Old and Lost in Paris: A Senior Missionary Story (Part 3)

 Part 3

Although I grew up in Southern California, I’ve spent the last 37 years living in Utah County, Utah—the land of lovely mountain valleys and orderly cities and towns systematically laid out on a beautiful grid pattern by the great Brigham Young. Sometimes called the American Moses, Brigham could have whipped those recalcitrant Israelites into shape in half the time it took the original Moses—and he would have done it without the help of all those plagues. While I can’t honestly say that I’ve never been lost in Utah, I can confidently affirm that I always knew in which direction north, south, east, and west were located (except in shopping malls).  In the rare instances when I wasn’t sure—say, when hiking, fishing, or riding in the mountains—I knew that if I got disoriented and lost, all I had to do to save myself would be to follow a stream or trail downhill or, even better, just give my horse his head.

Obviously, because France isn’t Utah, and Paris isn’t Salt Lake City, I’ve found myself lost here from time to time. Usually, I stick close to Delys—who memorizes maps and has various map apps on her phone and mine—and try to look confident as I walk (usually a half-step behind her) or listen carefully to her directions as I drive Eddie (our intrepid little Hyundai Bayon) when we’re traveling someplace new. I can get to our usual places easily on my own and have the train and metro system figured out. I know the heart of Paris well and can find the Eiffel Tower,

 the Seine, the Louvre, the Musee D’Orsay, Notre Dame de Paris, 

the Arc de Triomphe.  Only once have I had to travel somewhere new all on my own:  when I had to keep my assigned appointment to pick up my Carte de Sejour [French ID Card] at the préfecture [prefecture] in St. Germain-en-Laye just a short train ride over the Seine and up the hill from our apartment in Chatou. Delys couldn’t accompany me because she was hosting four of our senior missionary colleagues from Frankfort, the Lambs and the Johnsons, for a tour of St. Chapelle and Notre Dame.

The evening before my appointment, Delys sat me down with both digital maps and Google Earth to equip me with all the information I would need to reach my destination without getting lost. She made me take notes and then reviewed and corrected them to ensure their accuracy. She gave me a virtual block-by-block tour of my trajet [journey] and then repeated it twice.  She suggested that once I got off the train at the St. Germain-en-Laye gare [train station], I should turn around and take a photo every block or two, so I would be able to find my way back to the gare. It was a really good plan—close to foolproof, but not quite close enough—because Delys believed, after repeated assurances from me, that I would remember the way to the gare in Le Vesinet even though we had seldom used it because the Chatou gare is closer to Paris. She should have known better.

I made it safely out of our apartment, down the stairs, out of our building, and then out of our apartment compound to the street without any problem. I turned right and walked a block. Then I turned left and walked down a street curving to the right featuring classic French mansions surrounded by tall fences or walls. I knew I had to turn left after I made it to the end of the block, but unfortunately, I forgot to first make a right turn and then a little left curve first. I had turned left too early and was heading down the wrong road. After a couple of unfamiliar blocks, I pulled out my trusty phone, opened my map app, and entered “Le Vesinet gare.” Full of confidence, I headed in the first direction my phone indicated, but in the middle of a block, the app suddenly changed directions, but before I could make the adjustment, it changed directions again.

 That’s when the first little old French lady pulling a grocery cart arrived and asked me what I was looking for, whether I were lost. I thanked her but said I was just waiting for my portable [cell phone] to pull up the directions I needed. I walked a little farther before deciding to turn around and retrace my steps. That’s when I noticed that my French lady had been joined by one of her little old French lady friends, also with a shopping cart. I walked up to them in time to hear the first lady say to the second that I was a lost American who didn’t want her help. So that’s when I politely asked for it.  Together they gave me directions to the gare, arguing a bit about the best route, and then sent me on my way.

 A soon as I went out of their view, I managed to get myself lost again, so I wandered around until I finally ran into train tracks protected, as always, by a sturdy fence. I looked up and down the tracks wondering which way to go until I was interrupted by my third little old French lady asking if I were lost. I told her I was looking for the gare, so she immediately pointed me in the right direction, which I followed walking right beside the train tracks to ensure I didn’t get myself lost again. When I arrived at the gare, I was looking around to make sure I entered the proper entrance for the train to St. Germaine-en-Laye, when two new little old French ladies volunteered to point me in the right direction. That’s a total of five little old French ladies, which is undoubtedly some kind of a dubious record for a lost senior missionary.

That’s when I realized, to my everlasting shame, that I had not arrived at the gare in Le Vesinet at all, but that I was standing outside our regular gare in Chatou, but on the opposite side of the tracks from our usual side.  I looked at my watch.  Almost an hour had passed since I had left the apartment. It usually takes us about 15 minutes to walk from our apartment to the gare in Chatou. 

I had just wasted 45 minutes wandering around lost because I didn’t want to backtrack on our regular route to the Chatou gare before heading toward St. Germaine-en-Laye. After boarding the train for St. Germaine-en-Laye, I took a window seat and sat there humbly pondering the poor choices I had made as well as the fallen state of the human condition, mine in particular, and also the irrational egotism that convinced me that I knew the way to the gare at Le Vesinet.

It was bad enough that I had failed Delys after assuring and reassuring her that I most certainly knew the way to the Vesinet gare, but my worst failure was that God had been forced by my pride and incompetence to send five little old French ladies to graciously help me find my way to to the Chatou gare, which I could have found all by myself in the first place if I hadn’t been so prideful.

As the train slowed down to a stop at the gare in Le Vesinet, I wondered what possible directional disaster awaited me in St. Germaine-en-Laye. Would God continue sending me help? Were there even enough little old French ladies walking around the city to get me to the préfecture?  Would I make my appointment in time? If not, would I be deported?