Frank Cunningham | Winter 2013 | Notre Dame Magazine
I was barely 22 when I went to Paris, at once naive and brash, weary of studying and working for tuition, a “day hop” Siena College graduate anxious to get away from home. I tagged along with a college mate who planned to finish his French requirement at a summer course in the Sorbonne. It was 1963, and in my pocket was a one-way ticket and $400. A student ship took us from New York to Le Havre, then a train to Paris where I spent the first night in a park propped up against my brother’s Marine Corps duffle bag. I had not enough French, but enough spunk.