Remembrance

Last week at the French Language Meetup in Houston, I sat next to a middle-aged man who introduced himself as Michael. Per my usual, I was initially dismayed to find myself chatting with a non-generation Y-er (though the "French gang," as they - the young Europeans and would-be Europeans who frequent the meetup -sometimes call themselves, generally work to uphold the stereotype of aloof chic. I was once introduced to a girl who pointed in my face and said "Polish?" "No...Czech, well, American..." I stammered, but she was already kissing the cheeks of the next person and pulling another aside for a little chat in the corner). So it's no surprise, really, that I somewhat-secretly preferred the safe, confident, but strangely unpretentious atmosphere of the adults who remained seated at the table, rather than restlessly mingling on the crowded patio. Michael, like many other "grown-ups" at La Madeleine, was intrigued by my forthcoming stay in Paris. Again like many other settled-down, married-with-kids francophones, he recalled his years spent abroad and gave me some fatherly-type advice for the months to come. The next Saturday was my last day at Hungry's. We were busy, for once, and in the middle of the rush I heard Tacho, another waiter, calling my name from across the restaurant. He was pointing down at the man seated at table D3, who in turn waved. I didn't realize it was Michael until I approached the table and he turned to say "Bonjour" (not the first time I've used the language with which someone addressed me to figure out where I knew him/her from). I had told Michael that I worked at Hungry's and that Saturday would be my last day. As we talked for a few seconds I noticed what I guessed was a book sitting wrapped on the table. As I turned to check on my tables, Michael offered it up. "My intuition tells me that you'll like this -- I hope you haven't read it," he said. I was shocked at the kind gesture and thanked Michael profusely as I slipped the book under my arm, where it attracted the curious glances of customers as they gave me their food orders. The book turned out to be "The Marble Faun" by Nathaniel Hawthorne. I haven't read it, but I did enjoy The Scarlet Letter in junior english, and Michael informed me, with twinkling eyes, that when it was first published, people visiting Italy actually used "The Marble Faun" as a travel guide. I'll have to dig in before my next trip to the land of warmth, wine, and pasta. That next Wednesday was my last at the French meetup (until I return from Paris, that is), and I looked around for Michael, who had told me he would be there as usual. Unfortunately, I couldn't find him to thank him once again for his thoughtfulness.
And now I never will. I found out yesterday evening that Michael was killed in an auto accident Saturday night. I experienced the somewhat random generosity of an almost-stranger on the morning of his last day on earth. From what I have since been told about Michael, it seems acts of kindness such as this would have been a part of any day for him.
Minutes after hearing of Michael's death, I learned that a former professor is pregnant with her first child. Life is truly a mixed bag -- upswings and free-falls. I do believe in fate, or at least in the series of events which have led me to this moment, writing to you (if anyone is out there) with t-minus 2 days 'til 11 months in Paris. I'm ready to learn why providence has pushed me there. Let's hope it's an upswing-kind-of-thing.