I learned the Art of paragliding in the French Alps near Chamonix and my first hops off a grassy slope were done facing the majestic Mont Blanc, roof of Europe. From a prairie flea, I then graduated to a status similar to that of a paper airplane; my flights were short, at times bizarre, and irremediably headed down. Later, as senses were honed in little by little, each flight sharpening my instinct a touch further like the repetitive passes of a knife on the stone, I began to soar along ridges, back and forth, as the clocked ticked. At last, I could stretch my air time and push back the unavoidable pull of gravity and associated return to the Earth. Eventually, I met thermals that carried me, always a little higher, like as many horses their rider, some docile and forgiving, others impetuous and strong as bulls. Multiple trips took me through the Alps, the South of France, the Pyrénées, Utah, California, Québec, the Dominican Republic and even, much later, South Africa. Nowadays, I fly in upstate NY.