Où sont tes amis ? Where are your friends?
That's what the Frenchman asked me with genuine concern. The pile of luggage I had collapsed next to, in a heap of tears, could not possibly belong to just one person, but it did. They were all mine. I stared speechless, my vision blurred from all the crying as I was sitting on the floor somewhere in the maze that is the Les Halles metro station of Paris. Sitting on a floor that was surely stained with dried urine I mumbled incomprehensibly that I had no friends, at least none with me and then started to bawl again. This made the old man just back away with an awkward chuckle. I was on my way to Germany for a 6 month study program. This was a time before the airlines had cracked down on luggage allowance. The airlines aren’t being cheap with this by the way, they’re good Samaritans saving us from ourselves.
I was only passing through to see my friend who was sent by her agency to do the requisite summer of modeling in Paris. The logistics of getting all my stuff through the Paris metro system on my way to her little shared flat on the outskirts of the capitol was not well thought out. So there I was, my face hot with shame and exhaustion trying to drag what seemed like everything I owned up and down the corridors. The heat, besides being asphyxiating, made the stench so foul and potent that I began to lose the will to live let alone make it to my final destination.
Watching the Parisians in the morning rush hour was dizzying. My lack of sleep was starting to show dangerous signs as I began to see my mother in every other woman’s face. Despite being vaguely aware that my mother could not possibly be there in Paris as I had just left her in Toronto, an ocean away, I would get a jolt followed by a pang each time I spotted what was so convincingly her smile. I decided that my hallucinations where too strong to control so I made an effort to avoid all eye contact with women.
And that’s when I saw him, Antoine. I know given my state that there is a slight possibility he was a figment of my hyperactive imagination but Antoine, dreamed or real saved me nonetheless. He is possibly less dreamy than I recall but 15 years on, I can still feel his strong hand hoisting me off the floor. He grabbed most of my luggage and escorted me all the way to the Gare du Nord where he helped me lock them up for the day. All I could offer was a weak smile and he in turn offered me his card. If only I could find that card. He disappeared into the crowd from which he had emerged. I stepped out onto the sticky Paris streets and lit my Gauloise. She is a grimy, exhausting city, but Paris, je t’aime.
