Jose
I first noticed Jose as he stood in the middle of a wide walkway beneath the large brick arches of La Promenade Plantée near the Gar de Lyon. Jose is big and tall, but takes a completely non-threatening stance, legs apart, arms open with one hand holding a hat outstretched to pedestrians walking in his direction. The first time I saw him I walked past him, ignoring him. This time I stop and ask his name and where he’s from. He answers me in Spanish and tells me his name is Jose and he’s from Spain. He’s been homeless in France for 8 years. “I come here every day until I have enough for cigarettes and food,” he says. Just then a woman hands him a cigarette and he bows and warmly thanks her.
“The French are magnifique,” he tells me. “So kind. Many people know me and are good to me,” he says. I ask him where he lives and he tells me his sleeping bag and stuff are all under a bridge. There he lives with 20 or so other homeless men from Poland, Romania, France and other places.
He tells me that he loves to travel, and has spent time in the Netherlands and Italy. “I might head down to Montpellier for a few months this Winter to get out of the cold,” he says. As he’s talking in Spanish the word barco comes to mind, and “five children.” I ask him if he’s traveled by boat, and get an immediate response. “Yes I’ve been to the Dominican Republic on a boat,” he says. It turns out he worked there on a fishing boat in the Caribbean for three years and loved it. “Do you have any kids?” I ask. “Yes, two, he says. “In Spain,” he continues. Then after a pause adds, “I have five children…. Three are in the Dominican Republic.” I figure from his hesitation and my foreknowledge that there must be pain regarding these three DR children, and that if he accepts prayer I should focus on his relationship with these three kids. I ask him if he’s in contact with them and he says very little, but that he knows he has grand children too.
I ask him if it’s okay with him if I pray for God to bless him and his children. He’s more than willing and bows his head. I bless him with God’s peace, and say a prayer for his family in Spain and the DR. The second time Luke is with me. He’s glad to meet my son and happily agrees to be photographed. He thinks a blog featuring homeless people in Paris is a great idea and gives us permission to feature him. “It’s important that people know who we are,” he says. “There are people living on the street for many reasons. Some have lost their families. Some have addictions to alcohol or drugs. Everyone has their story and it’s good that people know.”
Bulgarian Man with Dog
Luke and I continue our walk through the 12ieme arrondissement until we come upon a man seated on the sidewalk beside a grocery story entrance. He has a grocery cart laden with his belonging beside him. A little dog is cuddled on his lap and a crumpled paper cup is before him on the sidewalk. We settle down on our haunches and smile at his little dog, whose tail wags. The man is all smiles. We put some coins in his cup and begin a conversation. All that we recognize is “No Francais… Bulgaria.” I motion to Luke’s camera, and he points to his cup and nods his agreement. The next day I find out where I can get a Bulgarian Bible, and I’m on the lookout for someone who can translate so we can engage more with this kind-looking man.
