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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Map: Paris to Avignon
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