surrealism in real time

I stroll the streets here, knowing they are not, in any way, "mine". I have no connection to them whatsoever, other than the sole of my shoes. I listen to "my music" via headphones, as dozens of them are doing the same, but I know they do not listen to "my music", as I have heard nothing resembling that for the days I have been here. When my phone went off in the Metro confluence of the 8th and 10th lines, it was probably the first time Stevie Ray Vaughan had echoed these halls (they did boo him at Montreaux), at least the first time in 25 or more years...

I am an alien in so many ways, a Cylon even, to the inhabitants here. My music is but one part, my faith, my thoughts on government, my nationalism: all so foreign. Yet, at the same time, these are people not unlike me. People who love where they live, who love their families, who do not mind helping an alien. They enjoy quiet, they enjoy the "bois" (forest), they enjoy the company of friends.

How will I fit into this culture? It will not change me, nor should it expect to do so; I will honor it by recognizing its own history and that I am not here to change them, either. Good, credible human interaction? Yes, I expect it and welcome it, as I hope, no, know they do as well. While the manifestations might be a little different, the Americans and French share a common love for "liberté"...