suspect aspiration of hanging out in France as an "expat writer" to do the right thing and return to the United States and pursue my doctoral education.

Strangely, at 60, I still seemed to need a rationale to justify a simple need to wander for a bit in my rapidly accelerating life.

Serendipitously, it came from the book I brought along to read on the plane,"The Flaneur," by one of my favorite writers, Edmund White, an American who lived for many years in Paris. A flaneur, he explains, is "in search of experience, not knowledge. Most experience ends up interpreted as -- and replaced by -- knowledge, but for the flaneur the experience remains somehow pure, useless, raw."

Ah, I thought, I have a purpose for what I really want to do with this month I am gifting myself. As ironic as I knew this was, I decided my goal would be to become a flaneur.

Yet White had a warning for me. "Americans are particularly ill-suited to be flaneurs," he wrote. "They're good at following books outlining architectural tours of Montparnasse or at visiting scenic spots outside Paris. ... They are always driven by the urge toward self-improvement."

I took up the challenge immediately after dumping my bags in my apartment, determined to overcome my restrictive American character.

Entering into the circulation of my fellow man -- different from me in so many ways yet fundamentally the same -- I soon felt myself being absorbed into something more than just myself. Being in the streets, wandering without plan or a map, I became immersed into the flow of colors and thousands of architectural details that in sum give this city such a sense of place. Whenever I found my mind leaving my existential experience, moving to such familiar ground as passing judgments about my fellow travelers, to forming unnecessary and useless opinions, I arduously pulled myself back into the purity of the existential moment.

It was as if I were participating in a grand walking meditation of Paris.

What has been interesting about allowing myself to wander, without purpose and without interpretation of my experience, is that I succeeded in expanding the space of time. Everything slowed down and each minute filled out.

This was a great gift because one of the things about aging that has plagued me more than anything else is the cruel acceleration of time. I wouldn't mind turning 60 if I wasn't convinced that the next 20 years wouldn't speed by faster than the last 20.

After two days of my flaneurie, after the haze of jet lag wore off, I began mining this experience for material for my fast approaching column deadline, thus committing the worst sin of the true flaneur, utilizing experience for some purpose. It wasn't long before I began consulting guidebooks, planning my attack of the city, setting up appointments and committing myself to goals.

Oh well, I guess I do have to do the Right Thing. After all ... I am an American.

Dr. Michael O.L. Seabaugh, a Cape Girardeau native, is normally a clinical psychologist who lives in Santa Barbara, Calif., but traveled to Paris for a month as a birthday present. Contact him at mseabaugh@semissourian.com For more on the topics covered in Healthspan, visit his Web site: www.HealthspanWeb.com.