Like many frequent travelers, I often mix business with pleasure. A meeting in Salzburg, Austria, is an excuse to visit Mozart’s boyhood home, for example. A conference in Spain is a chance to see Picasso’s “Guernica.”
But I’ll never forget the trip to Paris with my mother one summer. I attended my meetings in the morning and during the afternoon we did all the tourist things. We sipped espresso in out-of-the-way cafes and visited all the attractions, including the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre and the flower market.
Near the end of our stay, I decided it was time for the grand finale, a visit to the Cathedral of Notre-Dame. We arrived at the Place du Parvis during the late morning and decided to have lunch before touring the church. We found a small restaurant nearby and asked for a table for two. After my mother and I had been talking for several minutes, a bespectacled man with a round face at the next table leaned toward us.
“Pardon me,” he said. “You are American?”
“Oui,” I responded, hoping to give my little-used French a workout.
He was a soft-spoken gentleman dressed in a dark suit. He seemed keenly interested in finding out about us, despite his limited English. Where were we from? What were we doing in Paris? What did we think of American politics?
My mother, who does not speak any French, was impressed that her daughter could carry on a conversation in another language. (I considered myself lucky; the man was not from Paris, so he did not speak quickly. I understood almost everything he said, even with my limited French.)
“What do you think of France?” he wondered. “Do you agree with America’s foreign policies? What do Americans think of the French?”
Since I was a political science major in college and since I have my opinions I felt as if I was in my element. I answered in French, occasionally lapsing into English when I could not find the word I was looking for.
After our meal, I finally had an opportunity to turn the tables and ask him a question. “What brings you to Paris?”
He paused for a moment before speaking. And then, in a quiet voice, he confided that he was an accountant who worked for a monastery. As he stood up to leave, he added that he spent only two weeks out of seclusion every year, taking care of his order’s finances in Paris.
“You are a monk?” my mother said.
“Yes,” he replied, reverting to English. “I am a member of the Trappist order.”
With that, the mysterious but talkative man bid us farewell. My mother and I watched quietly as he slipped out the front door and turned toward Notre-Dame. Then it dawned on me from reading Thomas Merton’s “Seven Storey Mountain” in eighth grade: Trappist monks take a vow of silence.
Helen D. Fullem is president of the Crown Collection, a travel sales and marketing company in Paramus, N.J.
Like many frequent travelers, I often mix business with pleasure. A meeting in Salzburg, Austria, is an excuse to visit Mozart’s boyhood home, for example. A conference in Spain is a chance to see Picasso’s “Guernica.”
But I’ll never forget the trip to Paris with my mother one summer. I attended my meetings in the morning and during the afternoon we did all the tourist things. We sipped espresso in out-of-the-way cafes and visited all the attractions, including the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre and the flower market.
Near the end of our stay, I decided it was time for the grand finale, a visit to the Cathedral of Notre-Dame. We arrived at the Place du Parvis during the late morning and decided to have lunch before touring the church. We found a small restaurant nearby and asked for a table for two. After my mother and I had been talking for several minutes, a bespectacled man with a round face at the next table leaned toward us.
“Pardon me,” he said. “You are American?”
“Oui,” I responded, hoping to give my little-used French a workout.
He was a soft-spoken gentleman dressed in a dark suit. He seemed keenly interested in finding out about us, despite his limited English. Where were we from? What were we doing in Paris? What did we think of American politics?
My mother, who does not speak any French, was impressed that her daughter could carry on a conversation in another language. (I considered myself lucky; the man was not from Paris, so he did not speak quickly. I understood almost everything he said, even with my limited French.)
“What do you think of France?” he wondered. “Do you agree with America’s foreign policies? What do Americans think of the French?”
Since I was a political science major in college and since I have my opinions I felt as if I was in my element. I answered in French, occasionally lapsing into English when I could not find the word I was looking for.
After our meal, I finally had an opportunity to turn the tables and ask him a question. “What brings you to Paris?”
He paused for a moment before speaking. And then, in a quiet voice, he confided that he was an accountant who worked for a monastery. As he stood up to leave, he added that he spent only two weeks out of seclusion every year, taking care of his order’s finances in Paris.
“You are a monk?” my mother said.
“Yes,” he replied, reverting to English. “I am a member of the Trappist order.”
With that, the mysterious but talkative man bid us farewell. My mother and I watched quietly as he slipped out the front door and turned toward Notre-Dame. Then it dawned on me from reading Thomas Merton’s “Seven Storey Mountain” in eighth grade: Trappist monks take a vow of silence.
Helen D. Fullem is president of the Crown Collection, a travel sales and marketing company in Paramus, N.J.
Christopher Elliott is the author of Scammed: How to Save Your Money and Find Better Service in a World of Schemes, Swindles, and Shady Deals. Critics have called it “eye-opening” and “inspiring” — it’ll “grab your attention and won’t let go.” Order your copy now on Amazon, Barnes & Noble or iTunes.
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