Passing
La Saussaye, Normandie, France.
Tendrils of sky was touching the paving at the tips of my feet. The roofs of aged buildings were a little lost in the clouds, somewhat erased by insubstantial grey poured from somewhere above. Rouen est une ville melancolique. Deep beyond the stones of its churches and the silence of ancient wood, beyond memories hundreds of years old that had penetrated its soil, the word "beauty" is far from enough - one feels the insignificance of time and the pettiness of self.
I am often amazed at how differently I remember places at night compared to the day; my memory of locations and directions never seem to coincide. Today I was doing well, or perhaps my sense of direction was. Sure-footed, I trudged around the center of Rouen, gaining curious looks from the locals - it doesn't usually take much beyond the colour of my hair and the shade of my skin.
In the early afternoon, I was idling in a shop, looking for nothing in particular or perhaps something that I haven't yet decided upon, when a young Chinese man suddenly appeared at my side and asked me if I spoke English.
"Yes," I said, rolling the strangely foreign word around my tongue; I have been speaking mostly French lately. He and his companions - three middle-aged Chinese men - were trying to find their way back to Paris, but didn't quite know how. I took a punt, and said, "I can also speak Mandarin."
So that was how I came to lead the little group of tourists to the corner of Rue du Gros Horloge and Rue Jeanne d'Arc, giving them directions in Mandarin to the train station at the end of the street, when I myself was barely acquainted with Rouen. They were much braver than I, having found their own way here without knowing a single word of French.
Later, on my own way home, I passed them again in the street; the train for Paris wasn't leaving until some time after four. The young man gave me a smile and a wave and we continued our separate ways.
Posted by sniffles at December 20, 2002 11:58 PM