In early August of 2000, I arrived in Paris to visit my friends Terry and his mother, Alice.
I wasn’t a stranger to Paris. I’d first visited the city in 1961 with sixteen fellow college students as part of a whirlwind tour of 10 countries in three weeks with 16 other students. It was classic “If it’s Tuesday, this must be Belgium.” Our guide/chaperone, Father Maginnis, S. J., was an opera-loving, epicurean Jesuit priest who was plagued with food poisoning seemingly every time he ate at a high-rated Michelin restaurant, while those of us who ate street food did just fine. Ill or not, Father Maginnis was determined to fill us with respect and awe for the culture of Europe even if killed him and it almost did.