David Rauch is a Northern Star employee studying abroad. “An American In Paris” will chronicle his studies and adventures in France.

There is not any way to accurately tell a story that took place in Paris.

One would have to bookend every story with “…And there were countless years in which the muses made Paris their home, commanding world culture from a tall spire with an iron fist” or something dramatic like that.

This is a serious situation. So serious that everything that happens in Paris is seen through history. Imagine every story you hear about Paris starting and ending with that quote.

That is a little more what it feels like, keeping in mind things have changed a bit.

It is bustling but reverently quiet.

“I feel so lonely,” shrieks the homeless man. Then he pauses behind a gentle guitar strum and a fall breeze through the yellow Paris trees. “So loo-oo-nely.”

As thousands of people stream by on a Thursday afternoon, he’s swaying in dreadlocks, scrappy neon shoes and a military jacket, yowling at the top of his lungs, bluesy and rasping at the volume. But everyone around hears him.

That seems to be the point of Paris’ Place Centre Pompidou, a giant public square in front of the Centre Pompidou National Modern Art Museum, designed to showcase the world’s street performers to the world‘s most devoted observers ­— one gets or gives attention, one is either a spectacle or a spectator.

So, as I said, the whole of Paris turns out. This is what they do. Some people never make it past into the giant museum.

So how can he sing about being lonely? With this constant flow of people? In the very heart of Paris?

He screams it so loud the pigeons flinch. And he sings it in pretty good English.

Maybe that’s why he’s lonely, or maybe that’s just why it’s loud. There is nothing so loud as the English language in Paris. It drowns out the traffic.

But unfortunately he shares the space with a magic act, a museum employee strike, a Mongolian folk ensemble, a didgeridoo player and, while the mime clown doesn’t make a lot of noise, the applause is surprisingly loud.

This is where people come to be loud and get heard. And this homeless man, all his belongings in tow, is using the venue to its emo fullest.

“Baby-y-yy-y so lonely!!!” he sings again.

I hope everyone relates a little bit. Because even though all of Paris is always here, they’re always walking right past each other. At least, that’s how I feel.

His smoky, Bob Marley-esque voice echoes onethousand times, and while no one can deny hearing it, they’re reluctant to look. They’ve been trained not to; this open space is like a guilty pleasure for everyone. It is as if they feel they can enjoy the homeless man’s yell but never get too close.

He reaches out his hand to the unassuming American girl sitting right next to him. She’s smiling away in the sun even. She’s startled by the boom of his voice. And even while he holds his hand out, he keeps on strumming an open guitar.

She touches his hand; he holds onto hers. He looks so happy, smiling together, making a connection. Then almost instantly, he retreats it back to the weathered fret board.

“Girl, I’m so so so so so lonely-y-y-y!!!!!”

He must be absolutely deafening to the American girl. So close by, but she claps at the end anyway. Everyone claps.

“…And there were countless years in which the muses made Paris their home, commanding world culture from a tall spire with an iron fist.”

au revoir,

david