“Good-bye, my friends. You were wonderful, all of you. So much fun. If you are, you know, ever in Paris again… well, you can stay here of course.” Marie is always so gracious (Irene’s out running errands on her bike when we leave). I think it’s the accent.
“No, you were wonderful, Marie. Thank you so much,” says Grant.
“Yes, thank you! Merci! Merci beaucoup!” Max is smitten. I think we all are.
“Bissous!” she says, and she comes up to each of us for a quick peck on both cheek and we follow suit in return.
“Merci beaucoup!” I say. “Au ‘voir!” and we’re out the door and down the stairs with our packs on once again. To the metro stop at Alesia and over the turnstiles, quick style (because we’re all too used to it by now) and a bit awkwardly (because we’ve been romping around sans backpacks for the last week). To Gare du Nord. I sneak a bag a gummy worms and an orange juice from the Relay express store while the counterman’s ringing someone up and we board the first train north. To Antwerp. To Amsterdam via Belgium. We’ve all still got two days on our EuRail passes. That’s more than we figured we’d have this close to the end. Truly. But some of the conductors are nice (not in France), and many times they’ll suffice with a simple flip of the ticket book without thought to stamping it. A free day we’d call it, and we got a couple of those. In America it’s called a free lunch I believe, and those aren’t supposed to exist. It’s bullshit really. People who don’t believe in a free lunch just aren’t trying hard enough. They are the lazy and the afraid. They are people of etiquette but not always of virtue. Or maybe they just don’t think of it, not the good and the bad, just the perception. They think of how others see them. They think of safety in the herd. They crutch themselves on money and that is their goal. Status and comfort and safety. Funny, to strive for something so relative. Something that means so many things to so many different people. But to some that’s the end game, the definition of that which is fed to them, and they are fed no free lunch. They wouldn’t dare be caught looking for one.
Me, I don’t care. Money’s no crutch, it’s just a currency, and when one’s out of currency everything one needs becomes free. It’s just a matter of going about and making it so. Knowing the ins and outs of the society you’re in. Knowing the interactions. Knowing the mannerisms. Knowing what’s to be expected and blending in. Following suit. That’s when one finds the humanity in our checks and balances. The nonchalance. The charisma. The whatever. The limits of politeness. The cunning of charm and manipulation. The id of perception and status quo. And then free lunch is just something for the taking, something to be thankful for. It’s no walk in the park though. It’s daring and brash and requires more than a handful of quietly desperate confidence. And steel jaw and cool eyes. And when the conductor comes around I flip him my ticket-book and a look like I’ve seen his kind already today. It’s that vague, flustered recollection. But alas, he’s French and he brandishes his stamp and grabs my book to inspect it. Stamp. Slut. No free lunch today, I suppose. No simple nod of understanding. But I don’t need it, not today. I’ve had enough (especially in Germany and Switzerland). And hell, if it were always free one wouldn’t relish it so, wouldn’t hold those who offer one in such high regard. Like I do.
