Back in Vancouver

Dee, 

Herewith a few words about some folks I met on the train.

On our trans Canada group train tour from Vancouver BC to Halifax NS I was returning from the second dinner service when I noticed a very depressed looking lady, as they say in France of a certain age, sitting alone in the bar car appearing or well on the way to being drunk. I stopped and asked why she was looking so sad.

She told me at his request she had flown to Vancouver to see her son George, he was working on a large construction project in northern BC, in order to let her know, in person and face to face he had been diagnosed with a cancer that had metastasized and he had 18 months to live.

I commiserated as best I could and listened a lot while she told me about her heartbreak and desperate anger. She told me they both had Fuck Cancer tattooed on their left breasts above their hearts and showed me hers and told me George should be back soon, he had just gone to his cabin to fill his glass, CN Via Rail  was providing the mix.

Our conversation had skipped platitudes and spoke directly to and acknowledged her situation and we both found a place to be friends. With that in mind and to lighten the mood I proposed that when George returned we should tell him that we had just met, that our attraction was both mutual  and immediate and  at our age had decided to skip all the intermediate hoopla and if not marriage at least wanted a romantic relationship. She thought this was a very funny idea, in her defense she was a bit inebriated, terribly sad and obviously needed a laugh.

George arrived, a very large and heavily muscled man, he also operates a lobster boat in Nova Scotia, I later learned he boxes,  arrived and inquired “who the fuck are you and are you flirting with my mother.” I told him I am Irish and relatively harmless and he told me he was a fan of Connor McGregor the Irish world Ultimate Fighting Champion.

I told him his mother and I had just met but there was an instant attraction, she had even shown me her tattoo, and in consideration of our ages and the time remaining decided to skip all the preliminary hoopla and move directly to the planning our future. He was immediately in on the joke and told me he liked the Irish and was OK with our plans and showed me his tattoo.

I told him there was no need to feel threatened as his mother and I had agreed I should adopt him and we were for now not planning on children. At that he laughed and asked ‘just who the fuck are you Irishman ” and had another drink.

The next day the train stopped as scheduled at Jasper in Alberta. The hours ticked by and the train manager finally announced that due to the massive forest fires along the track we were going to wait to see if it was safe to proceed, that we could leave the train but should stay around the station. When I joined George in the station he presented me with an Irish flag, the last one to be found, he assured me in the small station. It is  now on my balcony.

I thanked him and scoured the stalls and the best I could find at the charity second hand book stand was a copy of The Little Mermaid which I endorsed to my new friend George, signed and hid in his backpack.

Later the train manager advised us that due to the fires we would be returning, another 24 hour overnight journey, back to Vancouver. Next morning while waiting in line at the Canadian National Via Rail counter in Vancouver for reimbursements or rebooking I saw George and his Mom, George laughed and said “you shit, I found the book and knew it had to be you.” He was putting his mother on a plane to Houston to attend her granddaughters graduation while he was going to lay up in a hotel and call family and friends, and now having told his mother personally, give them his news. And would then return to Nova Scotia, take his boat out and set some lobster traps.

We hugged, wished each other well, took these photos and said our goodbyes. 

We did not exchange email addresses.

If you pay attention when you least expect it life sometimes presents you an opportunity to meet wonderful people.

Stay well, take care of yourself and if you can, someone else.

John

Storm Ciara

I was up at 06:00 on Sunday 09 February 2020, shut down and closed my house and a friend David McErlean dropped me at Carcassonne airport in the southwest of France  around 08:00.
Initially RyanAir couldn’t land at Carcassonne because of poor visibility but after about an hour they did, we boarded and they closed the doors.  Then the pilot told us because of the delay we had lost our landing slot at London’s Stansted airport in England and would have to wait for a new one. Forty minutes more and we left with the pilot warning us that because of the storm the ride would be bumpy as we neared England.

I took a nap for an hour, the flight lasts 1 hour 50 minutes, broke out my very large ham and strong cheese sandwich on some thick wedges of whole grain bread and realized the pilot had not exaggerated and what woke me was the plane intermittently gyrating all over the place.  And further proof was the pale faced people around me holding up a hand to indicate they needed a sick bag, RyanAir is as you know a low cost carrier and you have to request one. If you graduate to two bags they also provide a larger plastic bag to place them in. I noticed one poor man turning and turning the bag desperately trying to find the opening until a neighbor already equipped with a bag showed him how to tear off the top. I put my sandwich away.

Some time later the pilot announced if it appeared we were flying around in circles, that due the storm and high gusting winds we were in fact flying around in circles as planes were stacked up waiting their turn to land and we were number six in line. At this news a gentleman across the aisle, a two bagger groaned. But eventually and after a last minute roar of one engine to correct a sideways lurch the pilot got us on the runway and we all applauded. Not as significant as sacrificing a lamb but our hearts were sincere.

We left the plane and walked to the terminal in the heavy wind and rain, RyanAir is a low cost carrier, and then traversed many corridors and stairs to reach the immigration counters. This is now completely automated, on seeing a green arrow you enter a closed pen through a gate which closes behind you, hold your passport on the reader in one of the very long line of readers, look into the camera and if you match something somewhere in the computer cloud the gate opens and you enter the UK. At the random customs check I inquired of one of the officers “what happened to all the border officials who used to sit in the many glass enclosures where you slid them your passport through the little slot.” He told me they were all working somewhere else.

I started down the stairs to the train platform where you catch the Stansted Express to London Liverpool Street station only to be greeted by signs saying the train line was closed because of the storm. I inquired for how long and was told until they removed the fallen trees and repaired the power lines. 

I went back upstairs to the huge bus park, bought a ticket and waited with hundreds of other passengers until I finally got on the bus with stops including mine at Liverpool Street station. We had an interesting one hour plus ride to London with the driver fighting the gusting, buffeting high winds all the way. Did I mention since arriving at Stansted there was a constant driving rain and swathes of the UK countryside and many towns were now flooded.

After a ten minute walk with my backpack and pulling my suitcase in the rain I reached Liverpool Street station, purchased an Oyster travel card and took the Tube, Metropolitan Line to Wembley Park station where the rain had lessened somewhat. I asked one of the station staff to point me to the Holiday Inn which he did, saying it was a 10 minute walk and recommended I leave immediately before the storm returned. Two minutes into what was a 15 minutes plus walk the rain and wind returned and I arrived at the hotel drenched, checked in took a hot shower, made a cup of tea and finally ate my delicious sandwich.

And my best friend Mel ? who I travelled to London and this hotel to meet – his flight from Dublin was cancelled because of the storm, but with luck he will arrive tomorrow.

And so it goes,

PS One translation of Ciara, a Gaelic word, a dark haired girl with brown eyes. 

A Day At The Temple – 09 February 2019

For the TET Lunar New Year Holiday my goddaughter Chau and her mother Yen go to their Temple to pray every day. I have been there frequently over the years and have become good friends with the Abbot.

Today Saturday Chau told me a Frenchman had just came in to the temple and asked me why don’t you say hello and see if we can help him. And I did and he explained as part of his spiritual journey he was visiting 30 temples around Vietnam and this one is on his list, and also he had studied Buddhism at Thich Nhat Hanh’s Plum Village in France.

The Abbot joined us and mentioned he had been feeling poorly for a few days, I translated this to our new French friend and he announced he is a Dr. of Asian medicine and asked if the Abbot would like to be examined and perhaps treated. He the Frenchman carries the implements of his trade and some essential oils in his backpack. Fortunately his Vietnamese travel companion showed up from praying, and since she speaks French fluently she could describe the Abbot’s symptoms. The Abbot agreed to being examined and was duly treated.

That is Chau and her mother Yen on the left.

A few days later when we were back at the temple I asked the Abbot if the treatment had helped. He said no not all he never believed the the Frenchman was competent but why not give it a try.

I told him I also had my doubts when I noticed that the Frenchman despite his spiritual declarations and devotion to the simple Buddhist life was wearing a heavy wig in the heat and humidity of Saigon.

Traveling Light Versus Waiting Around For Your Stuff – 03 February 2019

I boarded the plane in Paris on Thursday, unloaded my things for the flight to Vietnam, it takes 12 hours to get to Saigon, and at the the last minute an older man, older than me that is arrived and took the window seat. We exchanged pleasantries, the plane took off and we started talking. I asked if this was his first visit to Vietnam. No he replied I first arrived in early 1951 as a nineteen year paratrooper in the French Marine Commando Brigade. I did the mental calculation and naturally continued with the conversation.

He told me they used to jump from Dakota aircraft but it took time to get the 12 man “stick” out of a Dakota so he preferred a German WWII plane I think he said a Dornier where they could jump more quickly from the rear. He said there were quite a few Germans, excellent soldiers in his opinion, some from the Russian front, some former SS, serving in the French Foreign Legion. His “stick” would land bury the parachutes and patrol looking for the enemy and set up ambushes. Late in 1952 it was their turn in the barrel and his group was ambushed and he was shot in the leg. He was evacuated, first by friends carrying him and then by vehicle to Danang, where I lived for 5 years from 1966 when the Americans were  trying the same futile thing as the French.

After that he couldn’t jump, he said parachutes were more basic then, but was still a commando so they would go on mission, inserted to set up landing zones for big groups to jump in or on other special operations. He was finally transferred back to France with his unit in 1956.

He had remained in the navy long enough to get a pension but said he did not like it much, there was no real esprit or camaraderie compared to life with the commando brigade. He kept touch with surviving old comrades talking to and exchanging emails a couple of times a year. He had been elected twice to some local political office but believed politicians, nearly all of them, were duplicitous, untrustworthy and interested only in themselves. He preferred the people he had previously fought against in Vietnam and met subsequently on his travels.

He had decided to visit Vietnam 30 years later, first in 1986 when he figured enough time had passed since the Americans had departed and things should have stabilized. He had visited nearly every year since. I asked if at 87 he was not worried about health problems on his travels. He told me that a couple of years ago he had a heart attack in Phan Thiet, but the local Vietnamese doctor was good, injected him with something to ease the situation and externally massaged his heart until he stabilised. He was flown back to France and now has a pacemaker. He showed me the little health card he needs to get through airport security.

He had suffered a couple of strokes but that was in France so no crisis. He was pretty phlegmatic or even fatalistic about death and dying, maybe due to his earlier youthful career of jumping from aeroplanes, looking for armed people defending their country to attack. Never a winning idea unless you are in the business of war.

But he mentioned how touched he was at the reaction of his 5 daughters, he had been married I think three times, now to a Vietnamese lady he met in Paris, when they thought he was dying. He showed me two photos of him with the two daughters with the Vietnamese wife. One did her doctorate in the university of Saigon, lives in Paris and translates books between French and Vietnamese, the other is working in Japan.

It became a little difficult to hear him clearly after lunch, oddly enough after he put his hearing aids back in place. But in the time we were both awake I continued talking to him, I found him fascinating.

I asked where he was staying in Saigon, thinking maybe we could meet and he told me he never made reservations. He would take the number 8 bus to the downtown bus depot  and then ask around until he found the next bus to Cu Chi where some friends from previous visits owned a small hotel. How long was he staying in Cu Chi ?, no idea but when he was bored he would take another bus or taxi to the next place. How about his suitcase ? he didn’t have one, only the small, very small carry on bag in the overhead, I saw it, and a small shoulder bag with his passport and papers. Did he get his spending money from ATMs ? no he was seldom in a big city, he had €4,000 in a money belt and would keep on travelling until he had a reason to return to France. He had bought his airline ticket at his local LeClerc supermarket with a one month return date but for €60 he could change the date once he had decided. I told him the last time I changed my return date from Vietnam they charged me €300, he showed me his receipt including the €60 LeClerc option. So much for the advantages of the Internet.

I asked him what he loved about Vietnam ? Answer, the people, the way families stay together, the climate, the food, how safe it was, yes there was crime but not much, and for him it was very inexpensive, he would buy a pair of shorts and trousers and a pair of sandals at his first stop and leave them behind when he left. How long did he plan to continue visiting ? currently he thought until he was 90 but he would see after that.

We landed, I handed him his bag from the overhead, we deplaned and walked, slowly to the immigration counters. He went first. The immigration officer spent a while flipping back and forth looking at all his many visa entries for Vietnam, he had also made it to Cambodia, not really too far by bus he said. Finally stamped it, handed it back and he strolled away, looked back and waved, and turned away heading for the next number 8 bus.

I went downstairs and waited forever and impatiently with the other 300 plus people for our suitcases and our “stuff” while Loisel was flying down the road again to Cu Chi and …….
I have the phone number of his daughter in Paris

My next stop is  Bangsaphan in southern Thailand on the Burmese border to meet a French couple, her parents are from Laos, who spend a month every year at the Coral Hotel a small resort on the Burmese border.

I went shopping for TET the lunar new year in Saigon this morning with my goddaughter Chau and her mother Yen. Who frequent a small popular shop specializing in things from North Vietnam. A customer pulls up on a motor bike, shops and the owner’s son boxes it up and tapes it down, about a metre high on the back of the bike and the customer wobbles off among thousands of other motor bikes