I hate to eat alone

Do you have dinner? I hate to eat alone.’

the boy smiles at him. ‘Where do you want to eat, then?’

[ lonely people : uprooted ii ]

home is where the heart is. only, for him, it is here.

it is not his native country. yet, he feels so much more at home here than anywhere else in the world.

the boy doesn’t get it. he doesn’t blame the boy. he’s just a young lad, barely out of his teens, really still just a child. he’s never lived anywhere but here, never had anything but safe streets, green trees and a simple life.

he rubs his face, trying to explain to the kid. about where he came from. he can almost read the thoughts swirling around those simple black eyes. ‘But it’s France. Paris! The capital of love, the pinnacle of cuisine, the music! the sights! the sounds and the people. Everybody wants to go to France! Why wouldn’t you like to live there?’

because it’s France. yes, everybody wants to go there. not everybody, not anybody, I should think – wants to live there. it’s overcrowded with people. everything is ridiculously expensive. food is exorbitant.  there are taxes on everything. and it’s not safe, it’s not safe at all. people are afraid to go out at night.

but he sees that explaining this to the kid will take more. it is difficult to describe the residual background fear and negativity he feels as he passes people on the streets. here, everybody complains of stress, of boredom, of the lack of work-life balance and the rising costs of living. 7% GST, you know! very high!

the goods and services tax in France is 20%, has been 20% since ages ago. in France there is no work-life balance; there simply isn’t work. they would complain of stress, when in France there are workers on strike so often, too often, because of terrible working conditions. stress! let them try no public transport for a week. that will be stress. let them try to get to work, on the other side of a huge, congested city, from its outskirts – where the only affordable housing is.

and boredom. he wouldn’t want the excitement Paris at night can provide.

here is good. here is not a bad place to live and work. here, he could live forever. raise his kids.

nowhere else in the world can he simply walk into a park and spend the afternoon playing frisbee with strangers, secure enough that nobody will steal their possessions or rob them as they play.

nowhere else in the world can he go for dinner afterwards and just sit down anywhere, in any coffee-shop and have a good meal that doesn’t cost a bomb and is actually affordable.

nowhere else in the world will parents let their kids wander off with a tall French stranger for dinner – practically little boys and little girls – without even considering the possibility that they could be beaten up by street gangs or kidnapped or mugged or raped or murdered. nowhere else would the women wear so little and walk the streets, secure at night.

nowhere else in the world, he tells the kid. nowhere else in the world I’d rather be.

---

for gabriel.

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