A ride in the Paris metro is a given for any serious traveler in this amazing metropolis. Like most big city metros, it is efficient but rather dehumanizing. Bubbles of individualism and self-protection seem necessary to withstand the grind of a daily public transport. The sense of isolation and disconnect permeates the air.

A recent visit and foray into this underground world found our lives momentarily intertwined with three other riders, breaking through these impersonal bubbles, giving birth to human connection. As we stood next to the opening door and worked to make room for the onslaught of boarders, a mother entered pushing a heavy laden stroller also containing a young toddler and filled up the remaining space. With a face covered in chocolate, a shirt wet with the drippings, and hands coated in crumbs, this earnest traveler looked around, eager to engage with his world. People pulled back from this little family, glanced up with dismay when the youngster hollered, and declined a helping hand. I began making faces at the boy, trying to entertain him a bit, hoping to keep him quiet for my own benefit, but also to help the obviously weary mother. We connected; he pounded on my leg a bit, squirmed around, wiped his chocolate covered hands on my pants, and generally relaxed. Their stop eventually came, and they left.

When our stop finally arrived, we exited at a rather large station. Burdened by heavy suitcases from international travel, I went looking for an elevator. In the meantime, an older woman reached out of her world, grabbed my wife’s hand, chatted away in a foreign tongue, and worked at showing us where the elevator was. When we encountered a large line at that lift, she quickly motioned, leading us to another. As we exited, this self-appointed caretaker once again talked us to the exit turnstile that could accommodate large bags. With a rapid smile and wave, our helper slipped away into the departing crowd.

In one sense, nothing of significance happened. The mother and son would have exited at their stop just the same as we would have eventually found our way up and out of the train station. In another sense, something deeply important took place. In a world of “us” and “them,” a small “we” came together.

Not one of us had French heritage, expect, perhaps, the boy. We were all strangers and yet, there was human connection. The warmth we felt from the woman who helped us in the station was genuine and sincere. We only hope the mother and her son felt the same from us. Helping and being helped made us sense the beauty of our humanity for a few brief moments, and then we each continued on with our lives but with a different story to tell. The chocolate came off of my pants with no problem.

Craig

Photo by Sabri Tuzcu on Unsplash

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