Take the red pill or the green pill?
This was the decision at hand. The tears were gone, as were
the trains. There was no one else around. A decision had to be made. Fast. In
the back of my head, when I made small talk with the French man buying his
train ticket, I wanted him to utter those exact words. It still didn’t make the
decision any easier.
“Do I accept this man’s offer and get into his car so he can
drive me to another train station, or do I stay out in the cold and sleep on
the grass tonight in a town and country I have never been in?”
Tom Petty famously said that “The waiting is the hardest
part.” To aide in my battle to stay sane and keep a positive frame of mind
while waiting for the train in suburban Paris, I asked the rare local that
walked by if they knew when the next one would come. Most of them were very
polite and gave me a quick answer, and chatted for a minute or two. “Vous avez d’accent. Vous êtes né où,
monsieur?” In a town of under
2 000, a foreigner garners more attention and curiosity. On that day in Bréval,
that foreigner was me. I was an exhibit.
With one local, the interaction was akin to a father
teaching his boy the facts of life.
Monsieur Michel was his name, although I added the Monsieur part. I still cannot call
someone my parents’ age by only their first name. We looked at the schedule
together, and then he went to sit on the bench. He had been out for his nightly
stroll through the country side before I had reached out to him. “Comme mon grand pére en Canada,” I quipped.
Monsieur Michel and I traded life stories while we waited
patiently for the train to arrive. He told me about his four daughters, his
three grandchildren, and his nightly nature walks. He elaborated on the French
culture and life. He explained to me things he had seen in his 64 years. It has
been a full 10 days since I last spoke to either my father or grand father. My
time with Monsieur Michel filled part of that void. Every now and then he would
sprinkle in the phrase, “Tu es jeune.”
In French, he explained to me that money and materials can
be taken from you, but moments and experiences are yours forever. Time came for
Monsieur Michel to depart. Perhaps it was his fatherly instinct to stay with
me, a rattled youngster. We bid adieu.
He wandered into the night; his wife no doubt worried about her husband’s
prolonged absence.
The train; it never came. One hour passed. Two. With the
prayers mounting, blind satisfaction had come to me. “At the very least, it will be a good story for the folks back home,
being homeless in rural Paris for a night.”
Monsieur Charet had arrived just to purchase his tickets for
the next morning’s commute. I asked him, like everyone else, if he knew the
schedule. He said he didn’t; I thought that was the end of the conversation. He
went about his way, getting frustrated with the ticket machine.
As the clock struck nine, the only unanswered question was
which patch of grass I would attempt to sleep on.
M. Charet emerged, and said the magical words I had longed
for. He offered to drive me to another big train station about a half hour
away. Confused, elated, relieved, scared. All relevant emotions. A complete
stranger had made the coveted proposition. I considered it for a moment; if
only to reinforce to myself that I was in fact, in a new country and city,
getting into the car of someone I didn’t know. There was no real decision to be
made; the optics of the situation were in my favour: A well dressed, well
spoken, good hearted man in his late fifties, with his wife in the car, was
going to take me to the station. I accepted, thanking him profusely.
After a half hour that could easily have been spent at home
with a nice book and glass of wine, we arrived at the station. Monsieur Charet
opened my door, took me to the station and clearly pointed out which number to
take. A handshake and, “Bon courage,” later
and the good deed was complete. Two hours later I would be home. Unscathed,
unharmed, and safe.
On the final leg of the journey, I thought about the
kindness and warmth that had been shown to me in my first few days in France;
all by complete strangers. A future co-teacher with a family of her own coming
to fetch me at Charles de Gaulle Airport; another whose wife generously cooked
a wonderful traditional French dinner upon my arrival. And, of course, Monsieur
Michel and Monsieur Jean Charet.
I asked Monsieur Charet before we departed; he said that he
had to, he couldn’t leave and have me sleep at the station. He knew that I was
someone’s son, someone’s brother, someone’s friend.
Often when you are this far away from home and family,
moments come that renew faith. That sequence of events did just that. When the
tears are gone and the trains have stopped for the night is when the learning
and discovering truly begins. As does the beginning of a beautiful story.
À la prochain.
