Tale of the Wayward Wallet

In grade school we memorized Longfellow’s poem, “Paul Revere’s Ride,” and the verse that still rings in my head is, “Listen, my children, and you shall hear of the midnight ride of Paul Revere.”  Well, after many months of anticipating our return trip to Provence, there’s another tale I’d like to relate, that of the wayward wallet.  And so it begins.

After deplaning seemingly without any of the expected delays and hassles at Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris, we reached the connecting gate of our flight to Marseille and settled on board on the last leg of our journey to our beloved Provence.  Once in Marseille, we learned that our rental car did not have GPS, necessitating a stop to buy one en route to Le Pradet, where we will spend the next two months.   At the Carrefour, the French version of a large Wal-Mart or Sam’s Club, just outside of Marseille, our salesman politely explained to us the differences between a Garmin and a Tom-Tom.  Once he learned that we were having an extended visit in France and that we planned a trip to Corsica, he suddenly became a tour guide, urging us to discover “la Corsica profonde” and regaled us with stories about Corsica’s beauty and what we should do there.  Apparently, he was not pressed for time as he spent almost an hour with us while marveling at our correct and precise French.

The Tom-Tom was on sale, so we bought it.  At the checkout counter, I reached for my wallet in my man-purse and discovered it was missing. Many men in France carry leather purses; it’s more convenient than having over-stuffed pockets.  Mine was bought in Taos where cowboys too walk around with leather accessories.  Excuse the slight digression; now back to my tale.

When I discovered my wallet missing, I panicked, certain that I had been pick-pocketed in the Paris airport.  With Melanie’s credit card, we completed our purchase.  Without my credit cards, cash, medical cards, and driver’s license, I felt naked and vulnerable.  But that did not stop me from driving to Toulon and then on to Le Pradet.  And since I did not install the GPS right away and relied on memory, we got sidetracked on our journey by taking several wrong turns.  A one hour drive quickly stretched into over two hours, making us slightly late for lunch at our friends’ home.  But before eating lunch our friends suggested that I immediately report my stolen wallet to our credit card companies, which I dutifully did.  After lunch, we all went to the National Police in a neighboring town so that I could report the theft of my wallet.  There we rang a bell and entered a courtyard before entering into a nondescript building whose nearly blank walls and sparse furnishings reminded me of an asylum.  A friendly policeman greeted us at the reception desk, took my information and jotted it down in a ledger, then asked us to take a seat.  A few minutes later we were greeted by yet another open and friendly policeman who led us through a series of hallways and upstairs to an office whose walls were decorated with French movie posters –– La French and MR73, starring one of our favorite French actors, Daniel Auteil — odd names, but apparently popular in France.  Bemused by the tale of my stolen wallet, the friendly policeman gave me the expected warning to guard closely against pickpockets in France and seemed apologetic about my loss.  I assured him that these things happened in the States as well.   He asked me a series of questions that he typed into a computer as he continued to chat animately with us.    During this time, my jet-lag was catching up with me as I repeatedly yawned, fighting hard to keep my droopy eyelids open.    The policeman seemed amused by this making several comments about my drowsiness.    Just as he was wrapping up his questioning, I unzipped a pocket in my man-purse that I had not opened before, and lo and behold, there was my wayward wallet.  The policeman, astonished by my find, quickly  smiled and said that was the quickest rediscovery of a lost item that he had ever witnessed.  We all had a good laugh — at my expense of course.  This banter continued a few moments longer and then he offered me a present, a patch of the National Police so I could be his “adjoint” (assistant).  Our friends told us later that a gift of a patch from the National Police to a stranger never happens.  I can only surmise that this was the  first time this policeman ever encountered a situation like mine.

So what have I learned from this episode?  First, never assume the worse until all options are explored.  Second, remain calm before panicking.  And really, as seasoned an international traveler as I think I am, I should have been aware of where my money and important documents were.  Happily, yesterday’s panic is now over.   Today, I am blessed  to be here in southern France, where in the rain and the accompanying Mistral winds, the vendor at the fish market remembered us with a cheery greeting.   I feel at home. Stay tuned!