Lost in Paris

By Emily

I was in Paris for the first time ever, staying with a host family in a little suburb called Le Vesinet. Each day I was to take a train to Paris where I would attend classes and visit cultural sites. Our host families were instructed to walk us to the train station our first morning in France so we’d know the correct path, but my host mother was in a rush,  so she drove me and my roommate instead, verbally explaining how the path would be a little different if we were walking. Still, everything was okay that first day. I stuck with my roommate, and a couple of male students who were staying in a nearby house helped us find our way back when we weren’t sure where to go. But the next day I got separated from my roommate. We were sharing a cell phone, and she had it on her, but somehow all the other students I was with didn’t have cell phones with them – their roommates did. I knew the train stops well enough that I made it to my stop okay. A friend who was living on the other side of the same town asked if I wanted to walk back to her host mother’s place. She was sure her host mother wouldn’t mind driving me home, especially since it was getting dark. But I was sure I’d be able to find my way home, no problem. And if I couldn’t… well, that would be hard to admit.I didn’t know if I could give driving directions to anyone.

As luck would have it, the male students who were staying nearby were heading back into the city when I got home, and we crossed paths. My roommate had called them to find out if they’d seen me, and they were planning on looking for me if I didn’t show up soon. I would have asked for directions, but I was pretty certain I knew the way, so they called my roommate and told her not to worry. This is where the story turns scary. It turns out I had no idea where I was going. What’s more, all the contact info I had for everyone I knew in France was on one sheet of paper, sitting on the desk in my bedroom.
I began walking in circles. I figured if I walked up and down the streets I’d find the house eventually. After all, this town was pretty small, and I knew the general area my host family lived in. The town had helpfully put up a map on one of the streets, and I looked over it, trying to recall which streets I’d gone up and down. I felt like I’d covered all of them, but I still couldn’t find the house. I remembered the security code to get in the gate, I remembered what the gate looked like, and I was certain I’d recognize the gate when I saw it. I kept expecting my host family to appear, driving around in search of me. I knew they had to be concerned, since it had been 4 hours since Joe had told my roommate I was back in town. But I couldn’t see or hear anyone else out on the streets. The only other option I could think of at this point was to return to the strain station and wait till the male students I’d seen heading into the city came back. The last train ran at 2am, so they had to come back by then.

I was staring forlornly at the town map, when a young business woman approached me and asked if I needed any help. When she heard my American accent, she insisted we talk in English, for my benefit. She offered to call information to try to find my host family’s info. I gave her their name, but there was no listing for a de Chabot in Le Vesinet. Curious indeed. I insisted it was on one of three streets, though, and she said she’d walk up and down those streets with me, to make sure I was ok. After an hour of fruitless searching, I was once again at my wit’s end, and completely bewildered. Why wasn’t anyone looking for me? Did they assume I’d gone back into the city? It was about 11:45pm in Paris, and I didn’t know what to do. I could go wait for my friends at the train station, but what if they’d returned to Le Vesinet while I was wandering down a different road?

Despairing of all hope, I finally asked if she knew of somewhere I could access the internet. I knew I’d be able to find the contact info for my professor online, one way or another.

She offered to take me back to her apartment. Crazy, I know, but I suspect she was taking the bigger risk. She’d been wandering up and down the road with me for an hour before suggesting I go to her apartment, which I figured offered some pretty promising evidence about her intentions. She offered me some juice while she got her computer set up, and then we began looking up people I knew through yellowpages.com. But we couldn’t find my professor or my host family. In fact, we couldn’t find any de Chabots. She’d said earlier that it would be okay if I needed to call the USA on her cell phone, so I looked up the information for my school’s French Department and called them. It was 5 minutes before their office was going to close for the day. They were shocked by my story about being lost in France and calling on a stranger’s phone, but they had my professor’s phone number for while he was in Paris.

I called him, and he sounded horrified, annoyed, and shocked. He asked who my host family was, and when I said it was “Madame and Monsieur de Chabot,” he said, “do you mean  de Chambod??” We had been searching for the wrong name on yellowpages.com. He gave us their address, and then added “make sure you tell your friend thank you for me.” She walked me to my host family’s house, and waited to make sure I got through the gate. I think she might have even watched from the gate to make sure I successfully unlocked the door. The whole evening she just kept saying, “I was in London last year, and everyone was very helpful and patient with my French accent, so I should help other people too.”

My host mother woke up when she heard my key in the lock, and I told her the whole story. She kept saying how she couldn’t imagine what she’d have told my mother if anything had happened to me. Apparently my roommate fell asleep after learning I was in the neighborhood, but her bedroom light was still on. My host mother saw that her light was on and mine was off, and assumed I was in her room with her, chatting. When the two students who saw me walking home didn’t hear from my roommate again, they also assumed I’d made it home. If not for the stranger who took me to her apartment and let me call the US on her cell phone, I would have spent that night outside and alone.
Later, all my teacher had to say was. “I remember that night well. The phone rang, and the clock read twelve am.” All the other students in my program acted like I was lucky I hadn’t been sold into white slavery, or mugged at the least. I’m sure they were right, and I was much more careful for the rest of my stay in Europe. But it’s good to know there are kind, helpful people out there. Whatever anyone may say about the French, they can be some of the most hospitable people on Earth.