Once my morning physiotherapy was complete, that is to say, the weights, the exercycle, the walking along the terrace rail…I was ready to roll down the hill to Cup. There to interact with the ever affable Sam and his wife, whose name whose name I should know by now, but I simply can’t remember. And there I was with my usual. Cappuccino. And peanut butter and jam on Dave’s bread. And Dave, if you wanted to know, assuages the conscience of us liberals by being a guy who emerged from prison and set up a Portland bakery that employs others of the same narrative. I assume it’s true, the story.

As on all days for as long as I can remember, everything felt tenuous. Even the roll down the hill, and being the lower slopes of Twin Peaks, it should feel tenuous. But having made it safely to the bottom of a steep street, there I was enjoying my breakfast out, my first excuse to leave the house in several days. COVID-19 or not, it’s good to get out on a regular basis. Various constituents come and go as I enjoy my cappuccino. Public servants number among them. Firefighters. Police. And others less conspicuous, such as school teachers. Why we all end up at Sam’s, I don’t know. 

In particular, I don’t know that one man who is sharing the café’s inside with me. There are two others seated on the sidewalk. This man’s identity, not that I know it, is masked by, you guessed it, a mask. The whole gestalt…tenuousness, fear…is only amplified by this Lone Ranger facial garb. And that’s where we are. I regard my café neighbor with suspicion. Where has he been? How careful is he? Shouldn’t I be sitting about a meter further away? How is the airflow in this café? Yes, the door is open, but is that enough?

It must have been 15 years ago when my cousin Bob met me in Paris, and we embarked on a public transit adventure to his home in the suburbs. My electric wheelchair is key to this and similar narratives. The thing must weigh 250 pounds. It does not collapse, but anyone attempting to lift it certainly will. Today there are a limited number of special taxis in Paris that can handle a wheelchair like mine. But one cannot count on them. And 15 years ago they didn’t even exist. Thus our trip on the metro, then the SNCF to Le Vésinet.

I don’t know if Bob became an EU diplomat because of his charm, or acquired this trait on the job. In any case, his ability to meet and quickly ingratiate himself with people is, or was…I keep forgetting that he’s dead…built into his operating system. We had had dinner somewhere in Paris, and had set out for his home from the Opera metro station. Bob probably knew what he was doing. There was an elevator that led straight to the platform. The problem, and it is entirely possible that Bob did not foresee this at all, had to do with getting my wheelchair (with me in it) onto the train. The doors whooshed open, we stared at the obvious height difference, and I got momentarily lost in I-told-you-so reflections on my cousin, his impulsiveness, his unwillingness to believe that the world doesn’t work…. And during this moment of self-absorption I failed to notice that Bob had commandeered one, maybe two, commuters who were already engaged in a discussion of wheelchair lifting and moving. The general meaning, filtered through my schoolboy French, was yo heave ho, mates. And damned if I wasn’t up four steps sitting cheek by jowl in a packed rush-hour train.

A few stops later, we had to change. I was now offloaded from the crowded car backwards. This resembled one of those corporate training exercises in which people fall into the waiting arms of their fellow workers. The goal being to build trust. Our goal being to get to the west of Paris.

Again, I don’t know what Bob was really thinking. I approach public transit with intense skepticism when I am away from home. I read and plot and plan, again and again. I don’t think Bob did any of this. He just assumed that we would be able to get from one line to the other…somehow. Which we did. But not without getting one of the station agents to conduct us down a series of catacombs, through an industrial elevator, down to a sort of garbage level…who knows what lurks beneath any big city…down another series of tunnels, then up another lift, the entire experience hot, oppressive and smelly beyond belief. Not to worry. For we were now on the suburban train line run by SNCF. Once again, Bob commandeered strangers to help me on, then help me off. Until the miraculous occurred, and we were there. And rolling through the suburban lawns and canals that constitute his planned suburb.

It’s obvious that, particularly in those days, Paris public transit accessibility wasn’t what one would hope. Or is that fair? For despite the architectural barriers, the human channels were open. Help was everywhere. And therefore, hope was everywhere too. It was hard to forget that journey. 

I wish I could have similar faith in strangers like the man I met at my neighborhood café. And not worry if we’re sitting too close together. Which isn’t to say that the physical distance might have to be adjusted. But spatial relationships are easy. It’s the other part, particularly the trust in each other, that has been among the worst victims of the pandemic.