It was a warm autumn afternoon in 1972 when he, an American student boarded the train in Paris heading to visit Strasbourg. The hum of the train’s engine was soothing as he sank into his seat, tucked his backpack beside him, and let his eyelids flutter closed. His mind drifted lazily, the rhythmic sound of the train on the tracks slowly pulling him into a deep, contented sleep.
The compartment was small, filled with the faint smell of old leather and fresh baguettes from lunch. Soon, the soft click of the compartment door opening broke the stillness, and two middle-aged French women entered, chatting animatedly in the way only Parisians could. They settled into the seats across from him, each taking her place with an air of practiced elegance. One of the women, dressed in a floral print dress with over-sized sunglasses perched atop her head, glanced at the young American snoozing in the corner.
“Regardez, he’s American,” she said quietly to her companion, nodding toward his sneakers and baseball cap. “You can always tell.”
Her friend, who wore a neatly pressed blouse and had her graying hair tied back in a strict bun, looked him over with a skeptical frown. “Of course, it’s the gym shoes. I can’t believe those people wear such things in public.”
The first woman sighed, shaking her head. “And the baseball cap. So typical. He probably doesn’t even know how to dress properly for a train ride.”
They exchanged a knowing glance and began to speak more freely, certain the young man was too deeply asleep to understand their words. The conversation shifted, as it often did in Parisian circles, to the topic of politics.
“You know, I heard there are protests against the Americans even in Strasbourg,” the second woman continued, her tone growing more disapproving. “Their war in Vietnam, it’s a disaster. What kind of people invade a country on the other side of the world and destroy it? And for what? For profit? For control?”
“Exactly,” the first woman agreed, her voice rising with indignation. “And now they’re spreading their influence all over Europe, telling us how to live. It’s just disgraceful. How can we stand it? The Americans, they have no idea how to behave. So brash, so loud. I simply don’t understand.”
She paused, as if contemplating the sheer audacity of the situation. The other woman nodded in agreement, both of them clearly convinced of the righteousness of their opinions. Their eyes occasionally darted toward him, but they saw no sign of life from him. He was lost in his sleep, or so they thought.
Minutes passed, the train clattering on, and the women continued their animated conversation. They grew bolder in their critiques, convinced that the young man had no clue. They spoke in French, a language the Americans rarely understood fully.
Soon enough, the train’s speaker crackled overhead, announcing an approaching stop. The women fell silent as they gathered their things, preparing to disembark. They were still deep in their conversation, no longer paying much attention to the sleeping American.
As the train pulled into the station, he stirred from his nap, blinking as though the announcement had pulled him back to the present. He stretched and yawned, adjusting his cap, his eyes glancing momentarily at the two women across from him. The compartment had become a little quieter now, the hum of the train giving way to the voices of the other passengers.
He stood up, grabbed his bag, and turned to leave. Before stepping out into the corridor, he gave the two women a polite, almost amused nod.
“J’ai tout compris,” he said smoothly, his American accent still discernible but unmistakably clear in French. “Bonne journée, mesdames.”
The words hung in the air for a beat, their weight sinking in like a stone.
The first woman froze, her hand still gripping her handbag, her face slowly turning crimson. Her friend’s eyes widened in disbelief, and for a moment, neither of them could speak.
He offered a smile that was both friendly and disarmingly polite before proceeding to debark.
The two women exchanged embarrassed glances, both silent now, as the doors closed behind him.
“Mon Dieu,” whispered the first woman, her voice trembling slightly. “Il a tout entendu.”
The other woman nodded slowly. “Et tout compris aussi. Quelle honte.”
As the train began to pull away, they sat in stunned silence, the reality of their assumptions and the casual judgment sinking in.
© 1977, Kenneth Koziol. All rights reserved. (1973)