Some days I think that the French mistakenly got the short end of the people’s of the world reputation stick. A people that fills its culture with so many wonderful things like bread, butter, stripes, long vacation, and lots of cafes can’t be that bad. On other days though, I’m with the rest of the world.

There’s often a brusque, hard-edge demeanor that emanates from strangers.  I know that it doesn’t help that I hail from The Friendship State or that a hard shell is often a survival mechanism in a mega city, but here in one of the world’s pulsing capitals, kindling a friendship with a stranger is not a likely state. I think about this almost any time I ride the metro.

During orientation, we were instructed that a woman should never smile and make eye contact with a male stranger on the metro. Unless of course, you are wishing to be pursued. As a result, furrowed brows and straight lips make the mask of choice. I often practice this, my Parisian face. I last about twenty seconds.

Two weeks ago, after a morning of losing my way on the curvy streets, I took to the metro…only to accidentally choose the wrong direction for travel. It was then and there, in a moment of frustration and lack of comfort that I wondered, “What’s the point?”  The way I believe it, life is too sweet and precious to be spent with soured expressions and cold detachment. And I don’t think that’s what Jesus wants for us either. There’s no way, in my mind’s eye that He walked through life like that. Yes, there are times to be serious and times of pain, but in the end, here we are: alive and free. We have a hope and a future and a God who wants to walk us through it all.  

So they can keep their masks. It’s just not for me. They’re a baffling group, these French, but I love them just the same. It may take a while, but from my own little corner of this giant, fantastic city, I’m going to point the way to a state a friendship marked by the smile on my face.