a little brother of old people

so I was walking a blind lady down the street the other day to go to the dentist to get her dentures fixed (you know, just part of the job) when I saw this guy just standing there peeing on the street (not part of the job). I'd heard from other girls during study abroad in paris that they'd seen such things happen, but I hadn't ever before and it was ... really weird. I didn't see anything, but I was still thinking to myself - really? really?? france is a civilized place. whatever civilized actually means. but probably the bare minimum definition of civilized in my book is people not peeing on the street.

then this morning I visited a little old blind, diabetic, returning breast cancer lady. she was wearing nothing but a teeshirt and sweater. at first I forgot she was blind and thought she didn't care that she was flashing her naked old lady body everywhere, but then I remembered that she probably didn't realize. when the ménagère helped her walk to the bathroom, she looked like a head on stick legs. when she was getting upset about not having the right medications and the pharmacies closing and other worries, her voice got more and more raspy and shrill and listening to her and looking at her glazed blue eyes, I thought - I am visiting gollum. FOR REAL.

there's an old man I visit who's quite the character. half the time I don't really catch what he's saying, so I usually miss the joke and just laugh along with him. he laughs heartily and loud, the kind of laugh where you see his toothless open mouth and wonder when he's going to breathe again. I think he can tell when I'm just laughing along with him and when he actually makes me laugh, and it makes me sad, cause I know he's trying to make me sincerely laugh. he said that making someone laugh brings joy to their heart and you've made a difference in their life. he also makes dirty jokes about women, which pisses me off, but he's an old man, so I sort of forgive him. he tells me I am ravishingly beautiful. I tell him thank you. and then I leave. after he's forced me to eat 3 or 4 cakes. they all love to spoil me. it is no coincidence that gâter (to spoil someone) sounds an awful lot like gâteau (cake).

and that's just 3 of the 30+ people I visit. and they all want me to send them postcards when I get home. hard as these 2 months have been, they've certainly given me a lot of stories. so many stories.