Beginner's Luck

On my first ever trip to Paris, I arrived by train from London with all the naïve confidence of a seventeen year old first time traveler. The moment I stepped onto the platform at Gare du Nord, I moved with purpose—game face on, utterly serious, headed straight for the metro ticket kiosk, trying my best to look like a local (I think my leggings and 60 pound suitcase gave me away).

It was when I arrived at the kiosk that the realization hit me. My phone was gone.

Panic surged through me as I spun around, retracing my steps at a full sprint. I wove through the station, my absurdly heavy suitcase barreling into unsuspecting commuters who hadn't moved out of my way fast enough. I threw out a breathless string of désolé and excusez-moi's as I dodged and shoved my way back to the platform. French police, clad in military uniforms, shouted at me as I ran, but I was singularly focused.

By some miracle, I made it back onto the train, where a woman cleaning informed me that she had found my phone. Relief washed over me. With considerably less urgency—and significantly more embarrassment—I made my way back to the ticket kiosk, ready to restart my journey.

Then came battle number two: purchasing a metro ticket. Again, being seventeen, naive, and desperate to look like a local, I kept the kiosk language in French, not realizing my four years of high school French had done little to prepare me for real-world navigation.

Then I stood there, staring at the console, overwhelmed. I must have looked as helpless as I felt because the man behind me, growing impatient, jumped in--quite literally moving me aside. I began to blubber about how I needed to get to the station Cite Universitaire, that I was traveling alone, and it was my first time in the city (three wildly stupid things to tell a stranger, in hindsight). I couldn't tell if he spoke English, or was even listening. But without hesitation, he began tapping through the screen’s options, and before I could process what was happening, a booklet of metro tickets emerged. He had paid for them.

Then, without a word, he took my suitcase, hauled it down two massive staircases, and deposited it at the platform before giving me a small wave and disappearing just as abruptly as he had arrived. I barely had time to get out a thank you.

For a week, I rode the metro on his generosity, and even now, I often think about that stranger—the unexpected kindness of a fleeting encounter, the quiet assurance that things have a way of working out.