“Where’s your black bag?”
        The question came from the back seat of the car I was driving. We were following the lead car, driven by my husband. After racing around a barnyard playground, jumping on giant inflatables and ripping along ziplines on a traditional fun farm in southwestern Ontario, my passengers---two 11-year-old girls and their Korean grandmother---were heading home. My husband’s lead car held the Korean grandfather and two more 11-year-olds.
        “Pardon?” I asked our young backseat passenger who was translating for her grandmother.
        “Where is your black bag? My grandma wants to know if you have your black bag.”

        “You mean my purse.”
        I paused. Thinking.
        Then said, “I do. Tell her it’s in the trunk.”
        I could hear the girl translating my words.
        “She means the other black bag. The one with my cell in it.”
        Uh-oh. I did not have the other black canvas bag. I assumed---never assume I know---someone else had taken responsibility for it.
        “I do not know where the black canvas bag is. Is it in the back seat with you girls?”
        Fingers crossed.
        “No.”
        “Oh, my goodness. (Actually, I muttered an expletive here.) We need to turn around. Go back to the farm,” I panicked. “But first we need to let the lead car know what we’re doing.”

        Unfortunately, we were dependent on the cell phone to call my husband in the lead car. The cell was now missing. It was in the black canvas bag left behind at the farm.
        How to attract attention so the lead car will stop?
        Honk. Honk. Honk. Honk. Multi, short shrill blasts as I leaned on the horn.
        No reaction from the lead car.
      So I opened the sun/moon (what is the difference please?) roof and while still driving to keep up with the lead, I stuck my arm out the open top and waved. And waved. And waved. Frantically. So did the girls. To get the lead car’s attention. We caught everyone else’s attention. Including the farmer atop a slow, lumbering hay wagon. The Korean grandmother looked somewhat amused. She wanted to know about the strange, open roof. But no time for explanations.

        While I was waving, the younger passengers in my car helped by simultaneously yelling: “STOP! STOP! STOP!” Little girls have very loud shrill voices.
Surely my husband, glancing in the rear view mirror, would see my frantic waving arm and wonder why I was doing this and therefore stop.
        Not.
        I figured if he couldn’t hear the horn and couldn’t spot my waving arm from the roof of the car, then surely he would never see us.
         So he would not stop.
        Meanwhile, I had to turn around quickly, before we were too far away from the farm. No time to waste.
       I saw an approaching intersection. Desperately hoping he would glance in the rear view mirror, I signaled to turn right. Then did so.
        I watched as his car blithely continued on. He did not see us make our turn.

        I sighed. Now I must return to the farm to retrieve the black bag. At some point down the road he would glance in the rear view mirror and realize we weren’t behind him. Only then would he stop.
        But when was that? And where would I be? And how could we connect with no cell phone?
         I sighed again.
        As I was planning my return, I heard something in Korean behind me. The 11-year-old in the back seat said she asked her grandmother again about the black canvas bag.
        That’s when her grandmother, sitting beside me on the front seat, held up the black canvas bag! With the cell phone in it!
        “You had the bag beside you all the time!” I said in astonishment.
        The Korean grandmother smiled sweetly. She held up the black bag again for me to see. She nodded pleasantly. No idea of the havoc rattling inside my brain during the interval of the missing black bag.
        I sighed: long, relieved, and just a wee bit confused.
        So we continued on our way and it wasn’t long before I spied my husband’s lead car parked along the side waiting for us to catch up from wherever…
        …and he had no idea about this drama over a missing black bag.

        He’s known as the world’s most terrifying doll. People familiar with him insist Robert the Doll is haunted: responsible for all kinds of mysterious mishaps including car crashes.
       Nonsense!
        Not.
      For we have suffered under the spell of Robert the Doll’s curse each time we visit---or try to visit---Key West, Florida.
        Our misfortunes began several years ago after viewing the weird-looking, three-foot- high, life-size doll on display at the Fort East Martello Museum in Key West. Having heard about Robert’s reputation and seeing the actual doll, fashioned from cloth and stuffed with straw, dressed in a sailor suit, we both arrogantly dismissed its/his supernatural powers as “absolutely ridiculous”. No intelligent person could fall for that hocus-pocus stuff.

        Except…
       …we had openly voiced our disrespect to Robert in front of it/him. A no-no, confirmed museum staffers.
        That was the day, after visiting Robert, that we lost the keys to our condo, had a flat tire on our rental car, and carelessly misplaced some cash.
        At the time, my husband and I looked at each other. Not possible. This rag tag of a doll can’t possibly hold any supernatural powers. Never mind that every year tens of thousands of people pay to see Robert. He receives one to three letters a day, most of them apologies from visitors whose bad turn in life is blamed on their disrespect to the creepy doll.
        We dismissed all this evidence: until our cursed trip to Key West this year.

        Our early morning Toronto flight, due to land in Atlanta, Georgia, was set to touch down in time to board a direct flight to Key West for a noon arrival. To glorious sun, swimming, drinks poolside...!
        Not.
      Because the aircraft could not land due to inclement weather, our flight was diverted to Columbia, South Carolina. Five hours waiting in the plane on the ground. True, the pilot kept us dutifully updated; we were plied with foil-wrapped sweet and salty airline snacks (of which we soon tired) and water. By this time, we knew our chances of getting to Key West the same day were next to nil.
       Finally, given clearance, we arrived in Atlanta. A mess! Every re-directed flight had been pushed back. Airport concourses were jammed, in near chaos, with kilometer long lines of passengers, many with babes-in-arms, trying to rebook through hapless, overworked agents.
        Discovered via machine we had been rebooked by the airline for the next day but each on separate flights. Hanging on to a “may we help you?” telephone receiver forever, while partially standing in an endless line, my husband managed to secure us a flight together the next day at noon.

        Now for accommodation. With hundreds (thousands?) of stranded passengers, could we possibly find a place to stay the night? (miraculously, we did.)
Suddenly, separately, but at the same time, we looked at each other. Is this the continuing saga of Robert’s curse, we impishly suggested? Surely not! But any disrespect to that weird-looking doll results in documented bad luck. World travelers for decades, we had never run into such a conundrum of flight associated problems at one time as we did now.
        Next, we began to track our luggage. Clearly tagged for Key West. So how did it end up in Miami?
        We left home on a Saturday. Arrived in Key West one day later after enduring one of the worst white knuckle flights ever! Luggage did not appear until Monday noon: two days astray.
        So…whom/what do we blame for this miserable experience? The airline? Bad weather?
        We shudder to admit this but...it was probably due to the curse from that insidious doll.
        Pardon me. I should never have written that.
        We humbly apologize for any disrespect to you, Robert.

Map: Florida Keys

        The two girls knocked on the door, visibly upset. The 10-year-old tightly held the handle of a red bucket. In it were four curled-up balls of fur, instantly recognizable by their black masks.
           “Baby raccoons!” I gasped.
           “Please,” she half sobbed. “Can we put them in your wild space out back so they will be looked after by another mama? Theirs was scared away and now they’re all alone. And you’ve got to feed them. You know those eye dropper things? You can feed them that way with some milk.”
        She was on the verge of tears as her words tumbled out.

        It just so happens these two young ladies are but two of our beautiful grandchildren. The eldest is a student of Nature and all things wild and wonderful. The youngest listens carefully to her sister. The story they told was a tragedy to them.
Papa had begun to spring clean their yard. To his shocked surprise, after opening the storage box which held his gardening tools, he came face to face with one large and fierce-looking raccoon. Grabbing a broom, he quickly shooed away the animal. Later, when he looked inside, he spied torn pieces of debris fashioned into a nest. Four furry little masked faces peered up at his strange face. Where was their mama?
        Enter the red pail. Two little girls and one papa wearing protective gloves scooped up and placed the babies with some greenery in the pail. But where to take them? Of course, this was a Sunday and all manner of telephone calls for animal rescue went into voice mail.

        The idea of bringing them to our place was a no-brainer as far as they were concerned.  We border a wild space where raccoons, rabbits, and similar furry animals frequent the many large trees and bushes. Maybe another mama raccoon would care for the four orphans?
        After considerable discussion, the consensus was: take the pail of baby critters back home and place it exactly where the shed stood. Mamas of every species always come searching for their babies.
        The next morning, we received happy texts: all four babies had been furtively removed during the night by one mama raccoon who was probably exhausted by morning. The two girls were relieved and ecstatic.

        Each of our three sons has experienced the bane and joy of living near a wild space. One is in his second year trapping a family of squirrels---one by one---somehow sequestered each Spring in his home. After capturing them, he, with his two children, drive said trap containing the excitable creatures to a faraway park. This second set of grandchildren releases the furry babies and parents into the wild. The procedure takes four or five trips over as many days.

        Yet another son, father to three more of our grandchildren, lives in a wilder space in northern British Columbia. He and his family have watched black bears, moose, deer meander on their property; listened to coyotes howl at night. But their close encounter with one large pack rat hiding under a wooden floor immediately caught the kids’ attention. After trapping the critter, they drove a considerable distance before releasing it in the wild. Their next unexpected experience? The haunting wails of a fox mating call. In the middle of the night. Immediately outside their windows. Three wide-eyed kids mashed together in one master bedroom trying to decipher the unknown screeches.

        These wildlife encounters are obviously a nuisance to the affected fathers. But did you know we have over 700 species at risk here in Canada? According to the Canadian Wildlife Federation, our wildlife habitat continues to be lost faster than we can restore it. Environmental pressures are worsening. Yet our environment, our economy and our culture were founded on our relationship with wildlife.
        So what’s a little touch of the wild in the midst of our concrete jungle?

        Rushing around during Easter shopping, we finally lined up impatiently at the checkout cashier with our groceries. I happened to glance behind me.
        A fragile little old lady, grey haired with blue eyes twinkling behind a set of bifocals, was bent over, leaning on her walker. Her walker basket was filled with groceries to buy and a few Easter goodies. Carefully, I unloaded her items on the checkout counter.
        She smiled at me, said: “thank you.” I smiled back.
        “Guess you’re getting ready for Easter dinner,” I said.
        “No,” she said. “I’m alone.”

        Her unexpected reply caught me off guard. Speechless. Whirling through my mind was an image of this tiny elderly woman sitting alone in her apartment (I guessed) watching TV, eating some oven thawed-from-frozen meal. Her honest reply left me clueless as to what to say next.
        “Well, hope you get to enjoy a glass of wine, though.” What a stupid thing for me to say!
        Why didn’t I ask her to join our busy, noisy family for dinner? Why does that brief interchange with that little old lady continue to haunt me?

        Compare my response to what I read/viewed on social media yesterday. The story smacked me right in the face.
        Jamario Howard was sitting with his friends Jamychol and Tae at a barbecue joint in Oxford, Alabama, waiting for food, when he noticed an elderly woman sitting alone. 
        "My first thought was 'dang I'd hate to have to eat alone,'" he told CNN. So he went over and asked her if he could sit with her.
        The woman said yes, and after they talked for a while Howard found out she had lost her husband and the day after would have been their 60th anniversary.
        "I instantly gave my condolences and asked her to come eat with us," Howard said. "She was excited to do so."
        Howard shared a picture of the heartwarming moment, which happened April 18, on Facebook. It went viral with more than 44,000 shares.
        "The point in this is always be kind and be nice to people. You never know what they are going through. This woman changed my outlook on life and how I look at other people," he wrote in a post accompanying the picture.
        Howard said the woman's name is Eleanor and the four talked about "everyday life, sharing stuff about each other" while eating BBQ and fish.
        "Our actions were truly from the goodness of our hearts,” Howard said.

        Psychologists warn that loneliness is the new epidemic today. Loneliness affects almost half of adult Americans… One in five Canadians identify themselves as lonely.
        Loneliness and social isolation can be as damaging to health as smoking 15 cigarettes a day, researchers warn, and the problem is particularly acute among seniors, especially during holidays.
        Wish I could start all over again with that little old lady.

        “Madam, you want I cut up your mango? You want I roast your corn…open your beer?”
        Kohsoom (meaning lotus in Thai) is a welcome addition to this gorgeous beach at the end of the lane that runs alongside our condo complex in Hua Hin on the Gulf of Thailand. She is a remarkable reminder that when life hands you lemons, you make lemonade.
       Kohsoom, she of the laughing black eyes and a smile as warm as the Thai morning ocean breeze, is mother to 4 children, one of which---a girl---has gone with her ex-husband. “I no see her again,” she laments, quickly changing the subject. With 3 children by her current husband, Kohsoom sells fruit and drinks to throngs of tourists who flock to this popular 4 km long beach fronting turquoise ocean water with a sandy sea bed.

        One of Thailand’s many poor, Kohsoom’s story unfolds little by little as we chat with her day by day. She lives on the beach with her 3-year-old son, Noon. From early morning until almost dusk when tourists desert the beach, Kohsoom serves from her stand while Noon plays around her. Every day except Wednesdays. All year. For five years now. A small round grill to roast corn nestles close to the sand. The ubiquitous tools of her vendor trade are scattered around her postage size site: cooler, trailer she hitches to her motorbike, large open umbrella, plastic chairs, plastic water bottles, table and knives for cutting fruit, garbage can, and those inevitable, environmentally-damaging plastic bags.
        She works hard, this lady, charging less for a standard Styrofoam tray of freshly---and neatly---sliced mango, jackfruit, watermelon, pineapple…slightly undercutting the shiny new market stores in nearby malls.
        The Big Boss collects an annual “minimal” sum for her small patch of sandy beach, she says. Her husband, one of a group of Beach Patrol Volunteers who ride horseback (each owns his/her horse) along the beach, is obliged to pay half his profits from horseback riding to the Big Boss. Each morning, before he heads off on his horse, he rakes the sand on her territory and helps set up her stand. Each night, they take it down.

        Despite precautions, she must also guard against thievery “by my own people”. Although the couple dutifully chains their meagre belongings securely to a nearby tree overnight, covering their belongings with a tarp, they are robbed. “We knows who does this,” she shrugs. “They bad people.” All part of living on the beach.
It is young Soon who captures the tourists’ attention. They buy him cold treats from the visiting ice cream truck. Bring him toys. When his sisters are home from school and at the beach with their mom, they play house on the concrete lane and sandy beach. Large banana leaves transform into plates. Bougainvillea blossoms, shells, rocks magically resemble a food feast. Mini sea crabs sometimes capture Soon’s imagination as the tiny crustaceans skitter, scatter to and from their hole homes, forming raised grid patterns across the beach. And, oh yes, the mobile phone gives Soon lots of electronic exposure. The kids ignore the sea, the turquoise sea tourists pay mega bucks to experience.

        Weather elements play a big role in the Fruit Lady’s business. And with the health of her family. When the temperature is in the mid-30s from morn til dusk---when afternoon winds kick up into ferocious velocities allowing kiteboarders to leap and dash and fly across the ocean surface---and your life is on the beach, it’s not so good for little Soon. “He get fever from wind. Heat not good,” she says. We feel the boy’s forehead. Hot. Hot. Hot. He lies listlessly in the open trailer. Half-sleeping.  Whimpering in a never-never land.
        She powders his face. And hers. To protect their skin from the relentless sun.

        The beach is a hive of activity: horseback riders, kiteboarders, sun worshippers, sun strollers, clothing vendors. A background for professional wedding photos. And if you hanker for relaxation, Meow Massage beckons with shaded tables.
        In the end, though, the Fruit Lady epitomizes the beach. She grabs many foreign hearts with her honest, genuine style. “I make okay living,” she says. “Save for my children.” Pauses. Flashes a smile showing even white teeth.
        “Yes. My children. So they grow up good. To study.”

Maps:   Thailand
             Hua Hin

        A sinister looking stranger---streaked with black dirt, smeared with black asphalt--- loomed over my sunbathing body on this Greek Island beach. He cast a shadow, forcing me to open my eyes, look up.
       Yikes…my husband! Holding various parts and pieces of a crashed rental motorbike, he mumbled something about wiping out on a curve on this hilly island. My first worry wasn’t him---after all, he was a responsible adult---it was the safety of two of our three teenage sons who had joined us on Santorini Island. Oh, they’re fine, he glumly admitted. But he was not.

               Fast forward to Thailand where we are current visitors. Motorbikes choke the roads. They weave in, out, and around traffic. Their riders almost always sail through red traffic lights---located few and far between---ignoring basic traffic rules. Worse, riders are often without helmets, including their passengers who range from toddlers to school-age children, sometimes a family of five with the baby squeezed tightly in front of mom.

         Wearing flipflops, scant clothing (it’s hot here!), motorbikes carry not only people but everything from plastic chairs to plants, groceries, pets, caged birds…whatever they need to transport.
        Ever since, I’ve been skittish around motorbikes. Especially rentals.

.        In this country with a sizeable population living in poverty, motorbikes are necessary for transportation. Gasoline, costing 20 baht (85 cents Cdn) and stored in reused liquor/wine bottles, is readily available at roadside stands, restaurants, small businesses….
        Each day and night, we inevitably hear the wail of an ambulance siren and instinctively suspect a motorbike accident. There’s another motorbike accident. With our lodgings near the Bangkok Hospital, it’s easy to spot the victims. In one case, we winced in empathy as we spied a rider/passenger wrapped in neat, sterile-white bandages around his knees/legs and elbows/arms. Painful looking lacerations skidded along one side of his face. He could easily be mistaken for a mumbling mummy stumbling along the sidewalk. As he moved, the word agony comes to mind. Don’t think these patients were Evel Knievel wannabes either.

        A recent newspaper article here reports 80% of motorcycles are prone to accidents. “During the latest deadly week, 205 deaths were motorcycle riders who did not wear helmets.”            

        There’s a 1984 hit song by British singer/actor Murray Head that includes a couple of apropos lines in it… “One night in Bangkok makes a hard man humble…. One night in Bangkok makes the tough guys tumble…”
        I’m sure it’s because the guy is terrified to cross these busy Thai streets. They are crammed/jammed with traffic. Mostly dangerous motorbikes---yikes!

Map:  Thailand

        “Wait ‘til you see others. Maybe at a better price,” my husband suggested to our teenage son. “You can always bargain if that’s the one you really want.”
        We three were in Bangkok, Thailand years ago, navigating our way through one of the many night markets. Our son had spied a tee shirt he liked in a tee-shirt-crammed stall. Carefully searching each subsequent cubicle, he found an outside table tended by a young lady who also carried the tee shirt he coveted. He decided to buy from her.
        Urging him to bargain, as is the custom, we left him alone. Better to learn this common practice on his own.
       A few minutes later he rejoined us holding the favoured tee shirt. “Well,” we asked, “how much did you pay?”
       “Didn’t bargain,” he said.
       “What? Why not?”
        “I decided she needed the money more than I needed to save a few baht,” he said.
       At that moment, we knew our son had learned a valuable life lesson in caring about his fellow man. We approved his action with parental pride.

       Our other two sons also experienced similar life lessons as they matured and headed off in different directions, each living and working in different cultures. We applauded their actions then and we do so now because they have passed on those moral standards and humane ideals to our grandchildren. Two have helped disperse food at soup kitchens. All have friends who dive into helping others and the environment without a second thought.
        Youngsters today think more about the world than did my generation. They are more involved. Our grandchildren and their buddies are looking at ways to get rid of/remedy the oceans clogged with discarded plastic. They spout statistics of doom I never knew about. They work on projects designed to dispel our thoughtless pollution. One granddaughter wants to become a marine biologist and help save sea life.

        In the northern interior of Canada’s British Columbia, the Wet’suwet’en people are reoccupying and protecting their lands to prevent the building of an unwanted pipeline through their territory; news surrounding this highly publicized activity has involved three of our grandchildren. Each one, through their parents and a supportive community, understands and supports the hereditary chiefs’ reasons for protecting their sacred lands.
        You need only read the following letter, widely circulated on social media and written by our 10-year-old grandson, to realize this mad, mad world has a chance to be a better place because of kids…

        Does anyone remember that image of the perfectly roasted turkey being carried ceremoniously to the dining room table while family and friends drooled over the sight of that majestic bird?  American artist, Norman Rockwell, illustrated this special moment in one of his famous renderings.
        Well, the image is just that. An image.
        For many, many years, I have roasted a turkey for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Seems to me I managed to mess it up in as many years.

        I have this fantasy of a perfect Christmas Day with the perfect Christmas dinner. Like magazine editors show in glossy photographs. Outside, thick snowflakes are falling softly and silently from a dark, starry sky. Inside, children play peacefully and happily with toys from Santa in front of a perfectly decorated tree. They don’t know their father was up until the wee hours of the morning trying to assemble a complicated geometric toy or guaranteed fully workable space station to place ready-made under the Christmas tree. (Unfortunately, manufacturers forgot to put in a special screw or bolt or whatever else was lost among the pieces strewn over the floor and under the sofa.) And our young son has finally stopped throwing up from excitement so I can continue preparing the Christmas feast instead of pulling out clean clothes for him after shoving vomit-riddled clothes in the washer.
        At least, I think, there will be a Christmas dinner. It will be perfect this year. It better be. Friends and family are joining us.

        So, to the bird. Seeking excellence, I had researched ‘how to roast a perfect turkey’ for weeks before this big day. Never realized there were so many different roads to perfection. One recipe indicated high heat for the first hour; another called for low temperatures but a longer cooking time. Recommendations were many and varied: brine the bird first; barbeque it on your gas grill outside for a woodsy effect; roast and carve the turkey the day before whilst keeping it moist with its own juices for reheating when needed. Stuff it with dressing. Don’t stuff it with dressing. Rub the skin with butter. Or bacon. Or mustard. Tent it with tin foil. Or not. Pour white wine over the roasting carcass (I feel guilty confessing the sins of my friend who poured red wine over the bird and, well, the visual result was less than appealing).

        Then I found another highly recommended chef recipe for the very best juicy bird. Wrap the turkey first in parchment paper, cover with foil; roast at a low temperature until it’s nearly cooked; remove the foil and parchment then brown in a hot oven until skin is crisp. And don’t forget the meat thermometer…first figure out the thickest part of the thigh where it’s best to insert the thermometer.
        Okay. So now the roasted turkey is ready. Friends and family are gathered around the dining table buzzing with excitement over this most extravagant meal on this most exciting day.
        I’m in a hurry...last minute herbal additions to the gravy to raise it to the gourmet level...then heat it up again…
        OMG! The hot pot slips from my hand. Said pot spills gravy. I watch horrified---suspended in a time warp---as a slimy, brown, murky, hot viscous liquid mercilessly slithers like a prehistoric reptile across the tiles on my kitchen floor. I’m about to scream but I hear the peaceful strains of “Silent Night” in the background.
        I stand there. Defeated. I hear ripples of anticipation from buzzing dinner guests awaiting the anointed bird and its accoutrements.
        Christmas magic?! I don’t think so!

       He came home from World War II a changed man.
       He lied about his age to enlist because he was younger than the official acceptance age.  As the son of a World War I hero, a year-long resident in England with his mother’s family, and an idealist with strong convictions, he held a slightly romantic view of war.  His brother, relatives and friends had already enlisted. It was the exciting, heady mood of the day to ‘sign up’. A talented artist with his own mind, he wanted to join because he felt it in his blood. And it was The Royal Canadian Air Force that attracted him because he wanted to learn to fly.

       There was a systemic problem, though.  His artistic temperament fed a sensitive vein that ran through him. If he saw colours in technicolour, then he saw battle atrocities in vivid replays.  Over and over.
       Soldiers aren’t supposed to be sensitive.  They are taught to be tough robots.
      After his return to civilian life, his subdued temper flared more easily. Tortured by the realities of war, his subsequent art reflected a declining mental state.  Dark canvases featured war lords, demons, and hell.  Years later, his condition would be recognized and labelled as post traumatic stress disorder but at the time, he was diagnosed manic depressive.

       This decent gentle man once took his children for walks in the woods where he paused, listened to the wind whistling through the trees, and whispered: “hear the fairies dancing through the leaves?”  He wore corduroy jackets that warmed his touch and skin, the fabric emitting an aura of sweet tobacco from his pipe: the perfect place to snuggle when the world let you down.  He painted murals on the bathroom walls, creating a fantasy world for his bathing children.  His talent caught the eyes of prominent civic citizens, which led to numerous local newspaper articles and a scholarship. He painted day and night because it was his life’s blood. And in the evening his children, tucked into bed, were comforted when they heard their mother read to him as he put paint to canvas. He encouraged them in all ways creative, from drama and music to art and writing.  Today some of his grandchildren and great grandchildren exhibit---and excel---in those talents. 

       So each November, especially because Remembrance Day is part of this month, I think of him.  Perhaps I’ve embellished some of his characteristics but then, why not?
       For this soldier---who suffered as do all soldiers---was my father.

        Blurry-eyed after a transatlantic flight, I collapse in the airport chair to reconnect my fuzzy brain. A flurry of bright colour flashes by. My bagged eyes follow. She could be a butterfly; her floor-length peacock blue African native dress, splashed with iridescent orange and brilliant yellow flowers, rustles through the drab interior of the waiting room. Golden bracelets, hoop earrings. Matching exotic headdress sits high on her regal head, black hair peeking, falling over smooth brown skin. Fleshy, big-boned, she commands attention. Except a large, frayed elastic bandage encircling her right ankle---bare feet stuffed into a pair of jewel-encrusted sandals---ruins her royal image.
        Welcome to Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris. Local time: 5:00 a.m.

        It’s noon. We are hungry. Dash into a local boulangerie. With loaded baguette in hand, we grab a small table outside the shop to munch food in the sun. Then we see him watching us. Trim black beard, straight back, he sits proudly on the curb, scarf wrapped around his worn suit jacket. Empty paper cup on the sidewalk before him.    Dependent on the generosity of strangers.
        We share half our lunch.
       Later, on le Metro, a young father holding a bottle of half-finished milk while cradling his sleeping infant, lurches down each moving subway car. In his hand, an empty paper cup. Waves it from passenger to passenger for coins.

        In Avignon, closer to the Mediterranean Sea, main streets are dotted with similar silent, docile figures: young, old, male, female. A constant reminder of those less fortunate. We enter a patisserie to purchase a croissant chocolat. We also buy a slice of pizza. The pizza is for the young woman sitting cross-legged on the curb outside the bakery. Lowering her head, she murmurs merci.
        The faces of migrants.

        We are at Gare de Lyon in Paris, preparing to board the highspeed train to Avignon in southwest France. A lonely grand piano sits unattended in the centre of the waiting hall. Until a youth, about 12, sits on the piano bench, and amidst the hub-bub of travellers, begins to play. Beautifully. His train arrives; he quickly departs. Soon after, another traveller sits at the waiting piano. With easy familiarity, his fingers slide over the keys playing a classical piece. Then his train arrives. He departs. And so it goes…a continuous, melodious piano concerto in the middle of madness in a local train station.

        Now our train is ready for boarding: Voiture 6. We walk along the platform. Walk endlessly, dragging our luggage along the full length of this long train. We cannot find Car 6. In stumbling high school French we ask directions from one of the few attendants. He points backwards.We hustle back. Time for departure is near. We do not see numéro 6. Ask again. More pointing back from where we have already dragged our luggage. Not much time. We run. Dragging off-balance luggage behind us. Desperate now. Finally choose any car, no idea what number. Ask a stranger on the voiture. She scans our tickets. Oui, she says, c’est le numéro 6.
        Fall asleep. Exhausted. Wake up three hours later in la gare Avignon.
        And we still have no idea how to find the number on a French highspeed railway car.