Over two weeks ago, I was fumbling with suitcase, computer, briefcase, etc at the turnstiles of my metro stop, attempting to pull a metro ticket from my wallet while being jostled by the impatient commuters around me. I tend to get nervous when I am rushing, especially when I feel like I am holding others up. I jammed my ticket through the slot and wheeling my suitcase ahead of me with my bags swinging on my shoulder behind, bumbled through the narrow passage. On the other side I made my way to the quai and the metro pulled up a minute later. I heaved my bags up onto the train and settled in the first open seat I saw.
Whew! - I could get my bags properly closed and breathe easier as I waited to get to the station where I would catch the train to Fontainebleau and another week of study. As I closed up my purse I noticed it looked strangely empty; with a quickly spreading wave of sickness I pawed through my purse in search of my wallet that was obviously not there. Clawing through my briefcase, though I knew I hadn't stuck it in there, my panic rose as I gathered everything back up and hopped off at the next stop. I raced back to my first stop and through tears inquired if anyone had turned in a black wallet at the booth.
I could not believe that this was happening to me - again. Last April on the way to visit friends in the south was the first time that I had become a victim of the pickpockets that you hear are lurking in the metro and train station but you never of course see them. The desperate urge to turn back the clock 10 minutes and have my wallet back was overwhelming. I had lots of money (for me) in there as well as just about every important ID and other card except my passport.
I canceled my cards, made an immediate report to the police (it is convenient that the police station is practically next door) and went home to cry before I got back on the train to go to my course, significantly poorer and depressed.
My French Man called the transport offices for me in the hopes that it would turn up. Everyone told me that I had a chance of recovering my ID's because usually the thief takes your money and throws the wallet on the ground where it is often found and turned into the Objects Trouves, the citywide Lost and Found. I would NEVER however see the 200 euros again but at least I had the chance of avoiding the arduous process of replacing all the other stuff that is necessary to live in French society (carte d'identie, permis de conduire (a California one no less), carte vital, pass de parking, carte de fidelite', etc............). All those things represented hours if not weeks of work.
Well 2 weeks later............nothing. I even prayed to Saint Anthony. For all you Catholics, former or otherwise, you may remember that he is the patron saint of lost things and throughout my life he has, amazingly, come through for me. My mom firmly believed in his powers and if faith had any bearing on his effectiveness, it's influence had worked many times over.
Not this time, that's what I probably deserve now that I am one of those "fallen away" Catholics!
This last Monday morning I made another trip to the Objects Trouves hoping that my luck would have changed.....nope. I guess I had to face up to making all of those interminable appointments to begin the process of replacing everything.
Then a letter with a return address I didn't recognize arrived this last Tuesday. Probably a payment for one of my cooking classes I thought. I opened it up and on thin graph paper (the French love graph paper) was a cordial note in French.......Chere Madam...blah blah blah.....j'ai trouve' votre portefeuille a le Metro Vaugirard............I could not believe it! Someone had found my wallet and there was a phone number and address where I could contact him. I couldn't pronounce the name but I called immediately anyway. A thin voice answered, corrected my pronounciation of his name and confirmed that yes, he had it.
I raced to the address all the way on the other side of Paris - my daughter thought I should wait to be accompanied to that part of town but I figured someone honest enough to write me would not then hurt me (Jane did tell me the other day that I was the most naive person she knew...).
I wasn't quite so sure when I got off the Metro and walked down a narrow and blighted street to his address. I rang the bell and proceeded up the rickety stairs to the second floor - no elevators in this kind of building. The hallway was scented with must and cooking oil. Their door was open and an old couple excitedly awaited. The madam was less than 5 feet tall and had her head firmly wrapped in a kerchief and the monsieur smiled at me with glinting silver teeth. They ushered me into their narrow apartment where the TV was blaring. I knew that I was safe. What ensued was one of my typical conversations in French, I spoke slowly and they rattled on and I think both sides understood the gist from the other.
The bottom line was that my wallet was there! Then the old man opened up the billfold and I could not believe my eyes...........the distinctive pink and blue bills flashed before me. He proudly told me how he had found my wallet sprawled on the stairs and defended it from a young man who immediately insisted that it was his and then tried to figure out how to get in touch with me over the ensuing 2 weeks (he had called several phone numbers that I had in my wallet without getting an answer) and contacted my old address (which was on my identity card) and called the police department (who hadn't apparently called me) and finally figured out my address change from the unofficial looking scrap that my new neighborhood had issued to me when I moved). This sweet old man had gone through a lot of trouble. His wife rocked back and forth on the sofa with excited pleasure beside me as I described her husband as my angel, she agreed that he was the most honest man in the world.
He had been in France for 40 years, a native of Algeria, part of a race maligned by many other French. The 200 euros in that wallet that were so important for me probably represented a veritable fortune for him. He insisted that I count them and notice that all the wallet's contents were in their places.
Saint Anthony is still hard at work in the world - his latest messenger this decent old North African man before me. My boyfriend said my recovered wallet was a miracle - no surprise there because isn't that what Saints specialize in?
WOW!!! That is incredible! I an 'ex-catholic' and have never even heard of St-Anthony. He sure is good at what he does!
Posted by: Expat on the go | February 12, 2009 at 01:24 PM
PS: It's nice to see that there are nice and honest people out there!!!
PPS: You should have called me, I would have gone with you!
Posted by: Expat on the go | February 12, 2009 at 08:59 PM
St. Anthony really came in handy when I would lose those precious contact lenses in the grass or carpet when I was a kid. Lenses were permanent back then, not disposable! And expensive, as my parents would always remind me!
Posted by: Carrie Dern | February 25, 2009 at 07:24 AM
Mary,
Hi! I would need an 'hors d'oeuvre' recipe - for Sat. night. Would you ever contemplate putting some recipes on your blog?
Posted by: Expat on the go | March 01, 2009 at 10:32 AM