The French Connection

Late one Sunday night, Charles de Gaul Airport was empty. The only other person sat at the information desk. I don’t speak French. She explained in English how to get to Central Paris by train.

She made change for a ticket. Everything worked as explained, and I found myself sitting in a dark empty train. Now trepidation overwhelmed me about where to exit, finding the hotel, and my meeting the next day.

The train stops, still in the countryside. Another person gets on and sits down across from me. “Bruce,” he says. “Didier,” I reply.

What a strange coincidence. I met him at an international meeting in Boston. He toured the USA with another Frenchman and even stayed with me several days. He had no connection to my meeting in Paris, but I had an excellent guide to my hotel.