There was the 60-ish, portly, white-haired woman in a scanty blue two-piece bathing suit helping to pull in a huge fishing net on the beach near Banjul. There was the handsome 20's-plus couple - him with long blond dreadlocks, her with a smooth jockey cap of hair, both of them handsome enough for a Vogue spread just as they stood - astride bicycles halfway up the main mountain range in Jamaica, where hiking paths branch off from the main road. There was the 40-ish woman at a bus stop who was born in Luxembourg, worked in South Africa, spoke fluent Spanish, and explained to me how to buy a bus ticket. The world is sprinkled with people like these, whose lives you want to sit down with them and explore at length.
Today I sat sipping sangria in the grand platz of Tournai, near the French border. It was hot, not a cloud, carnival rides had been set up blocking the view of that intimidating gray heap of a rundown cathedral. A rock band was doing mike tests, periodically blasting out a few bars that made everyone wince. The Saturday crowd of locals and visitors was dense.
Then here came a wonderfully odd young man in a baggy white shirt and blackout makeup, clutching a bathroom scale to his chest. He approached a woman playfully, and easily induced her to step on the scale. He clasped his hands in seeming delight and called a number - the woman's weight, clearly - to someone out of sight. Then he bowed gallantly and the woman went on, laughing.
He skipped back and forth to individuals and small groups of women and girls, easily convincing them to weigh themselves for him. I couldn't hear him, but his body language was charming, playful, self-effacing, flattering. Far more women agreed than refused.
As I got up to leave, I thought of going and asking him what he was doing. My French is certainly up to the task: S'il vous plais, pourquoa pezez-vous les femmes? (Please don't give me points off for spelling) In the end I didn't do it, content with the glimpse of someone doing something slightly mad and certainly unexpected.
On the train back to Brussels, I was again charmed, this time by the conductor, a slim, bearded young man who was more courteous than I've come to expect of men of his office. Leaving the train, I happened to pass by him and, without stopping or making a big deal if it, simply thanked him while continuing to walk. He responded swiftly with a beautiful bon soir, madame. A fine day with other people.
I realize that in citing these two small stories I am using them to balance the unpleasant experience earlier that day. On arriving in Tournai, I found a big flea market in full swing right outside the station. I wandered a bit, bought a light Indian top to replace the bad-choice, two-layer, fat-lady Chicos sleeveless I had on. At one point I simply wanted to leave, so cut across what looked like narrow aisles between vendors only to get stuck behind a clothes rack. I moved it slightly to get by, and the owner frowned and told me, il faut faire le tour. Meaning that cutting wasn't allowed; I should walk all the way down the aisles even if I didn't want to.
So for several minutes afterward I practiced snarky answers in French - French, of course, being the best language there is for snark. This, of course, did not make me feel better. But the other two encounters did. As Tarzan used to say, "Humans are strange beasts."
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