The feast of St. Michael
Laurent is old. Very old. I'm still not sure how old, but into his 90s.
He's been hanging out on the corner by my apartment since time knows when, asking for money. I tend to give him a euro or whatever change I have when I pass by. He's a nice guy. He will watch your kids or your dog when you go in to the butcher or the bakery. He seems to have a girlfriend or wife of some form, who sits a bit farther away (she looks to be of either Roma or south Asian origins, also "old" in some undefined sense, but not willing to seek or accept alms).
Here's how much of an asshole I am: I gave the dude money for months and never even asked his name. I finally talked to him. His name is Laurent. He was in the army. The last Army. That Army. DeGaulle's Army. The one that refused to surrender but fled into the woodwork and stymied the Nazis as best they could.
We were still just shooting the shit until he saw the tattoo on my arm, and grabbed it like it was a lifesaver. "Vous Marine? Vous etes Marine?" he said. "Oui, je suis Marine." Turns out, he had held the port of La Rochelle for the Resistance until the US Marines took it over. He actually tried to give me my euro from that day back and I said "casse toi" (roughly, "fuck you".) He laughed.
Paris is strange. For all the shit it gets right, they still don't have even remotely a decent handle on homelessness. France as a whole doesn't. It's weird. Part of being an expat is coming to terms with the fact that every society has its own problems.
This weekend was the Feast of St. Michael, the protector. We've had a lot of protectors, who are in a lot of different circumstances right now. I just want to remind us, we have protectors all over whom we should treat better than we do.
Vive la France, Laurent!
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