Lovely Strangers

“I am a part of all that I have met.” - Lord Tennyson

Yesterday, I stepped out of my apartment into a welcome drizzle, the kind that softens Paris after a day of heat and, quickly went back inside for my umbrella. Back outside, I began walking to the restaurant where I was to meet some friends. As I headed toward the gardens off of Avenue Foch, the rain began in earnest. People dashed about seeking cover under trees or awnings. A young woman was walking a few feet in front of me, holding her cell phone over her head to protect her hair, and looking about for cover.

I was hesitant to offer shelter under my umbrella as young women are rightfully cautious nowadays about talking with male strangers, for a lot of reasons, and I didn’t want to frighten her. But she looked distraught, and overcoming my hesitancy, I caught up to her and offered her space under my umbrella. With a very cheerful “merci beaucoup” and a bright smile, she joined me. She began rattling in French and I asked if she spoke English. She responded in English, and we spent the next ten minutes in very delightful conversation. She was on her way to attend a concert and was bubbling with the exuberance so peculiar to the young. She immediately reminded me of my daughter Megan’s excitement when talking about the concerts she attended. She told me that she was in her last year of school and would be moving to Madrid in two months. As we approached the Metro stop, the rain let up a bit and we parted ways. She turned back for a moment and gave a short wave. I felt like a father again as I watched her walk away. I never learned her name.

The next day, sadly, I attended another funeral service in Paris. It was for Moe Seager, a writer I met through mutual friends when I first arrived here. We immediately hit it off. He was a year younger than me and had published a couple of books. We met for lunch a couple of times, both of us always ordering French onion soup, which we ate sitting outside the café. He was a gruff character with a voice like Tom Waits. In fact, he occasionally performed around Paris with a blues band. He had a ton of stories to share and spoke freely and with conviction. I last saw him just before I left for London, and he mentioned that he wasn’t feeling well and was going to see his doctor. Before I returned to Paris, I received a text from our mutual friend that he had suddenly passed.

I am not yet comfortable with death. I am working on this. I occasionally quickly turn around to see how close he is (okay, not so quickly). Today I noticed that he’s statistically behind me by 10.93 years. I know he waits for us all, but for me he will be arriving sooner than most. Moe was only a year younger, and admittedly in poorer health, but his death made me ever more conscious of my mortality and of how quickly the book of life can be closed. It was another gift of his friendship.

The funeral service was held at the Saint Joseph Hospital funeral home in the 14th arrondissement. I found it a bit peculiar to have a funeral home attached to a hospital but that’s the way it is. I met his children from New York and Pittsburgh and we exchanged pleasantries. It was a solemn and dignified service with a simple pine coffin. I almost cried when his daughter spoke of her father but held back the tears. It’s what I do. If I can.

Leaving the service, I walked down the long portico connecting the funeral home to the hospital. A number of patients were sitting outside, many in wheelchairs, enjoying the shade and the cool breeze the portico provided. As I passed an old woman sitting in a wheelchair, she called out, “Monsieur.” I was a bit annoyed as I was running a bit late for my French class, but I stopped. She spoke rapidly in French, as most people seem to do, and pointed to a doorway a few meters down the way. I interpreted her speech as asking if I would go down the hallway and get someone to help her. As I began to walk away, she raised her voice and made it quite clear that she wanted me to push her down the hallway and back into the hospital. I got behind her and off we went. Once inside, she began to direct me down the hallways, but I had no idea where we were going, and she didn’t seem sure herself. Finally, I stopped a woman in the hall and asked for help. She spoke with the woman and summoned a nurse who took over the wheelchair from me. With a generous smile from the woman and the nurse, I received my second “merci beaucoup” in two days.

Back home in New Jersey, I rarely have strangers stepping into my life like this. What I can say is how wonderful they make me feel. Such encounters with complete strangers remind me I'm still a person among people — they pull me out of my prison of self-consciousness and renew my faith in the world. These unanticipated human connections, with people whose names I’ll never know, nourish me more than anything else.

I came to Paris to be alone, and Paris keeps handing me lovely strangers.