I don’t contribute to panhandlers (or
whatever the PC designation is these days), but I do modestly support some of
the many musicians that ply their trade on public transport. However, on one of
the legs of my thrice weekly slog around the Invalides, a tent has been pitched on the sidewalk
occupied by a raggedy street person.
He is usually sitting beside his
makeshift home and unfailingly greets me with a smile and a wave as I pass.
With some reservations I placed a 1€ coin in my slogging shorts and dug it out
as I approached, planning to toss it into his tin cup (actually a ceramic
bowl).
As I approached on my early morning
slog he was groggily emerging from his abode and TALKING ON HIS CELL PHONE!!!
The coin stayed put. An analog to this is the homeless that always seem to be smoking, at a cost greater than US$ 10 a pack.
He has been in the same spot since I
arrived 2+ months ago, but today he was gone, tent, bowl and all vestiges of
his former abode. I hope he found a better place and the cell service is
adequate.
##########
All Paris public transport is crowded
during peak commuting hours, less so these days on the Metros which can run as
frequently as every 90 seconds. But the relatively recent addition of tramways
that circle the city have become extremely popular and can be crammed full of
humanity as they run less frequently.
Today on the T3 a group of about
fifteen 5-or so-year-olds facing the crush of humanity were split by their teachers and herded
onto two adjacent tram cars. The separation stunned some as they looked on in
horror as best friends were split up (this was mostly the girls, as boys were
preoccupied in the universal pastime of punching one-another on the shoulder).
Six stops later they (and I) were
disgorged, and the unbridled joy was touching even to a crusty curmudgeon who
isn’t easily touched. You would think it was a reunion of the long lost, with
shouting, laughing, jumping, and pointing.
Where does all that happiness and joy
disappear to as we mature?
##########
And on the subject of the younger set,
while languishing on a bench in one of Paris’ many parks, I witnessed a
10-year-old wailing on his younger sister with a series of taunts and pokes
designed to intimidate and frustrate.
As she approached the breaking point,
little miss pointed skyward and shouted “Maman,
regarde” (look Mama). As Mom turned away little miss kneed her tormenter
forcefully causing him to fall screaming and clutching. Mama turned in horror
not knowing to make of this lightning bolt. Little miss innocently exclaimed "he
tripped” (Il trebucha, I had to look
up the word in my Smartphone translator).
##########
The French are still working on the concept
of customer service. They are well aware of customers, those annoying folks who
invade their stores, disturbing their conversations and daydreams. The service
part proves harder to grasp.
Two examples from my neighborhood
Monoprix.
A shelf stocker approached with a
brisk pardon as I was perusing the
wine selection. When I didn’t respond with immediate dispatch she placed her hand on my arm and physically
shoved me out of the way. I responded with a very loud HEY, which she totally
ignored and began to restock the shelf.
The ATMs here typically spit out 50
Euro notes, and since my arrival I have been using the Monoprix checkout as a
change machine, usually offering a 50 to pay a 20-30 Euro bill.
Never a complaint, but today, Ingrid, my cashier looked in horror at my 50 and said she didn’t have change,
to which I replied Moi non plus (neither
do I).
She kept waving my 50 and looking
pained, obviously waiting for me to cave. As it was early and she was the only
open cashier, the line grew, and as those behind me began to grumble, she
expelled a large zut, opened her cash
drawer brimming with notes and coins of all denominations, made change which
she thrust into my hand.
Merci, madame, bon
journee. I could tell by the looks on the faces
of those behind me that her reply was not a good day wish to me in return.
