"I believe we should know each other."

Sometimes, I think God was stoned when I was being created. We all know -- well, most of us know -- how difficult sequential activities are under those circumstances. You start something, you pause, what was I doing again?, and all is lost. I think when it was my turn to be born, he got started on making a girl, paused, what was I creating again? And out came a boy.

Which explains why I am horrible with directions, have extremely soft hands and am much more prone to crying than most men.

I also enjoyed the book Eat, Pray, Love. Immensely.

I didn't used to be such a cry baby, except for when I was a baby. Things that used to just send chills up my spine and give me goosebumps often times drive my eyes to moisten these days. It's almost like I'm aging preternaturally fast, with emotional instability the step right before full blown dementia. Or it could just be a simple case of genetics. The Bob cried at the end of Armageddon when we went to see it one summer while I was in junior high. I almost cried at the end of Slumdog Millionaire. For the men in my family, I'm not sure P is for Parsley.

Yesterday, though, I heard a story on NPR's "All Things Considered" that really did it to me. And I'm not ashamed. Because it was a story about a man who understands what it's all about. And I hope to meet him some day, while breaking bread and telling stories.

Jim Haynes lives in Paris. Every Sunday, for the past 30 years, he has hosted a dinner at his home, open to the public. Anyone who wants to come may come. It is a weekly expo of self-inviters. I cannot believe I was in Paris three years ago and did not know about this. I am tempted to drop everything just to fly over there this Saturday, so that I can meet Jim Haynes.




Here is a transcript of his story. If you've got the time, I suggest you listen to the actual program. It's much more personal:


Every week for the past 30 years, I've hosted a Sunday dinner in my home in Paris. People, including total strangers, call or e-mail to book a spot. I hold the salon in my atelier, which used to be a sculpture studio. The first 50 or 60 people who call may come, and twice that many when the weather is nice and we can overflow into the garden.

Every Sunday a different friend prepares a feast. Last week it was a philosophy student from Lisbon, and next week a dear friend from London will cook.

People from all corners of the world come to break bread together, to meet, to talk, connect and often become friends. All ages, nationalities, races, professions gather here, and since there is no organized seating, the opportunity for mingling couldn't be better. I love the randomness.

I believe in introducing people to people.

I have a good memory, so each week I make a point to remember everyone's name on the guest list and where they're from and what they do, so I can introduce them to each other, effortlessly. If I had my way, I would introduce everyone in the whole world to each other.

People are most important in my life. Many travelers go to see things like the Tower of London, the Statue of Liberty, the Eiffel Tower and so on. I travel to see friends, even — or especially — those I've never met.

In the late '80s, I edited a series of guidebooks to nine Eastern European countries and Russia. There were no sights to see, no shops or museum to visit; instead, each book contained about 1,000 short biographies of people who would be willing to welcome travelers in their cities. Hundreds of friendships evolved from these encounters, including marriages and babies.

This same can be said for my Sunday salon. At a recent dinner, a 6-year-old girl from Bosnia spent the entire evening glued to an 8-year-old boy from Estonia. Their parents were surprised, and pleased, by this immediate friendship.

There is always a collection of people from all over the globe. Most of them speak English, at least as a second language. Recently a dinner featured a typical mix: a Dutch political cartoonist, a beautiful painter from Norway, a truck driver from Arizona, a bookseller from Atlanta, a newspaper editor from Sydney, students from all over, and traveling retirees.

I have long believed that it is unnecessary to understand others, individuals or nationalities; one must, at the very least, simply tolerate others. Tolerance can lead to respect and, finally, to love. No one can ever really understand anyone else, but you can love them or at least accept them.

Like Tom Paine, I am a world citizen. All human history is mine. My roots cover the earth.

I believe we should know each other. After all, our lives are all connected.

OK, now come and dine.

Go to his website, www.jim-haynes.com. I spent over an hour on it this morning, reading his entire life story, as written by his own hand, in short blurbs, from the year of his birth, 1933, to the present. It is truly amazing. Born in Shreveport, Louisiana, an LSU dropout, years in Edinburgh, London, Amsterdam, Paris, starting newspapers and publishing houses and theaters, and all the while, traveling the world, meeting people, developing friendships. His parents lived in Houston in their later years. He's been to Belgrade many times. He loves stories and people and understands that we are all citizens of the world, not countries. Jim and I would have a lot to talk about.

If I make it to old age, I can only hope to write something like this:

I had my 75th birthday in November in Calcutta. One feels the Grim Reaper is about to knock on the door anyday now. Yet I feel still young, still excited by life, still ready for love, adventure, projects, friends new and old. Send me your news. Better still bring me your news. I will have another bed in any new place acquired. You are always welcome. May 2009 bring you much joy. And may the world stop fighting…