I am starting to get used to a particular brand of kindness. I don’t have a name for it because kindness is kindness; right? But through two recent examples, I think you’ll know what I mean.
On Saturday my plan was to travel to The Hague to meet my long-time friend and ex-colleague who lives there. Something happened on the way that reminded me of an experience I had on my trip to Normandy. As I have told you, there is a certain anxiety that comes with an approaching train. Let’s face it, either you have it right or you’re about to make a really big mistake. On my travels back to Holland, I felt that growing fear in the Paris St. Lazare metro station as I tried to remember which train and which stop would get me to the train station I needed for the Thayls train north.
I stood staring at the bulletin board at the top of the escalator trying to convince myself I was at the right place. Standing near me, doing something that appeared quite similar was a very old woman. I asked her what I ask anyone in that situation and she replied, “No,” with an undeniable French accent. I held out my train ticket to show her the words “Paris Nord,” which was the name of the station I needed.
Despite her answer and the fact that she wasn’t kidding about not speaking English she took the ticket from my hand. She slowly opened her purse, rather deliberately really; old people don’t rush when rushing doesn’t help. She put on her spectacles and focused on the words to which I was pointing. She began describing in great detail, I presumed, what I needed to do. When she finally took a breath and looked up at me, it was crystal clear to her that I hadn’t understood a single syllable of what she said.
Sooo, she motioned me toward the escalator which led to the platform. Once there she indicated where I should stand and in which direction the train would proceed (or from which it would arrive; I wasn’t sure.) She then sat down on the nearest bench. I remember thinking how fortunate I had been to ask someone who happened to be going the same way as I; or so it seemed. After a full five minutes, she got up and approached me. She touched my arm and pointed to the track and said, “One-two.” She looked up at me and said, “Comprendez vous?” and she repeated, “One-two. Oui?”
“Oui!” I said, and I did. She was telling me with the only English she could muster that we were at “one” (stop) and should I get off the metro at “two” (the next stop.) She patted my arm the way old people do to make you feel better, walked to the escalator—and was gone. You see my point? She had taken me to the platform, waited as long enough as she could then bid me farewell. I think they call that payin’ it forward.
On Saturday as I entered the train destined for the The Hague I sensed that my second-class ticket meant I was in the wrong car. To no one in particular I said, “Is this second-class?” The man closest to me told me that I was in first-class (it did seem nice). He explained that I could sit on the lower level or in another car. No problem, I thanked him and went downstairs. It seemed just as nice, so should have known, but before I was settled, the same man approached me and said, “I am sorry, but what I told you is wrong. You must look for the green seats” (and pointed to the adjoining car.) He then added, “I was afraid they would give you a fine.” (Believe me, stuff like riding local transports without paying and sitting in first-class when you haven’t paid for it never result in warnings!)
Not so long ago as I got off the tram at my local stop there stood two young people staring intently at their map (as I have done many, many times.) When I got close enough I said, “May I help you?” The fellow looked up and explained that they wanted to go to Amsterdam Centraal Station and he wasn’t sure how they wound up 30 minutes south in Amstelveen City Centrum. I was; but the explanation wasn’t nearly as important as the solution. After a very brief explanation of what they should do, I hung around the platform long enough to watch them board the #5 and be off.
Payin’ it forward.
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