There is a new museum in Paris, the Fondation Louis Vuitton. Yes, that Louis Vuitton. It has been designed with the unmistakable vision of Frank Gehry. If you have seen the Guggenheim Bilbao, you will recognize this new structure as his work immediately. It sits on the edge of the Bois de Boulogne dominating a parcel of land with its height and expansive breadth. And the presence of flowing water is striking here too,

But despite the extraordinary lines of the museum’s exterior, the interior galleries remain conventional. The rooms are rectangular, the path from one gallery to the next is familiar. One simply engages with the work in one area and moves on in a linear fashion to the next. This is not necessarily a bad thing. The focus, as perhaps it should be, is on the artwork within the museum rather than the museum itself.

However, the absence of originality and reliance on a traditional paradigm, in this regard, is unexpected.

When I meet people while traveling alone, the conversation of loneliness or discomfort about traveling on ones own often comes up. Interestingly, it seems to  concern primarily those who have not yet traveled by themselves, but would like to.

If the conversation includes people who have already traveled without a companion they inevitable speak of how much they enjoyed it. They discuss the freedom, the spontaneity, the pleasure of getting to know themselves better, they speak about the satisfaction of overcoming their initial trepidation.

How do I know such things? Inevitably, I find myself engaged in numerous impromptu conversations. But don’t take my word for it, consider traveling alone and finding this out for yourself.

There are few places in the world that conjure up notions of beauty and romance the way Paris does. I suspect that Casablanca would not pull at our heartstrings in just the same way if Rick and Ilsa had met in Cincinnati (not that I have anything against Cincinnati).

Paris has the ability to inspire in us, as few cities do, endless oohs and aahs.

It is a city I return to again and again and never tire of. The expansive sky, the Seine, the quintessential cafés, the small streets and grand boulevards, the small shops dedicated to cheese and other gastronomic pleasures, the language, and the people continue to enthrall me.

Inevitably I have seen changes over the years, as in my own hometown, that displease me. Commercial chains are moving in making it harder for independent businesses to survive and modern nondescript buildings are replacing the old. But the charm remains and some changes are welcome.  Bicycles, as in New York, have become an increasingly part of the daily transportation and paths specifically designed for them make it even more ideal still.

This week I will do what I love most. I will visit those who are dear to me, wander through museums, stroll about the city, get on the above stated two-wheels, sit at cafés, glimpse often at the sky, and revel as my senses are delighted by a city I hold dear.

Silence is rare and quiet environments are not always easy to find. But it seems that many people prefer it that way. Silence is perhaps a bit like solitude, not everyone has yet learned to appreciate it.

I recall visiting the city of Petra in Jordan. It is an ancient, majestic, magical site. On that evening, the passage to Al Khazneh, the astounding temple carved into rock, was to be lit by candlelight. The pathway followed a narrow gorge which meanders through smooth, undulating walls of rose colored sandstone. The opportunity to partake in such a stroll was likely for many to be once in a lifetime. The attendant asked that the visitors walk in silence so that we could focus on the experience. I believe less than a minute passed before the majority of the people began engaging in everyday chatter.

The pace of my steps slowed behind them and then stopped altogether. I waited. The voices ebbed, until they could no longer be heard.

I continued to walk slowly and stopped often. I took my time gazing and marveling at the colors and forms. There was silence and nothing to distract me from the wonders. I was completely absorbed.

The spirit of adventure might best be embodied by the iconic hobo of yesteryear traveling clandestinely by rail.

There is no way of knowing how many people continue to travel this way, but I suspect the numbers have dwindled dramatically.

Rail travel has always attracted me, perhaps inspired by these itinerant adventurers, but I have journeyed considerably less as a vagabond and not yet as a perennial traveler.

My train trips in Russia, Mexico, Peru, Vietnam, India, China and Europe, varied in length, accommodations and experiences, but all, and others, were extraordinary in their own way. Communication never proved to be problematic, even while sharing a compartment in which there was no common tongue.

Trains afford me the mobility to freely walk around, converse  or just relax and watch the scenery pass by. I enjoy listening to the droning sounds and being lulled to sleep by the swaying of a train’s motion. And I don’t mind very much when the wheels screech or there is the occasional unexpected lurch .

Trains continue across plains,  alongside oceans,  above and through mountains, through forests, cities, villages and towns.

Trains continue to lure me.

No matter where I go, one of my favorite pastimes is to sit and watch people pass by. There are countless stories untold and the endless possibility of imagined lives.

Cities and towns may offer particular means when presenting such a diversion, but the opportunity is inevitably there.

While visiting Vietnam, I frequented casual establishments furnished with child size stools and a few tables to set down glasses of beer. They may have been sprawling chaotically on a sidewalk or tucked further back in an array, but the view of the street life was rarely encumbered.

When the oppressive heat of the day would barely subside, I would place myself on one of these low plastic seats, order a beer, and settle in to enjoy the unofficial parade.

Local transportation is my preferred means of getting from place to place when traveling. It is an accessible manner of seeing the land and getting a small taste of life as a local.

Ones sense of security can differ greatly; encountering unfamiliar styles of driving is inevitable as are roads in various states of disrepair. I have often opted to sit up front to get the best views despite the occasional flinching.

I recall one trip that I was somewhat dreading, it was reported to be a very rough road and would last about seven hours. No seats in the front were available so from my aisle seat about midway back in the bus, the view was somewhat limited. I could see the trees and some distant views but not much more.

Arriving at the destination I was pleasantly surprised that the trip had not been nearly as arduous as I had imagined and commented to some fellow travelers of such. They however had sat up front and were recovering from the white knuckle close calls that I had been blissfully unaware of.

Nonetheless, we had all arrived safely. It was pleasing that I had not experienced anxiety once throughout the day.

During my last travels I met a man who stood heads above my own and looked physically capable for the work he did, construction. His arms and legs were covered in eye catching colorful tattoos and wore clothing to insure their display. He had quit his job to see the world and expressed his confidence in not worrying where his next paycheck was coming from.

I first met him generously pouring tequila in the glasses of a few contented fellow travelers with the requisite salt and lime in tow. When the bottle was empty he pulled out another. He seemed to have no difficulty consuming large quantities of the potent liquid nor behaving relatively sober.  He encouraged a festive joyous atmosphere and laughter easily followed his tales.

We were both staying at the same posada  for about four days and our paths would cross on occasion.

One night I had stepped out of my room. He was sitting alone at a large table in a roofless courtyard, the air was warm and lovely; we began talking. He seemed pleased to chat before going off to bed and I wasn’t particularly tired.

He surprised me by opening up rather quickly and it didn’t require many specific details before I understood the extent of his pain and his therapeutic use of alcohol. His imposing presence took on an altered demeanor. We talked at length as one would with a close friend.

But the light of the day seemed to replenish his armor. When I greeted him that morning it was as if our discussion had never happened.