My Best Friend

            I finally have a best friend here in Paris, and he is nothing like how I pictured him to be.

            When I left for Paris, there were a million things that I was worried about. Finding friends was not one of them. I knew that I would meet a bunch of really cool people who were in the exact same situation as myself. Learning a new culture and crossing the language barrier are the kinds of things that can develop life-long bonds between people. I was confident that after two or three weeks, I would have plenty of friends to go out with on weekends, friends who would share many of my interests.

            Which is exactly why it is odd that my best friend here in Paris is a homeless man, a “bum” if you will.

            Surprisingly, my new friend Hubert has been an invaluable inside into the French culture. I met Hubert about a month into my stay here in Paris. It was a chilly Friday night, and I was coming home from the bars. It was still rather early, so I decided to grab a nightcap from the neighborhood “arabe” (a small corner market that stays open late).  As I left the market, beer in hand, I saw a homeless man snuggled up beneath a coat with a beer of his own. He said something to me, and at first I assumed that he was asking for some change before realizing that he was asking me for the time. It was the first time a homeless man has asked me for anything other than money. I told him what time it was, and he tipped his beer to me and said “enjoy your beer, god knows that I enjoy mine.” That makes at least one thing we have in common.

            The next Friday, I saw him outside the same market on my way to the grocery store. He recognized my face and wished me a “bonne soiree”. While at the grocery store, I decided to buy him a beer. I realize now that this probably wasn’t the best idea. Some people refuse to give homeless people money because they believe that the person will use the money to buy beer or drugs instead of food. Me? I guess I encourage, even reward, their drinking habits. To each their own, right? I gave him the beer, and cracked one for myself (thank god for no “open bottle” laws in Paris!). I’m sure we made quite the odd couple, standing there with our beers and conversing in broken French.

            Drinking a beer with Hubert has become a sort of routine, happening almost every Friday. One Friday, however, Hubert was missing. The next weekend I asked him where he was, to which he replied that he was on vacation. I guess in France even the “sans-abris” (homeless) get more vacation time than the average American. I think it’s highly likely that next time he will tell me he is “on strike”.

            I have built the kind of relationship with Hubert that I have struggled to build with my professors, in that I never hesitate to ask him a question about French society or culture. Believe it or not, Hubert has a wealth of information. So far, he has turned me onto a cheese that I had never tried before meeting him (Tomme de Savoie), taught me which French cigarettes are good and which are garbage, and even explained to me the differences between a Pinot Noir and a Cabernet Sauvignon.

            Alas, it’s too bad that the person with whom I most want to keep in touch is the only person I have met so far without a facebook, email account, or even a fixed address.  I guess that is just all the more reason to cherish our Friday night beers.