Over the door of the original Shakespeare and Company read: “Be not inhospitable to strangers lest they be angels in disguise.”

When we left Chicago at the end of March, we gave away or sold nearly all of our possessions. We wanted to live a humble monastic life of artists while traveling through Europe. Over the past several weeks, David and I have been (at least partially) living off of the hospitality of long-time friends and family, random strangers, and fellow travelers.

This is difficult for two blue collar kids. We are indoctrinated with the mindset that we must always work hard. We must work for long hours and for little pay. This is what we should do. Here in Europe, we ask ourselves every day: Are we doing the right thing? If we aren’t complaining about how stressed out and exhausted we are, are we lazy? Dead-beats? Crazy? Worthless?

I remind myself that writing is work. Creating art is work. David and I are doing good work. We are also playing, learning, living, sharing, giving, and taking. We do not have bosses right now. We do not “clock in.” We are learning to listen to our bodies, our spirits. Am I hungry? Do I want to take a walk? How long am I going to write today? What do I want to write about?

I am used to being the “Mother” and “Creator of Home.” Even before my first apartment in college, people gathered around me. Little kids wanted to be around me. They wanted to listen to my stories. They wanted me to take care of them. I felt responsible for everyone else. I was the stable one. During my college years, I worked hard to make a safe place: a haven for students, runaways, travelers, and artists.

I often woke up to see random people sleeping on my living room floor. They were friends of friends or fellow classmates. Sometimes I didn’t even know these people. I stepped over them as I left for classes, then work. I spent my college years learning and working without rest.

I worked to create a welcoming home for everyone. On weekends, friends would come over to do their laundry. Often someone would make dinner for everyone present. On Sunday mornings, I made pancakes. Sunday nights, everyone came over to watch The Simpsons and enjoy each others’ company.

I joke that I have CMS. Compulsive Mother Syndrome. I’m only happy when I’m taking care of someone else.

After meeting David, we opened our door to friends. David loves to feed people. It’s an Old World way of loving. Feeding people is loving them. I listen to their stories. Listening to people is how I love them. We offer clean towels, hot showers, and food. This is how we create and sustain community.

But I’m uncomfortable with being on the receiving end. It is difficult for me to let someone else take care of me. Especially a stranger.

A week before David and I were to leave Brussels, we met with our first French friend for a language exchange. He invited us to go out with his friends. It was an international group. There was someone from Brussels, several people from France, someone from Hungary, and then there was us, two Americans who call San Francisco home.

(We are healing international rifts by drinking beer together.)

One of the Parisians offered her home in Paris. She is a beautiful girl who is finishing degrees in urban planning and agriculture. She wants to build urban gardens.

We were nervous about taking her up on her offer, but we needed to stay somewhere for our last two nights in Paris. We didn’t know her at all and there was a slight language barrier. She wasn’t confident in her English and our French was horrible.

This lovely, intelligent girl and her boyfriend, an immigrant from South America welcomed us into their home as if we were long-lost cousins. They introduced us to their eclectic group of friends. Everyone seemed to be from a different part of the world: South America, the Middle East, Northern Africa. Even those that couldn’t speak English well attempted to have meaningful conversations with us. We discussed the emptiness of the consumerism lifestyle. “New Yorkers are superficial,” said one of our new Parisian friends. “They are always working to get the new clothes, the new phone…”

Knowing that we had a long journey from Paris to the South of France, our Parisian host gave us egg sandwiches and apples. “The food on the train is too expensive,” she said.

The train trip from Paris to Toulon took four hours. Then we had to fumble with our French phrase book in order to buy bus tickets to Cogolin, which is the small village that borders St. Tropez. We thought we had missed the bus when it was thirty minutes late, but David spoke with a fellow traveler and he confirmed that it was just late. David asked this friendly local for a favor. We needed to call our friend’s mother in Cogolin because she would be waiting for us at the bus stop. She didn’t speak English. He translated David’s message over the cell phone.

Now we are recovering from our busy time in Belgium and our whirlwind tour through Paris. Friends from San Francisco offered their charming family home in Cogolin as an artist resort. They sent us into the capable and loving arms of their French mother, who met us at the bus station. We spoke in broken French/English and hand gestures. She said that we were home now. This is our home while we need it.

We were overcome with gratitude. And a little uncomfortable. How can you say thank you enough? How can you repay such acts of sincere altruism.

These strangers we’ve met are angels in disguise. We are meeting angels because of our openness to receive. We ask for help and they give it. We are entertaining angels unaware.

“holy the unknown buggered and suffering

 beggars holy the hideous human angels!” 

~Allen Ginsberg’s Howl