Things Aren't Always The Way They Seem

In my neighborhood, I notice a lot of old people, alone or as couples, who walk very slowly, with canes or walkers, to buy their daily bread from the boulangerie. Or they roll a creaking chariot à provisions behind them on their way to and from the grocery store. Sometimes I see a younger daughter or son walking slowly with their parent, holding one arm and keeping them steady.

Maybe in big cities in America you also see this, but I never saw it in my experiences living in Arizona and California. Of course, those cities make it impossible to live without a car, and at a certain age, none of us should be driving. In Paris, where you can find everything you need within a few blocks of your home, an older person could very easily manage things for themselves.

I also have the impression that in America, we tend to stow our elderly parents away in homes, rather than have grandpa or grandma living with us until they die. I can't pass judgment on this, because I know there are instances where medical necessity or mental illness make it impossible to have your elderly parents living with you. But, if you have children, I think they miss a valuable lesson about the realities of age, about acts of patience and kindness towards a person whose physical and mental capacity is diminishing.

But here in Paris, these older people seem to be living primarily alone, and taking care of their own needs. Perhaps the state looks in on them, or perhaps not. But they are all over the place, and there's something I like about this aspect of living here. It forces me to slow down to let them pass, to nod and smile, to contemplate my own future. There's one woman in particular that I see all the time. She wears a full length fur coat on her stooped body, with a perfectly matching fur hat, no matter if it's winter or summer. Being a writer, I always look at her and wonder what her story is.

Recently, I was discussing with a friend the fact that there's one street, on the way from the Metro station back to my apartment, that I'm afraid of, and I avoid it when I'm walking alone. On the right side are buildings with dark inset entrances, and I imagine the boogie man jumping out at me at any moment. It's also a favorite place for stumbling drunks, and I've rounded that corner many a time to see a guy in the proverbial pissing position, as he anoints the tires of a parked car or the base of a building. The left side of the street borders a park, and just after the park is a long church building, so you might think this side of the street would be better. But for some reason, it's always heaped with dog shit. But distasteful is better than unsafe, so, unless I take a big detour along a different street, I tend towards the left side (as in other aspects of my life).

But even the left side of the street has its drawbacks. At the end, where it meets my own street, there's a set of steps leading up to a side entrance of the church. There, on most days and nights, a crowd of young men and occasionally a woman, sit or stand around and laugh and drink beer. I usually have to walk through their little crowd, and interrupt their banter. Sometimes they stop talking, other times not. Once or twice they have begged money from me. One of the women had been pretty aggressive with me last summer, asking for money in different languages, and following along right beside me as I walked, so it's not my favorite place to be.

I told all of this to my friend, who, as a guy, doesn't have the same worries. He doesn't dismiss my fears, but he doesn't have the same impression of the church gang. He greets them and smiles, and they smile back. And, I had to admit, the times when the woman wasn't hanging with them, and the men said, "Bonjour Madame!", I looked up at them, eye to eye, and smiled and said, "Bonjour!" They were very happy at my response, and smiled big, bowing and motioning me on with a polite, "Allez-y!" (Go ahead!)

And so, my guy friend told me a story. He was out walking one day, and he noticed way ahead of him, a tiny old lady, head bent down, as she walked with her cane, ever so slowly down our street. She was carrying a couple of grocery bags. As she came upon the group of guys on the church steps, they called out to her. She stopped, steadied herself, and looked up. Her smile was broad and her face happy. One of the young guys jumped up and ran over to her, and took her bags into his hands. Then, he gallantly offered his right arm to the lady, and he walked her the rest of the way back to her home.

Now I know a little bit more about one elderly Parisian lady's story. She is independent, and she stays active, even if she is a little slow. She's probably been in this neighborhood most of her life, and she knows and loves her neighbors. She even trusts the supposed tough guy on the street, with her groceries and her life. She stood taller as he escorted her, and they had a little chat.

And so then, shall I. Stand taller, that is. The next time I walk past the dog shit and the rest of my fears, I'll be tall with confidence, as I pleasantly greet my neighbors on the church steps.