This is an excerpt from the photo/travel memoir I'm working on. The book is targeted for completion later this year, in the Fall of 2021. I'm excited to preview a few stories with everyone. Thank you for reading - and for your support.
Michael
I’ve already spoken of the neighborhood boulangerie/patisserie we loved. The highlight of each day was the event surrounding the selection and purchase of our daily bread at La Mie Gourmande. Sometimes, you can smell the sweet aroma wafting out of the main entry before reaching the shop. Fresh baguettes, buttery croissants, sumptuous tarts, and savory vegetable and cheese-filled pastries. How on earth do these folks maintain their waistlines? So slim. So trim. It’s probably the result of all of the walking they do each day. After several consecutive days of walking to the boulangerie, I think Shigeo and I were officially tagged as regulars. We developed a routine, a deliciously blissful habit.
Interestingly, by the end of the first week in Paris, it was clear that we were not the only regulars in or near the boulangerie. Yes, there were others.
But first, a flashback to our Alamitos Beach neighborhood of Long Beach, California. On quick trips to the grocery store, local restaurants, or the pharmacy, we frequently encounter men and women, perhaps living without a home, asking for money. There are others too. We see them with such frequency that there appears to be a mutual recognition. It could be a nod of the head, a quick hello, or simply mouthing some greeting and moving on. Some of the folks are collecting money for organizations, churches, or recreation teams. On one trip to the grocery store, I actually had a brief exchange with a smiling, friendly-faced woman.
“Excuse me, didn’t I see you in front of the pharmacy on Broadway?”
She turned her attention directly toward me and replied, “I’m all over the place, honey. When you’re asking people for money, I learned that the chirping bird gets the worm. So, I’m here and there. I’m everywhere – and I’m always asking".
With that, I dropped my loose change and a few bills into her container and went about my business. She was a familiar face that I wanted to help. She wore her engaging spirit, on behalf of others, especially well.
In our Paris neighborhood, the 12th arrondissement, we didn’t encounter anyone raising money on behalf of a group or organization, but there were some faces that became very familiar during the time we were living in the area. The same people, usually women, rain or shine, every day.
Trips to the boulangerie were part of our daily routine. Deviations from the routine only occurred when we used a metro line other than line 8 or line 1. Imagine emerging from a metro stop, climbing the stairs to the street above, looking up and focusing on your destination, a boulangerie. Sometimes the short walk to get there was tricky. Navigating the sidewalks of Paris, very often narrow streets and passages, requires some awareness. Dog poop, tree grates, cigarettes smokers, older seniors, and tourists are just part of daily life. In our neighborhood, sitting on the sidewalk and to the left of the boulangerie entrance, was a woman extending her cup to everyone who passed her by.
Sometimes, the middle aged woman with weather-worn ivory-toned skin, would have one or two school-aged children with her. They were always sitting on a few heavy wool blankets to protect themselves from the cold pavement. I could never tell if they were hungry, homeless, in need of money, or all three of these things. One thing is certain. I was painfully aware of what their apparent condition did to me. Their images cut a huge hole in my heart. The dejected energy etched in the lines of their faces, coupled with their languid body language, caused my broken heart to skip a few beats. My mind and body endured a momentary disconnection with reality. I struggled with the thought of what to do next. If you’ve ever had your heart strings pulled, you know when the time is right for you to act. And just like that day in Long Beach, I reached into my pocket and deposited all of the euro, coins and paper, I was carrying at the time.
Days later, I wondered what the mother did with the money she collected each day. Was it for food? Did it go toward housing costs? Perhaps she purchased clothes for the kids. I don’t know.
It is now June 2021. I’m thinking about that mother and her children again. How did they survive on the streets of Paris in 2020 during the pandemic? There couldn’t have been many passersby on the streets of the 12th arrondissement. La Mie Gourmande was closed. The office worker world transitioned to something virtual. But life on the streets is an in-person experience. Situated between the Montgallet and Reuilly-Diderot metro stations, those who shared what they could spare were no longer present. I’m left wondering what happened to the mother and her two school-aged children.
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