I am still processing. A jumbled collection of sights, sounds, smells and flavors flood my memory. Little kids riding scooters through Tuileries. Eiffel Tower-shaped cherry lollipops. A video store selling American movies. Finely trimmed triangular hedges. Carousel jingles on loop. Sweet, sugary air outside a bakery. Ashtrays and cigarette smoke. Bottomless steak frites from Le Relais de l’Entrecote. Melted, creamy gruyere macaroni-and-cheese. Church bells clanging every quarter-hour — Properly deconstructing my journey through Paris will demand a longer separation than merely three weeks. However, I would be glad to offer some broad-brushed conclusions about my travels.

Adam Gopnik, longtime essayist with The New Yorker, identifies two types of travelers in his best-selling novel Paris to the Moon. First, sightseers, people intent on visiting popular museums and monuments, taking selfies, and speaking English. Alternatively, there are tourists like Gopnik, infatuated by anticipation, individuals who seek to accomplish rather than experience culture. They embed themselves and earnestly internalize a foreign existence. Gopnik shares a story from childhood to illuminate this archetype. His mother, returning home after work, surprises him with a gift, a three-dimensional cardboard cutout of a Parisian policeman, whom Adam promptly named Pierre. With his handlebar mustache, cerulean uniform and cape, and red military cap, Pierre reflected a distinct vision of Paris which Gopnik would chase down thirty years later. In middle school, I watched Ratatouille, the Disney-Pixar film about Remy, a peculiar rat with a sophisticated palate, who dreams of cooking delectable dishes at a premiere French restaurant. Since that treasured first viewing, I have associated France with winding mossy cobblestone streets, Édith Piaf-style vocals, and ruby red motorized bicycles. Over my week in Paris, I grew intimately familiar with my surroundings, relaxes my American way of thinking, my impatient impulses, and slowly transformed into a free-thinking adventurer eager to make most of nine days abroad.

A misty morning fog greeted me at Orly Airport. Cold air. Thankfully I wore my heavy, winter coat on board. My suitcase, however, remained behind in New York. Somebody forgot to activate my luggage tag. I waited patiently and optimistically at baggage claim, expecting my upright, tweed Herschel Supply Co. case would miraculously slide into view. After two minutes an Air France attendant came by. I explained my situation, shared my boarding pass, and asked politely whether she spoke English. Very limited, she said. We walked together to baggage services. I provided this well-meaning woman everything I knew, including my tag reference number, my personal contact information, and my hotel address. She informed me that within 24 hours I would be reunited with my belongings. Four days later, I finally would be reunited with my belongings. Everything intact, I zipped open my suitcase and lifted out my camera. My uncle gifted me a Nikon D80 single-lens two summers ago. I was ready to photograph my remaining days.

We are interconnected today, entangled electronically and geopolitically. This course made me more alert to globalization, how formerly detached states, segregated by land, water, and language, are increasingly intersecting along cultural, political, and especially economic bounds. Observing another country in-person helped humanize my understanding. I met Lamis, a Syrian refugee striving in Paris. She wants to return home to establish justice and expand free expression. Hearing her intentions stunned me. President Bashar al-Assad employed chemical weapons against civilians, ordered army officers to brutally disfigure a few rambunctious kids in order to deliver some message to rebels. An authoritarian regime like that – why would anyone want to return? Well, that forever will be her home, as America is mine. These fates are inescapable.

Conveniently across from my hotel on Rue Champ de Mars was a really cute shop inspired by Brooklyn, NY vibes. Steps from my temporary lodging, this pocket of home begged me to remind myself of what I left behind. A week with family. Worth it. Just kidding, we kept in touch. I grabbed a NY-style hot dog, fresh sausage topped with mustard, ketchup, crispy onions and pickles. Quite good! Their decor brought me back, hip-hop records and interstate highway signs. American rock music played over stereo. Five people worked there in all. The female bartender kept hopping over this trapdoor to answer a wired telephone, storage space under hardwood. I suppose they expected a big delivery. Each time she lept, I quietly chuckled.

At 22-years-old, Nathan Osofsky, my great-great-grandfather, traveled to New York from Slutsk, a predominantly Jewish community in Minsk province of modern-day Belarus (formerly Russia). On a subsequent voyage, in 1904, after arranging a place to stay inside Manhattan, Nathan returned to Ellis Island with his family. These immigrant stories are ingrained in American culture. Walking around Marais, discussing my heritage with Lindsay, noticing this common bond of faith a world apart, a century later – Challah, rugelach, Hebrew and yarmulkes – I felt simultaneously subdued and uplifted.

French culture, Harriet Welty Rochefort explained, values different priorities, like nobility, elegance, and tough love. She gave voice to accurate descriptions of France and rebuked stereotypes wrongfully attributed. French men and women prioritize looking attractive and feeling good over being healthy. Cigarettes appear fashionable, lung damage begone. Intricate details matter there, such as storefront macaroon window displays. Fruit vendors meticulously arrange berries, grapes and oranges. These details reveal a national character that is less concrete in America. We value constitutional principles. Does that count?

While pessimistic towards public life, French families are privately very satisfied. Universal healthcare and free universities – a bouquet of social services making life easier. Evelyn Odonkor illuminated how this is possible: endless taxes. Owning a television set comes with a periodic multimedia surcharge. People work in order to enjoy their free time. Extracurricular activities, like museum passes, gym memberships, and employer-mandated vacations, are factored into monthly budgets. Stringent labor laws protect nearly everyone from being replaced, even incredibly incompetent workers. As a result, employee accountability becomes challenging, Odonkor said, yet nobody complains. Because a miniature studio in central Paris with a view, six-hundred square feet small, is worth these minor frustrations.

Veteran photojournalist Thomas Haley said something during his lecture which I never internalized before. As a photography enthusiast, I am comfortable behind technology. Cameras enable curious wanderers like myself to document subjects from a distance. Yet often this physical barrier between me and whatever I am shooting acts as a disservice. In paying intimate attention to intricate details and big picture landscapes, so often we become entrapped by screens. Journalistic goals at times conflict with passion. Lining up objects perfectly, attempting to capture symmetry in nature – focusing on such minutia often misleads artists. I always try to keep attentive to my surroundings, the voices of a constantly unraveling world story.

We decided to postpone dinner. Sunset twenty minutes away, we paid to gain entry to climb Sacré-Cœur basilica, three-hundred steps up a spiral staircase. We expected an impeccable payoff. Thousands of feet above Paris, standing atop a historic Byzantine church in Montmartre, I began snapping away. The sun set as purple and pink hues enveloped the horizon. I switched my camera to mode, when suddenly, a scruffy-bearded gentleman approached me. Excuse me, would you record? I cordially agreed. Nothing like videotaping a beautiful sunset. He returned beside his girlfriend, looked out upon this magnificent city, started rubbing her back. She listened and smiled as he spoke to her. He knelt down. She cried. I cried — I texted my mom after filming this most romantic wedding proposal. What a special moment!, I wrote. She replied five minutes later, And you’re the kid in Paris that they’ll remember forever.