This is an affliction whereby I engage another person in chitchat, only to find that the reporter in me cannot resist furthering the conversation, no matter how travel-weary I am.
I cannot help myself. The questions begin to bubble; the answers trigger more questions and reactions on either end of the discussion, and the next thing I know, I am all in.
This happened to me as I wrapped up my recent Paris assignment and prepared to fly home. I was exceptionally tired and had made up my mind to have a quiet ride to Charles de Gaulle Airport.
Clearly, I do not have it in me to let a driver take me where I need to go without offering a bit of friendly hospitality.
So when he looked at me through the rearview mirror and asked if I had the chance to see any of the beautiful sights of Paris, I told him, no, and continued to explain.
My job had been a busy one on this short trip, and I didn’t have the time to squeeze in much. I was OK with that, I said, since I had been here on business several years ago and met up with my husband later when my work was done. We had spent a couple of days sightseeing, so I had previously enjoyed some of the City of Light.
“All that I am going to see of Paris this time is whatever we happen to pass on our way to the airport,” I said.
The driver saw an opportunity, and took it. “OK,” he said in a heavy French accent. “I will take a little different route,” he said. “We will still get there on time, but I will show you some things.”
With that, I listened hard to his manner of speech, picking out the essence of the few places on the way, which included the main entrance to the Gare du Nord (“North Station”) -- Paris’ equivalent of our own Grand Central Terminal in NYC.
His name was Imad and he was Arab. He was born in Tunisia. I really can’t tell you the full background on Imad because I wasn’t taking notes, and wanted to give him my full attention as he spoke and pointed out the sights.
Not only did Imad drive by the impressive Gare du Nord and slow down so I could snap a photo with my Blackberry, he explained the rail system in Paris, and delved into a bit of the history of how Napoleon Bonaparte was responsible for its development and for much of the infrastructure of Paris.
“Napoleon did everything he want,” Imad said, sounding like a Parisian who really knows French history. “He crazy!” (Note that I am quoting Imad precisely, not to poke fun at his English -- which was very good -- but to emphasize that even the slight imperfection in his speech was effective in conveying the message.)
The rest of the way to the airport, I peppered the conversation with questions. I wanted to get to know this interesting historian of sorts.
I learned that Imad is 36 and divorced. “I married and divorced the same woman twice,” he said with a smile that said, “I know how stupid that sounds.” Together, they have an intelligent 9-year-old daughter whom he sees every 14 days.
He says he will not marry again, in spite of having a girlfriend now, and is focused on being “rich in the heart.” Imad searched for the word, then pronounced himself an optimist.
“Everybody have a chance in this life. The life is only one life. I am, how do you say, positive.” When I asked him what he plans to do next, he seemed sad that he did not have a good answer. “I don’t know,” he said.
By the time we got to Charles de Gaulle, I was rushing to get to my gate because traffic had held us up. Imad grabbed my bags and led me into the terminal where a mob of travelers were clamoring for kiosks and baggage counters.
In French, he asked a Delta rep for guidance, and within 20 seconds had me in the right line, waiting to get through initial security. I fished around in my wallet for the last Euros I had, and after shaking his hand, stuffed the bills in his hand. “For you. Thank you for the great ride and conversation.”
He seemed surprised and almost embarrassed at the tip.
“OK, I see you next time,” he said. I laughed, remembering how I had told him when I first got into the car that when my husband and I come back to Paris, we’ll call him to drive us around. “Yes, next time!” I said. I adjusted my luggage around me and watched him dash off to his car at the curb outside.
Two minutes later, there was a tap on my shoulder. I turned around, and there was Imad, handing me a frosty bottle of Evion water.
“It may be a long wait to get through the line,” he said, smiling. I nodded my head, smiled broadly at him and accepted the water, then warmly squeezed his arm.
My quick friendship with Imad was a pleasant surprise but it shouldn’t have been a surprise at all that we could have made a friendly connection in the 90-minute ride to the airport.
It was, for me, a reminder that we are all the same -- people with relationship or family or employment issues, human issues, problems and challenges that are often just beneath the surface and maybe need to be aired out if someone cares enough to ask. It doesn’t matter if you have been friends for 30 years or 30 minutes. When we share who we are, it makes the journey richer.
Next post: Meet Horst, a true Citizen of the World. You’re going to like this guy.
Copyright 2011 By Marianne V. Heffernan
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