I.
Isaac walked through his homeland as a foreigner. Dual citizenship was a hat too large for his head, and its brim would tip down, obscuring familiarity. The cobblestoned streets had narrowed into bottlenecks, every stranger devoid of majesty. After twelve years in New York, he couldn’t tell if Paris looked different to him or if he looked different to Paris.

II.
“My momma told me that all boys are icky,” Brigette said.
Isaac prodded the snail that he’d attentively been tracking through the lawn that afternoon. Its name was Pierre. Pierre the snail. “I’m a boy, and I’m not icky,” he returned, simply. 
“I think you’re the ickiest.” She thrust her chin upwards to further the assertion.
The grass beneath them was kept to a well-groomed stubble, just long enough to tickle his knees when he crawled. By now, they were stained a mossy emerald. “Hey Brigette,” he said, his smile missing a tooth, “wanna meet my new pet?” When he wagged Pierre just before her face, she let out a horrified squeal.
In the springtime, the tower was their sentinel. It wore the sun as a halo and, through its window, filtered the purest afternoon light. The neighboring cherry blossom trees breathed softly, in and out, and the roses were wrapped in their finest silks. Isaac didn’t think much of them, though. He was too focused on chasing down a girl with pigtail braids. 

III.
His first conversation in America was with an ill-tempered taxi driver during rush hour traffic. Between honks and the occasional expletive, he’d asked, “What brings you to the city?”
Isaac had answered, “Opportunity.”
At which the taxi driver had snorted. “You and every other poor schmuck who’s set foot in my cab.” 

IV.
His grandfather was a baker. He and his cousins used to hide under the counters after Sunday mass, grasping at pastries and pant legs. The air was always rich with vanilla, and from somewhere in the shop the likes of Édith Piaf would gently serenade.
“I’m leaving for the airport,” Isaac said, out of place in his hand-me-down suit. His grandfather was in the back room, squatting eye level to the table, icing a dozen éclairs. The same “Kiss the Chef” apron was tied around his waist; it was a costumer’s get-well gift after the first heart attack. 
  “Are you sure, Isaac?” his grandfather asked, one last time. Flower speckled his face in constellations. “Have you already outgrown us?” 
“I need to go make something of myself,” Isaac told him, firmly.
“Make something of yourself?” And Isaac was secured in the baker’s embrace. “My son, you already are something!”

V.
He was weaving between the seas of faces and briefcases. Red light – keep walking. Morning coffee was his new accessory. He drank it black now, and out of a disposable cup. Most weekdays he hardly looked up, only forward. Gum-speckled pavement and well-polished shoes.
“Buy your lady a nice t-shirt!”
Isaac slowed, noting with mild amusement the Eiffel Tower design. He couldn’t help but think what little justice it did.

VI.
When a New Yorker meets a Parisian:
I’ve always wanted to see the Eiffel Tower.
Is it really as romantic there as they say it is?
I’ve eaten escargot.
Paris is nice to visit, but I could never actually live there.

VII.
New York City was an overweight chain-smoker dressed in couture. She was loud without apology and always seemed to be running late. In the morning, soft light reflected off of her like liquid gold, and, in the evening, she became a spitefully incoherent mass of neon and concrete and pocketed dreams.
Over the past twelve years, he’d come to carry a few dreams in his pockets. They had a habit of getting stuffed in the bottom corners with the lint and the heads-up pennies. One of them always was to find a way back home.

VIII.
Home (noun):
1. The place where one lives permanently, especially as a member of a family or household.
2.  An environment offering security and happiness.

IX.
It’s an eight-hour flight from JFK to Charles de Gaulle. He broke it up by ordering alcohol every two. A French businessman sat next to him, pursing his lips when the stewardess brought another glass of red wine.
“Don’t drink?” Isaac finally asked.
“One night in France will show you what true red wine is,” the businessman said, unfolding a newspaper to dismiss further discussion.
Isaac stared down at the liquid in his plastic cup. He would later be told how his grandfather passed, having suffered his worst and final heart attack while they were approaching 30,000 ft.

X.
Over the course of the first three months, Isaac frequented a Thai restaurant wedged between two brownstones on 107th and Amsterdam. He liked that it was small and run down and terribly out of place. He also liked the waitress, Jane, who worked there. She called him “her Frenchman,” and wore her hair in pigtail braids.

XI.
When a Parisian meets a New Yorker:
I’ve always wanted to see Time Square.
Is it really as glamorous there as they say it is?
I’ve seen King Kong.
New York City is nice to visit, but I could never actually live there.

XII.
It had been so long since he’d seen the Eiffel Tower. Twelve years and its bronze armor had rusted. Twelve years and it seemed more a thorn piercing the sky than any feat of artistic grandeur. Isaac gazed out across the brown fields, tapping ash feathers from his last cigarette. In winter, even the cherry blossom trees were bare. He sighed heavily, out and in, but no one was around to hear it.