Any Day in Ground Hog Years, Something Good Can Happen

Surprising Moments Are Worth Looking For

DATELINE: Paris, 2022

Yes, I’ve been more aware of this because of the pandemic, but as a writer who’s worked “at home” for the last several decades, my morning rituals have replayed on an endless loop for years.

The waking. The coffee. The putting in of the eye drops. The Words With Friends. The walking of the dog. The moment when, finally, a voice chirps up, Start writing.

I sit at my desk, writing a piece I vow to finish. By the end of the day — like right now — I am now writing this instead.

But every day has a highpoint

No matter how low the bar, there’s something. My centenarian friend Zelda called it “the good,” as in look for the good. An unexpected something, a moment when you learn something new when you connect.

This, for example, happened today: The boucher, Monsieur Grimal, almost smiled at me.

I once made a serious transgression at Grimal’s, and I’ve been trying to recover ever since. I lost track of time. Instead of showing up at dix-huit heures — 6 pm — as is customary, I rush in huffing and panting at dix-huit quarante-cinq. It’s almost seven. They’re already cleaning up.

I grovel. I regret. I say how deeply sorry I am. I keep repeating the sentence I know best in French: Je suis désolé.

No response from anyone. Not, “No problem.” Not, “these things happen.” Not even, “Don’t let it happen again.”

I’ve been setting alarms ever since. I did not like that feeling.

Tonight, I show up at six-ish — well within the bounds of respectful. Respectful is what it’s all about here. To go to the boucherie in sweat pants is to disrespect the butcher. Same with showing up late.

The French are formal, too. Although I am now — shockingly — on a first-name basis with Pascal, our cheese guy, that man wielding a cleaver behind the counter will always be “Monsier Grimal” to me. (I, consistent in my Americanness, insist on referring to myself as “Melinda.”)

Realizing I’ve left my mask home, I bow my head slightly and lower my eyes. The apologetic posture. I tell him how sorry I am that I forgot a mask. My scarf strategically covers my mouth and nose, but if you’re trying to dodge Omicron, a scarf is no substitute for a mask.

I feel terrible.

All of a sudden, there’s Monsieur Grimal, handing me a mask. It isn’t offered with a scold. How can you not wear a mask in here? It seems more a gesture of kindness, of recognition. And while I can’t actually see that slight smile, I feel it.

Today’s moment is right up there with the day I attempted to share my family history with Monsieur Grimal.

“Mon grand-père est venu de Russie,” I said and the babbled on, finally getting enough words right that Monsieur Grimal at least understood I had butchers in the family. We finally had common ground. He might have smiled then, too. I certainly did.

But mostly, Mr. Grimal doesn’t smile. I don’t need him to. I’m happy he’s my butcher. A valuable consequential stranger. And while we don’t — can’t — really converse and therefore know very little about each other, he knows me. And that’s good enough for today.

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