So it's been nearly a month that I've moved to Paris and I'm finally starting to feel less lonely and getting the hang of things (even though I was here for a few months in 2012). This morning I sat down for breakfast at my hotel at what I thought was an empty table, but turns out there had been someone sitting there already. It was an older Arab man, probably in his 60's. I asked if I could sit with him and we ate in silence for a good ten minutes before he asked if I spoke English.
He asked what I was doing in France and after a brief discussion about my job, he explained that he was here for medical treatment. He mentioned that today was his lucky day because in the two months since he'd arrived at the hotel, I was the first person that had spoken to him. He speaks only English and Arabic and doesn't understand French.
To pass time, he explained, he takes walks around the neighborhood (not a very vibrant one, as the hotel is in the business district here), or he takes the metro into the center. I couldn't imagine being somewhere for two months and not having social interaction. My second day here I was crying because I missed my sisters!
He asked what I was doing in France and after a brief discussion about my job, he explained that he was here for medical treatment. He mentioned that today was his lucky day because in the two months since he'd arrived at the hotel, I was the first person that had spoken to him. He speaks only English and Arabic and doesn't understand French.
To pass time, he explained, he takes walks around the neighborhood (not a very vibrant one, as the hotel is in the business district here), or he takes the metro into the center. I couldn't imagine being somewhere for two months and not having social interaction. My second day here I was crying because I missed my sisters!
He was happy to learn I was American (and Muslim) and asked a few questions about life in the States, my family, etc. At the end of breakfast I mentioned that I would pray for him and his illness, to which he replied he's not actually sick…but here for medical tests, paid for by the Libyan government.
Turns out he had been walking on the street one day during the war when he saw a tank fire at a group of people. They were motionless, so he ran in to take them into cover with a group of other bystanders. The tank fired again, this time at the rescuers…and everyone was killed, except him. I was pretty much speechless as he rolled up his sleeve and showed me the bullet scars…definitely not what I was expecting when I sat down that morning.
I hope his last month here goes well and I'm glad I was able to provide some sort of friendship!
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