As I sat in a small cafè near Champs E’lysèes enjoying a pleasant cup of steaming capuccino, I suddenly realized I hadn’t engaged in a real conversation since I came here to Paris. But when I started to wonder if I didn’t look quite interesting enough, someone nudged my shoulder.
“Not from these parts, are ya?” The voice didn’t sound natural speaking English, but it wasn’t completely lost at it. And male. Definately male.
I choked on my coffee and finally answered, “What? No, no...” I turned around to see a bloke. He was slim, tall and younger than me. Or so it seemed.
“British right?” He grinned as I stared in quiet surprise.
“Yeah. Yes... How could you tell?”
He sat down by my table without waiting for an invitation and hung his satchel over the chair’s back. “It’s not important. My names Robert DeVine, a professional hitchhiker.” He shook my hand violently.
“What? Oh sorry, I’m Chapin O’Burly. Magazine writer. How can you be a professional hitchhiker?”
He smiled and then called for the waiter’s attention for some red wine. “Well, I’m an explorer. A traveller. I travel around the world to experience things.”
An idea dawned on me, “Um, sorry Robert, but would you mind me taping our conversation for the Lost Planet? You would be a swell object for an interview.”
“Oh, sure.”
As I fumbled for the small tape recorder in my bag, Robert was brought his wine.
“Thank you, love.” He said and took a sip.
“Name, Robert DeVine,” I read into the recorder. “Age,... Er...”
He leaned forward and said loud and clear, “Age, 38.”
“Ah yes. 38,” I mumbled, slightly surprised over his age. “Hitchhiker. Now Robert, where are you from?”
“Lyon. You know, my family never went anywhere. But I,” he added and took a sip of his wine. “I wanted to see the world. Adventure. Life!”
“How long have you been on the road?”
“Three years now. With minimum money.”
I watched him for a moment. True, his clothes were quite worn, his satchel even more so, but he was clean and was currently drinking the finest red wine. “How do you manage that without using a lot of money?”
“Oh, I told you. I’m a hitchhiker! I hitch lifts and sleep where I find a bed.”
“But how can you...?” I gesticulated towards the glass in his hand.
“Oh, I have my ways...” He said with a wicked grin.
“Ho hum... And why would – “
“Hush!” He threw his hands up in an alarming way.
“What?” I whispered in amazement.
“That song...”
“Song? What song?”
“The one they’re playing in the background...” He closed his eyes and hummed along to the intense melody.
“What song is that?” I asked. “I’ve never heard it before.”
“Padam with Edith Piaf. I just love that text... It translates as... This tune is the song of your soul...” He kept translating the beautiful lyrics to me as the song went on. When it was over I tried to move on and hit the ‘Play’ button again.
“So... Where have you been? Travelled, I mean.”
“Oh, everywhere!” He ordered yet another glass of wine. “Britain, Italy, Scnadinavia, Russia,... All the gems of the world. But then...” He took a sip. “- I suddenly realized I had never been to Paris. Or in fact, anywhere in France except the immediate area around Lyon.” He looked at me with a slight frown, then lightened up and gave a short laugh.
“Fascinating.” I said. “Everywhere except your own country...”
“Yeah. So here I am.”
“And how long have you been in Paris?”
He tossed a used toothpick to the ground. “Oh, I hitched a ride from Versailles about three weeks ago. Quite a nice lad was he. He gave me this jacket.”
I had already noticed the slightly newer, all too big jacket, but I had been polite enough not to mention it.
“Yes, as you can see it’s a bit too big for me. It’s still a nice jacket.”
“Absolutely.” I agreed.
“So you see, I make it. It’s tough, but I make it. Are we quite finished?”
I was suddenly brought back to realiy as a stranger accidentally tripped in my chair and immediately scattered away. “Oh, sure. Thank you.”
He gave my hand a friendly squeese. “No, thank you. This was nice.” He got up from his chair and gathered his satchel. “Well, I’m off to Lorraine now.”
“Who’s that?” I asked curiously. He smiled and nudged my shoulder.
“No, the question’s ‘Where’s that’. I’m talking about La Lorraine, the town. Best wine in all of France. Goodbye.”
“Ah yes. Goodbye.” I watched him as he cheerily half walked, half danced down the street. Now, that’s a traveller, I though. I’m just a spoiled tourist in comparisment.
As I prepared to leave, a small blonde waitress walked up to me and said in a polite manner, “M’sieur. Your bill...”
Ah yes! I had quite forgotten where I was. I smiled and gave her the money for the capuccino.
“Yes, M’sieur, and the two red wines...?”
So that was his "ways"...
I maybe had to pay for his wine, and it didn’t make up to much of an interview, but I still felt I had gotten more out of this than he had. Because as I left, I knew I had had a great interview with a real hitchhiker who had experienced what we normal people wouldn’t dare to dream of...
Copyright Tilde Clark