I always have this very strange thought that goes through my head whenever David and I are traveling, especially if we are in a place where we don’t speak or understand the language. I always look at other people and think, “I’ve lived all my life never knowing you existed, and now here you are standing right in front of me”.

It’s such a strange feeling, because I look at people and know that they obviously have a whole life that they live, whether they are locals or visitors, and I am privy to none of it; but I get a snapshot of their life just by the fact that fate has thrown us in front of one another for a brief moment. The thought is particularly spooky when we are somewhere where we do understand the language, because then not only am I thinking I’ve never known of that person’s existence before, but now I get to also hear a little bit about what they’re thinking, too.

 

 

And sometimes, not understanding someone else’s language makes the situation even better. Many years ago when David and I were still back-packing our vacations, we found ourselves in a laundromat in Rome on a rainy evening, waiting for the dryer cycle to finish. Neither of us spoke a word of Italian, and we learned just enough to muddle our way through a normal day (un café, per favore; una bottiglia di vino bianco, per favore). There was one other person in the laundromat, a man who looked to be around in his 60s, who seemed to be an employee of the place.

We watched as a tall, imposing man wearing a long, black trench coat pulled up outside the laundromat on a motorcycle, and made his way inside; he looked to be in his forties. As soon as he entered, he started speaking to the other man in rapid-fire Italian, gesticulating wildly with both hands. The other man kept trying to get a word in, but Mr. Trench Coat never relented, just kept the words flying out of his mouth. We were fascinated, and yes, maybe a little bit terrified.

 

 

After about three full minutes of non-stop lecturing, Mr. Trench Coat turned to David and me, still talking, pointed both open-palmed hands at us, and rapid-fire-Italian-spoke at us, too,  moving those open hands up and down, in and out, back and forth, shrugging and straightening his shoulders, seemingly incredulous, as he positioned himself so that he could pivot between us and Mr. Empolyee. Eventually he gave us the universal look of, “am I right?”, eyes wide open, eyebrows raised halfway up his forehead, palms spread wide open.

I wanted to laugh, because Mr. Trench Coat seemed so earnest, like he REALLY was wronged by the laundromat somehow, and wanted David and me to bear witness to the injustice. Except, I had no idea if that’s what he was even saying. For all we knew, he was either threatening to kill all three of us, or else he was passionately telling us about the most amazing pizza he just ate that we all needed to try as well, and that the pizzeria was about three blocks east from this laundromat, and why were we all just standing there instead of going to the pizzeria immediately?

 

 

This past week, fortunately, people have been engaging with us in languages we actually understand! First up was our extremely kind landlord, Patrice, who, knowing that I love me a good brocante, flea market, and trinkets, knocked on our door one afternoon and asked, “êtes vous intéressés en une vente de blahblah?”

Pardon? Une vente de…?

Une vente aux enchères. An auction!  Patrice is a passionate collector of all kinds of art: paintings, prints, objets, statues, mirrors. All of the things that I love but will never be able to afford in 3 lifetimes. In fact, he said that he obtained one of the largest paintings in our apartment at an auction.

 

 

Off we went, about two blocks over from our building (he lives in the apartment directly below us), to a modest-looking place that holds items for viewing that will be offered at auction (Patrice said it is extremely dangerous to live so close to the auction house, a sentiment we understood as soon as we entered). They are all obtained through estate sales and through people simply wishing to sell off valuable items. They had everything here, from 18th century furniture, to prints, to a Dali painting, to Persian carpets, to jewellery, to entire sets of antique china, to an acid-etched lamp, to giant gold-gilt mirrors so large they’d fit over a fireplace in a château. It was GLORIOUS. I think I may have salivated.

 

 

David and I thought it was very kind of Patrice to share this with us, because it’s clearly an important source of happiness for him. All these years, unbeknownst to me, Patrice has been here accumulating knowledge and expertise, and an appreciation for fine art, filling his home (plus our rental apartment) with beautiful paintings and objets, and we have benefitted. It was nice to be able to understand what he was saying (once we figured out what a vente aux enchères was), which wouldn’t have happened if he spoke Italian.

 

 

Next was a stranger at the brocante that I attended yesterday. David abandoned me for the Alps on Friday to go skiing, which means I lost my driver, so I took the train to Avignon then made my way to Villeneuve-lès-Avignon to attend the weekly brocante/flea market. It started off as a sunny day, so there were many more vendors than there were last week, and definitely more shoppers as well. I was admiring some small papier mâché trays at one stall, when the gentleman who owned it started to give me a few details about them, throwing in an English word or two when I had to ask him to repeat himself. I sometimes have difficulty understanding the local dialect, and I find that people in Provence have an accent that makes it difficult for me to understand what they are saying.

 

 

As I moved on to the next stall, a man asked me in English, “excuse me, do you speak English?” I couldn’t begin to guess why he wanted to know, but I took the bait and replied, “yes, I do”. To my surprise, he seemed to just want to chat. He asked if the brocante was a regular event, and I explained that it was open each Saturday year round, and that I had attended the previous week as well. We shared a bit of our experiences at some of the other brocantes, including the one at l’Isle Sur La Sorgue, which David and I attended our first weekend here, and which the stranger and I both found to be rather over-priced and underwhelming. I found myself amused by how two people, entirely strangers, can quickly find some common ground and actually carry on a real conversation.

Turns out Mr. Stranger had been introduced to Nîmes when his daughters attended university here some time ago. He relocated from Ireland and now lives here full time in retirement. He also either doesn’t speak French or is uncomfortable speaking it (I was too polite to ask), which I think is the reason he was eager to say hello to me. I sensed he was a friendly and sociable person who missed having a good old English conversation with a native speaker.

 

 

A little while after Mr. Stranger and I parted ways, I was stopped by someone who was canvassing for a candidate in the upcoming municipal elections. The same thing happened on Friday when I was at the outdoor market here in Nîmes; all the towns and cities in the region probably have their municipal elections at the same time.

 

 

He stopped me by asking if I lived in Villeneuve, to which I replied, “non”. Naturally, he wanted to know where I did live, so we got into a conversation about Canada. He thought I was very lucky to be Canadienne, and I agreed. Though I am not eligible to vote in their election, he told me a bit about his political leanings, and how he thought it was important for voters to engage in elections. Then he wished me well and welcomed me back to the region (I had explained this was my bazillionth trip).

 

 

A slice of life is all that I hoped for for this trip (and to escape snow and freezing rain), and I feel lucky that I got a bit of it last week. I really do love other people’s stories, and even more so when I don’t have to guess what they are or invent their stories in my head!

Thanks for reading.