My American temperament when it comes to living here is tempered by that existence’s tenuous nature. In that, I relate closely with my many Arab and Berber friends, some with visas, some without, almost all poor. So it makes me all the more aware of the precarity that marks the lives of most of this world’s inhabitants. And it makes me all the more thankful for what I have been given.

In January I decided to move to Paris.

With the exception of two duffel bags worth of clothing and books, I sold or gave away all of the possessions I had accumulated during my almost two years in Morocco. I said goodbye to my friends, students, and colleagues. Then on February 1 of this year, I arrived in Paris without a job or much in the way of prospects.

As usual, my family gently interrogated my decision-making process. Why would I leave a decent job to go to one of the most expensive cities in the world without a job, health insurance, or even a work visa? Had I really thought this through?

All good questions, no doubt. And, to be honest, I’m not sure my answers measured up. I had lived in France before and thoroughly enjoyed my several visits to Paris. As an American who had read Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast, I couldn’t help but share in the romantic American image of Paris (for the most recent highbrow example, see this recent New York Times travel piece). I had my own writing aspirations. Why not give it a go in the city where so many expatriate authors got their start? But perhaps the greatest reason I chose Paris was because here I have that rarest of commodities: true friends. [Editor’s note: the original URL (link) referenced is no longer valid, so the link has been removed.]

When I first inquired about living in Paris, my friend Mehdi, a graduate student in physics, not only recommended that I come but offered to host me indefinitely in his small Parisian studio.

Living with Mehdi opened my eyes to another side of Paris. He is Kabyle, the Berber ethnic group from eastern Algeria that St. Augustine’s mother Monica likely came from. When I shared about my passion for sitting in a Parisian café’, writing, reading Le Monde, and occasionally looking up to admire the Eiffel Tower, he responded, a bit bemused, that for him Paris was anything but that. For at least three generations members of his family have come to Paris to study or work for years before returning to their economically deprived homeland. For them, Paris is a temporary but necessary exile, not a romantic getaway.

The past two and a half months I have been fortunate enough to find a good number of English students to tutor. Demand is strong. And so I have been able to pay for a decent, if slightly miserly, existence here in Paris.

Since I give lessons at my students’ homes, it has also enabled me to see parts of the city that many inhabitants never see. A devout Muslim family of Algerian origin reminds me in many ways of my own upbringing–a welcoming, well-decorated home with a stay-at-home mom, religious books lining the bookshelf, and religious kitsch along the walls.

An Egyptian Copt gives me continuous commentary on the decadent unfairness of French society, the superiority of America, and the Arab Spring.

A family from Sri Lanka has made me rethink Asian immigration to the developed world. None of them fit into the stereotypical image of Paris or have anything to do with the Paris of the New York Times travel section, and yet all of them form part of Parisian reality today.

This Paris of immigrants has existed for decades if not longer, but Paris itself has also changed. In the 1920’s Hemingway was, in his words, “poor and happy”, but as I read his description of the food and drink that he consumed when he could, I can not help but be amazed. It’s not for no reason his book was entitled A Moveable Feast. Today, such banquets are financially impossible for most everyone I know in Paris…including me.

I am still living in Paris, and I love it. My American temperament when it comes to living here is tempered by that existence’s tenuous nature. In that, I relate closely with my many Arab and Berber friends, some with visas, some without, almost all poor. So it makes me all the more aware of the precarity that marks the lives of most of this world’s inhabitants. And it makes me all the more thankful for what I have been given.

While in Morocco Chris Schaefer was a regular blogger on The Institute blog (hosted by Anthony Bradley). This

update is reprinted with permission. [Editor’s note: the original URL (link) referenced in this article is no longer valid, so the link has been removed.]