Late this afternoon in
Paris, I accepted a ride with a stranger. As I crossed a street, guide book in
hand, I saw a man, dark hair, sturdy looking, smoking and standing just behind
a car parked at a corner. I needed directions, so I approached him. He held up
a hand, signaling me to wait, while he knocked on the passenger side window of
the black car. The window opened. A woman. She, too, must have been in her
thirties, dark hair dark eyes, turned toward me as if to say, Who are you? What
do you want? They spoke in French. She opened the door, took out her phone,
looked at my guide book now in the man’s hands. She entered the name of the
street I’d written, rue du bac. “Ooo la, la,” she said. Standing beside her, I
read the time, twenty-five minutes, but to walk or to ride? I asked.
“To
walk, yes. You must take the bus,” she said.
I’m
a walker. “That will be fine,” I said.
The
man spoke. She spoke. Both in rapid French I could not follow, but I believe,
he was the one who suggested driving me, although she, the English speaker
suggested I come with them.
“Oh, no,” I said. “I can’t do that.”
“We
will take you,” she said.
I
shook my head. Waved my index finger like a metronome.
“I
am…,” she paused. “How shall I say? No problem.”
“It’s
not that,” I said. Although, partly it was that. How could I an older woman
schooled against taking rides with strangers get in that car, but that’s
exactly what I did, climbing into the back seat as the woman set her phone, now
a GPS onto the dash. And we were off, driving through the maze of streets in Saint
Germaine des Pres, the woman practicing her English, me practicing my French,
both of us thoroughly enjoying each other’s company, the young man at the
wheel. He was no longer smoking, and now I wondered was that why he stood
outside the car? To smoke? My husband would do that. And thinking of my
husband, I imagined his voice asking me about the car. What kind was it? As if
make and model mattered. Maybe they did. Then, his second thought: "You did
what?”
I was, as the French would say, en ce moment, in the moment. Call it
luck, karma, serendipity or perhaps one person doing a favor for another, I was
driving with strangers. It was the hour when work ends and evening begins. The
sidewalk cafes were not full, but people sat outside at tables under awnings,
sipping beer, coffee or wine. Inside the car, we exchanged stories, where I
lived, if I had children. The man was from Portugal, the woman from Brazil. She
has a first cousin in Los Angels. She plans to visit England, but her English
is not so good any more. I tell her that in England, her English will return.
We
pulled up in front of number 77 rue du bac. I offered a five franc note. Each
refused, first the woman then man. I thanked them, then entered Dore Dore, a
shop, where when I last visited Paris, I’d bought a pair of tights that became
my favorite. This year, I bought three pair, telling the proprietors, a woman
and her son, I’d been there before. And so we talked about where I was from and
then about Romney and Obama, and we all want Obama to win, the French
shopkeepers and I.
Isn’t
this what travel is all about, finding that essential part of yourself that
connects you to others? And I understand I took a chance. Something terrible
could have happened on that ride. Would I take a ride again? I don’t know. Only
the moment will tell me.
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