gerardcarey
Veteran Member
- Time of past OR future Camino
- CFx2, CPx1
It hadn’t occurred to me that she could be in any danger.
Hadn’t occurred to her either of course.
But somebody opened the floodgates.
I heard, but couldn’t see its initial approach.
Now the torrent swept around the corner, then directly towards her.
It broke against her like a wave at the beach, curled around her on both sides, then enveloped her.
She was only a little lady. She took a few stumbling steps, then went down, arms flailing as she tried to maintain her balance.
Now I couldn’t even see her.
It’s does seem to be almost automatic doesn’t it.
That need to help another human being when they are in trouble. In most cases it’s not so much risk taking as an undeniable urge to become involved, to simply help.
As I began my run to assist I could see a disturbance in the wake.
That’s where she would now be. My blundering run, occasioned by the fact that I was still wearing my pack, took me along the side until I was approximately parallel. I could now see glimpses of her.
I plunged in, behind her, using the bulk of my pack to try and give her some protection.
I shouted, creating even more confusion in my attempt to alert the oncoming French to her predicament.
Some already had, but they were acting like stunned mullet.
I reached down. She grabbed my arm. I pulled her upright.
“This is what’s going to happen now,” I said to her. “I’m going to walk you over to the side and plonk you on that seat over there. Then I’m going to come back and rescue your luggage. Ok?”
“Yes, thank you very much,” she gasped. The shine of tears was on her cheeks.
Three of those big, blue, plastic suitcases. The ones with little sticky-out wheels.
In our absence the torrent of French commuters had commenced a game of football with them. Gave them a right good kicking about the concourse they did. And while the advertising says they are almost indestructible, this apparently does not also apply to French commuters.
A couple were hopping about nursing sore shins. One was lying at full length on the ground.
“You’d get the strikers position for France mate! Without a doubt that was a dive,” I said to the prone bloke.
I then addressed the hobbling wounded.
“And as for you guys, take a teaspoon of cement,” I muttered, “harden up.”
I got the luggage organised before addressing her again.
"This experience madam,” I commenced, “would lead one to believe that it is perhaps not the greatest of ideas to wait around with your luggage in the middle of a main concourse at the Gare Du Nord at 5 o’clock on a friday afternoon.”
“My husband told me to wait here,” she replied.
“Ah, well that explains it,” I replied. “But surely you must be aware that men usually don’t know good from bad when it comes to the affairs of women, what they should or shouldn’t do. We’re hopeless at that. Sometimes a girl just has to think for herself.”
My weak attempt at humour at least had the effect of taking her mind off what had happened.
She was calming down now.
“And just where is this mysterious misplaced husband of yours anyway?”
“He’s gone to buy the metro tickets. He went about half an hour ago, said he’d be 10 minutes.”
“Are you having a nice holiday?” I enquired, attempting to keep up the chat.
“We are on the way home,” she replied. “We’ve been cruising the Danube for nearly a month. My husband likes the fact that you can just dump your bags in your room and not have to pack and unpack and get on a bus and change hotels every day for the duration of your holiday. Everything is paid for, and because he mixes readily with strangers, for him it’s the perfect holiday.”
“But not for you perhaps I sense? Different strokes for different folks eh?”
She wasn’t going to bad mouth her husband.
She looked me up and down, took in the pack and attached walking poles.
“So what are you doing? Where are you going?” she asked.
“I’m a pilgrim off to walk a Camino,” I replied.
I had and took the time to explain the situation regarding the Camino de Santiago. About what interesting people we met, what great country we walked thru, what good food and wine we enjoyed, where we stayed, what a great fun time we had. You know. All that stuff.
“Sounds just like me and my two girlfriends,” she said. “When we were young we backpacked around Europe for two months between finishing our studies and the rest of our lives. What fun we had!”
“That’s it!” I replied, “just like that! But only better now. Because we are older and wiser, and we are not as broke as we were then, and we travel light, and we take enjoyment in the taking of our enjoyment, if you know what I mean.”
“I do,” she said enthusiastically. “We come from Melbourne, in Australia. Is there somewhere I can get information, like a website for Aussies?”
“Yes there is, and altho I don’t have it handy it’s not hard to find on the internet. Look for the ‘Australian Pilgrims Association and/or ‘Camino de Santiago’. Past and intending pilgrims have regular meetings at various places around the country.”
The misplaced husband duly returned, but had been unable to source the required metro tickets.
After a cursory introduction I offered to go get them.
He met me at the top of the escalator on my return.
He took the tickets from me, then stood blocking my path.
“What have you been saying to my wife?” he asked in a stern fashion. “She says she’s never going on holiday with me ever again!”
“Neither would I mate if I was her,” I replied.
“What exactly do you mean by that?” he asked.
“Ask your wife. And pay attention. Listen to her. I like that wife of yours. You did good when you collared her. It was a pleasure to meet her. What a lucky bloke you are.”
He spluttered in confusion.
I stepped around him, exchanged farewell pleasantries with his wife, then took the other escalator down.
It’s good to leave people in confusion.
Because then you get to spend an inordinate amount of time over the years wondering how it all turned out for them.
The next morning I took what is for me one of the great train rides.
From Paris Montparnasse I was heading down to Bayonne.
(Don’t even think about suggesting a flight)
As the TGV sped thru the beautiful French countryside I sat reading about her.
Anne Dufourmantelle.
Drowned. Trying to save two children at a beach in the South of France.
Without doubt a tragedy, a not uncommon tragedy.
But unusual in her case in that she was a prominent French philosopher, best known for her work on risk-taking.
“A life with absolute security – like zero risk – is a fantasy...being alive is a risk,” she had written in an article in the newspaper ‘Liberation’.
Anne was at the beach when she commenced her rescue attempt after seeing two children struggling about 50 metres from shore. But she was swept away in front of them by the strong current. The children were rescued by lifeguards but Anne could not be resuscitated when brought ashore.
Anne’s work proposed that taking risks, even putting your life at risk for the good of others, was a necessary part of everyday life.
She wrote as follows. “Where there is really a danger to be faced, there is a very strong incentive to devotion, to surpassing oneself.”
I think we’d all agree...Anne surpassed herself.
Once I did. Dived into the ocean when folks were in trouble. The pair of them would probably have drowned if I hadn’t been there and done that. More than probably.
So the question we have to ask ourselves is...“What would I do?”
If it was me, and it was my child, of course I would jump in, even if I couldn’t swim.
But what if I couldn’t swim, and it was someone else’s child? Would I jump in?
My mind swirls with the pros and cons.
To be truthful I’ve gotta answer, “I don’t know.”
And I’m seriously not very happy with that answer.
I too want to be able to surpass myself.
By the time we pulled into Bayonne I’d decided that when I got home I’d have to try and get a hold of Anne’s book "Praise of Risk."
I'm hoping, in writing that, she was attempting to help me too.
Regards
Gerard
Hadn’t occurred to her either of course.
But somebody opened the floodgates.
I heard, but couldn’t see its initial approach.
Now the torrent swept around the corner, then directly towards her.
It broke against her like a wave at the beach, curled around her on both sides, then enveloped her.
She was only a little lady. She took a few stumbling steps, then went down, arms flailing as she tried to maintain her balance.
Now I couldn’t even see her.
It’s does seem to be almost automatic doesn’t it.
That need to help another human being when they are in trouble. In most cases it’s not so much risk taking as an undeniable urge to become involved, to simply help.
As I began my run to assist I could see a disturbance in the wake.
That’s where she would now be. My blundering run, occasioned by the fact that I was still wearing my pack, took me along the side until I was approximately parallel. I could now see glimpses of her.
I plunged in, behind her, using the bulk of my pack to try and give her some protection.
I shouted, creating even more confusion in my attempt to alert the oncoming French to her predicament.
Some already had, but they were acting like stunned mullet.
I reached down. She grabbed my arm. I pulled her upright.
“This is what’s going to happen now,” I said to her. “I’m going to walk you over to the side and plonk you on that seat over there. Then I’m going to come back and rescue your luggage. Ok?”
“Yes, thank you very much,” she gasped. The shine of tears was on her cheeks.
Three of those big, blue, plastic suitcases. The ones with little sticky-out wheels.
In our absence the torrent of French commuters had commenced a game of football with them. Gave them a right good kicking about the concourse they did. And while the advertising says they are almost indestructible, this apparently does not also apply to French commuters.
A couple were hopping about nursing sore shins. One was lying at full length on the ground.
“You’d get the strikers position for France mate! Without a doubt that was a dive,” I said to the prone bloke.
I then addressed the hobbling wounded.
“And as for you guys, take a teaspoon of cement,” I muttered, “harden up.”
I got the luggage organised before addressing her again.
"This experience madam,” I commenced, “would lead one to believe that it is perhaps not the greatest of ideas to wait around with your luggage in the middle of a main concourse at the Gare Du Nord at 5 o’clock on a friday afternoon.”
“My husband told me to wait here,” she replied.
“Ah, well that explains it,” I replied. “But surely you must be aware that men usually don’t know good from bad when it comes to the affairs of women, what they should or shouldn’t do. We’re hopeless at that. Sometimes a girl just has to think for herself.”
My weak attempt at humour at least had the effect of taking her mind off what had happened.
She was calming down now.
“And just where is this mysterious misplaced husband of yours anyway?”
“He’s gone to buy the metro tickets. He went about half an hour ago, said he’d be 10 minutes.”
“Are you having a nice holiday?” I enquired, attempting to keep up the chat.
“We are on the way home,” she replied. “We’ve been cruising the Danube for nearly a month. My husband likes the fact that you can just dump your bags in your room and not have to pack and unpack and get on a bus and change hotels every day for the duration of your holiday. Everything is paid for, and because he mixes readily with strangers, for him it’s the perfect holiday.”
“But not for you perhaps I sense? Different strokes for different folks eh?”
She wasn’t going to bad mouth her husband.
She looked me up and down, took in the pack and attached walking poles.
“So what are you doing? Where are you going?” she asked.
“I’m a pilgrim off to walk a Camino,” I replied.
I had and took the time to explain the situation regarding the Camino de Santiago. About what interesting people we met, what great country we walked thru, what good food and wine we enjoyed, where we stayed, what a great fun time we had. You know. All that stuff.
“Sounds just like me and my two girlfriends,” she said. “When we were young we backpacked around Europe for two months between finishing our studies and the rest of our lives. What fun we had!”
“That’s it!” I replied, “just like that! But only better now. Because we are older and wiser, and we are not as broke as we were then, and we travel light, and we take enjoyment in the taking of our enjoyment, if you know what I mean.”
“I do,” she said enthusiastically. “We come from Melbourne, in Australia. Is there somewhere I can get information, like a website for Aussies?”
“Yes there is, and altho I don’t have it handy it’s not hard to find on the internet. Look for the ‘Australian Pilgrims Association and/or ‘Camino de Santiago’. Past and intending pilgrims have regular meetings at various places around the country.”
The misplaced husband duly returned, but had been unable to source the required metro tickets.
After a cursory introduction I offered to go get them.
He met me at the top of the escalator on my return.
He took the tickets from me, then stood blocking my path.
“What have you been saying to my wife?” he asked in a stern fashion. “She says she’s never going on holiday with me ever again!”
“Neither would I mate if I was her,” I replied.
“What exactly do you mean by that?” he asked.
“Ask your wife. And pay attention. Listen to her. I like that wife of yours. You did good when you collared her. It was a pleasure to meet her. What a lucky bloke you are.”
He spluttered in confusion.
I stepped around him, exchanged farewell pleasantries with his wife, then took the other escalator down.
It’s good to leave people in confusion.
Because then you get to spend an inordinate amount of time over the years wondering how it all turned out for them.
The next morning I took what is for me one of the great train rides.
From Paris Montparnasse I was heading down to Bayonne.
(Don’t even think about suggesting a flight)
As the TGV sped thru the beautiful French countryside I sat reading about her.
Anne Dufourmantelle.
Drowned. Trying to save two children at a beach in the South of France.
Without doubt a tragedy, a not uncommon tragedy.
But unusual in her case in that she was a prominent French philosopher, best known for her work on risk-taking.
“A life with absolute security – like zero risk – is a fantasy...being alive is a risk,” she had written in an article in the newspaper ‘Liberation’.
Anne was at the beach when she commenced her rescue attempt after seeing two children struggling about 50 metres from shore. But she was swept away in front of them by the strong current. The children were rescued by lifeguards but Anne could not be resuscitated when brought ashore.
Anne’s work proposed that taking risks, even putting your life at risk for the good of others, was a necessary part of everyday life.
She wrote as follows. “Where there is really a danger to be faced, there is a very strong incentive to devotion, to surpassing oneself.”
I think we’d all agree...Anne surpassed herself.
Once I did. Dived into the ocean when folks were in trouble. The pair of them would probably have drowned if I hadn’t been there and done that. More than probably.
So the question we have to ask ourselves is...“What would I do?”
If it was me, and it was my child, of course I would jump in, even if I couldn’t swim.
But what if I couldn’t swim, and it was someone else’s child? Would I jump in?
My mind swirls with the pros and cons.
To be truthful I’ve gotta answer, “I don’t know.”
And I’m seriously not very happy with that answer.
I too want to be able to surpass myself.
By the time we pulled into Bayonne I’d decided that when I got home I’d have to try and get a hold of Anne’s book "Praise of Risk."
I'm hoping, in writing that, she was attempting to help me too.
Regards
Gerard
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