On a metro platform with my backpack and two carry-on bags scattered around me, I watched Lucille gracefully roll a cigarette, using the tobacco package balanced on her left forearm as a surface while the nimble, practiced fingers of her right hand did the fast work. She looked at me with bright eyes and spoke through teeth clenched around a cigarette filter, “Tu fumes?” You smoke?

Only out of loneliness or boredom, I thought, but I didn’t have time to answer before a train came rolling into the station deafening us to each other. I flung my overstuffed backpack around to my front to cram my wallet back inside and tried with great difficulty to force the zipper closed. My Moroccan carpet bag was in front of me on the bench – a purposeful souvenir I had purchased weeks before on this trip – as well as my dinged up Nalgene and a paperback copy of J. M. Barrie’s classic, Peter Pan, which both used to fit in my backpack as well. I vaguely considered taking this opportunity to repack and reorganize all of my things.

Lucille watched me patiently and stashed her freshly rolled smoke away for later. The train doors opened and a few people trickled out. Lucille took the handle of my rolling carry-on standing upright between us, “Are you ok? Do you have everything?” Suddenly realizing, despite her making no moves towards the train before, “Oh is this our train?” “Yes!” She laughed and took off running down the platform towards the nearest train car with my rolling bag. 

I quickly fumbled with my things. With my backpack still on my front, I hugged the remaining bag to my chest, forgetting it’s strap in my rush, and chased after her with the Nalgene in one hand and Peter Pan in the other. I followed her onto the train as the doors tried to close on me. We squealed with half-panicked laughter as she stuck out her arm and the doors released me. We spilled onto the train in a manic, delighted relief.

She gushed breathlessly, “Oh, I love to run to catch trains!” And I smiled as my inhibitions about her were immediately dissolved by her effortless charm.

When we walked off the train at Croix-Rousse and stepped out into the night, I got my first real glimpse of Lyon. Entirely off my radar as a culinary gem and a home of famous street art and frescoes, to me, Lyon was simply a pitstop on my way to Paris from Montpellier. And because I had no expectations, I was about to fall in love.

Lucille walked beside me, still lugging my suitcase along. She lit her cigarette and took a drag. “So, Ashley from Delaware, what do you want to do?”

She was so fucking French – with a hand-rolled cigarette dangling from her lips and an actual beret which she wore un-ironically. She was adorable and youthful and naturally beautiful with a sassy, sexy personality that I was immediately drawn to.

I tried not to be intimidated by how cool she was and convinced myself that I was probably maybe comparably cool and she probably definitely wanted to be my friend. She must’ve found me interesting, or at least harmless, because – despite having only known me for a few hours – we were en route to her place where she had invited me to crash for the night. And, despite my usual aversion towards strangers, I casually accepted. We were, at the very least, comparably free-spirited – although I would say this was a newly-acquired survival tactic for me as a solo female traveler.

I had met Lucille earlier that day in a Blablacar. I had just arrived in Southern France by sea, when I discovered the ride-share service that allowed commuters to rent out space in their car – like AirBNB for your backseat. It was more affordable than the train, more intimate than a bus, and this way I could see France the way I would see America which, to me, involved seeing everything through a car window. 

I spent my one night in Montpellier in a cute little hotel room I could hardly afford. I walked in to the first place I found on a not so busy street, inquired about their rates and immediately upon their answering, I asked in my sad French, Is there anywhere cheaper? Non, was the reply. One of the trials of traveling alone was having no one to split the bill with.

I rationalized that if I sacrificed an evening out, ate the stale bread and jam in my bag, and spent the evening planning and budgeting the rest of this trip, I would make up for my one expensive night in this tiny, posh room. All the decor red and black and frilly, I imagined I was in a dressing room about to take the stage with a row of kicking Can-can dancers. I happily confined myself to my own little world for the next twelve hours in my twin-sized bed, relieved to have a night to disengage from the world. Lying on my stomach in front of my laptop, kicking my feet around behind my head like a child, I planned my trip to Lyon: an AirBNB with Antoine and a Blablacar with Fred and a budget hotel room I would split with my friend Danny – who would meet me there in two days. 

Discovering AirBNB and Blablacar made me feel like I had found some sort of genius loophole. Fred, my driver, was hand-picked by me for his excellent Blablacar rating – enough reviews to convince me that I was not about to be a kidnap victim. But my stomach flipped when I received this message from my driver:

Départ possible de St Genis ou Laroque. Je vous récupère et dépose aux sorties d’autoroutes. Arrivée Lyon-Est. Merci.

I could just barely translate the message – but even if my French was perfect, I didn’t know Montpellier well enough to know where it was telling me to meet him or how to get there.

Even after living in francophone West Africa for over two years, my French never seemed to progress beyond the same handful of routine conversations. Even more so, I never challenged myself to learn to read or write. All of my knowledge of French communication was verbal and pretty primitive. Whenever I needed to make a speech, request, or long-winded statement in French, I would have to prepare in advance or find someone to translate for me. 

Fred called me when I didn’t respond to his message. Shortly after saying, “Oui âllo?” he returned with rapid-fire French that I could not follow. I interrupted him. “Desolée, je suis Americaine.” I’m sorry, I’m American – something I was very practiced in saying. I knew at this point the one stereotype that Europeans got right about Americans is that we suck at speaking foreign languages and we tramp around the world hoping to find people that speak English. 

He laughed and repeated what I said to someone else in the car. He might as well have said, Ha ha! Stupid American. But instead he told me to wait and hung up. A few minutes later, he followed up with a message in heavenly English with my exact instructions on where to take a train to outside the city and meet them at a park and ride. I would later learn this message was written by his front seat passenger, Lucille.

I left my dressing room in a rush, using my free wifi to the last possible second. The front desk gave me directions to a city bus that would get me to the train station that would get me to my Blablacar.

When I hopped off my train, Fred and Lucille spotted me based on my description of myself: Je porte une chapeau noir! (I’m wearing a black hat!), and both greeted me with a two-cheek kiss. I loaded my bags and put myself in the backseat, relieved to no longer have to navigate myself.

I spent most of the next three hours soaking up, what Lucille would call, the French countryside. I felt like a kid, silent in the backseat, staring steadfast out the window, while Mom and Dad had a conversation in the front seat that I couldn’t possibly follow or care about. 

Lucille would later tell me that Fred kind of had a stick up his ass. He was older than us, maybe ten years our senior and he corrected her a few times when she addressed him with the informal you – tu instead of vous. I could imagine it probably feels comparable to a total stranger insisting on being called Sir – which, to a female millennial at least, comes across as classist, chauvinistic and conservative. To her, there was something about him that was a little too old school France – something I didn’t understand.

When she grew tired of him, Lucille turned her entire body around to talk to me. With her face framed between the two front seats, she apologized for her English even though it was impeccable. She was incredibly forthcoming and wanted to know all about Ashley from Delaware. Where was Delaware? South of New York City, was my practiced response from years of living abroad and using only major cities to describe American geography. I told her about my Peace Corps service and my current travels from Morocco to Lyon and I could tell she found me fascinating because of these two things alone which usually left me feeling a little bit like a fraud. Mainly because I believed that without these two factoids about me, I wouldn’t be interesting at all. 

She told me she was traveling from the country, or more specifically Toulouse, where her boyfriend lived. She lived in Lyon where she called herself an actress. She was an avid Blablacar passenger – which reassured me. 

As we were getting closer to the city, Fred asked me where I should be dropped off and it was then that I realized my AirBNB reservation with Antoine was never confirmed and I was without a place to stay. It was just a pull-out couch in a studio apartment that I would share with a stranger but I had no choice if I was going to stay within my budget. A lump formed in my throat when I realized I was going to have to pay for another hotel room I couldn’t afford.

When I explained my dilemma, Lucille turned to face me again and asked if I wanted to stay with her. I was initially hesitant, but my American stigma towards strangers was dulled by the possibility of having a guide through a foreign city and not overspending on a hotel room which lead me to respond with an indefinite yet hopeful, “Really? I don’t know. Are you sure?” I didn’t want to impose but, then again, was this any worse than Couchsurfing? I was also using this app to search for lodging but hadn’t been able to make a connection that worked with my schedule or found a host that didn’t make me feel like I was walking into a bad Tinder date. 

Lucille assured me, explaining that she had a son but he was staying with his father that weekend so I could stay in his room and that it really was ok and that it would be fun! And I gratefully accepted, letting my guard down ever so slightly.

When Fred, deposited us at a subway station in the southern part of the city, I realized I was completely at the mercy of Lucille. Having done basically no research about Lyon, I desperately needed her guidance, hospitality and friendship – the latter probably a little too desperately. While I was a bundle of nerves as I faced a night of unknown possibilities, she seemed absolutely giddy to make a new friend – a very special, rare quality to find in another adult.

Our first stop was to her apartment to drop our bags. On the way, I spotted the four mountainous steeples of a white fortress resting powerfully atop a hill in the center of the city, lit up and glowing like a spectacle out of Disneyland, so wonderful to behold that I gasped, “What’s that?!” It had to be something special. Maybe a castle! I had never seen a castle before. But here I was, in Europe, looking at an architectural phenomenon that was probably older than America.

“C’est Fourviere. It’s a church.” Lucille informed me simply. Oh, right, I remembered. I’m in a land where churches look as big as castles. The Basilica Notre-Dame du Fourviere was to Lyon as Notre Dame was to Paris – only younger and fairer.

“Can we go there?” I asked. “Yes, you should. It’s very beautiful,” she replied enthusiastically, though I took, “you should,” to mean that I should go there by myself later. I had four more days in Lyon, three of which I would have a traveling companion. I would have plenty of opportunities to hike up Fourviere – the hill the basilica is named for – which I would do more than once on this trip.

Her apartment was in a quiet, northern part of the city. On the first floor, window to the sidewalk, her bedroom was entirely exposed to anyone walking by. Her walls were lined with inexpensive and ever-so-slightly leaning bookshelves filled with books. Once inside, I took a mini tour and made my way along the rows of Lucille’s personal library.

“Have you read this one?” I asked, pulling a thin, kelly green paperback off the shelf.

“Yes! I’ve read all of them,” she replied. I flipped through and realized it was in English. She can read in English too? I thought, feeling more embarrassed of my language ineptitude.

It was the exact same copy of Peter Pan that I had been toting around in my bag this whole trip. I liked the idea of having reading material but knew the likelihood of sticking my nose in a book was slim when there were sights to be seen in a place I’d never been. Slim book for the slim chance I might find the time to read it. Luggage space was too precious to sacrifice on something I wouldn’t use. When I was packing for my Peace Corps service in Benin, I packed three books for twenty-seven months: Le Petit Prince – to help me learn French, Into the Wild – to help me embrace solitude, and To Kill a Mockingbird – to provide me comfort as it had over and over in my past. Every item packed, including books, had to have a purpose.

Peter Pan was a story I was always a little obsessed with but had never read the book. I always loved stories about children who must act like grown-ups – which, coincidentally, all of the books I chose to bring to Benin happen to fall under that same theme. Reading about Wendy Darling grappling with the guilt of abandoning her responsibilities whilst I was delaying my own inevitable grown-up decision-making that awaited me when I returned to the States was poetic irony that was not lost on me. I would softly and pathetically cry myself to sleep many times on this trip desperately wishing there was a Neverland to escape to so that I didn’t have to decide where I wanted to live and what I wanted to do at this trip’s end.

My room was nestled between a kitchen and her bedroom. I dropped my bags next to the twin sized bed of a modest children’s room hidden by the temporary walls of a one bedroom rental made two bedroom rental. 

Again she asked me, “Ok, Ashley from Delaware, what do you want to do?” But she quickly realized I was useless and took the reigns. She knew a place, she said. And we were out the door again.

After another subway ride, we made our way down the streets of Vieux Lyon, the Old City, and the basilica loomed over us now, still glowing, bigger and grander than before. I was still so mesmerized that I didn’t realize there was a rather grand church right in front of us and Lucille suggested, “We can go in here if you want?” as she ushered me inside Cathédrale Saint-Jean-Baptiste.

She told me until the basilica was built two hundred years ago, this cathedral was the most renowned in Lyon. The cathedral being several hundred years older makes it perhaps more interesting but the basilica is subjectively more breathtaking.

I followed her past eerily beautiful, moon-lit stained glass windows with a handful of other visitors. I couldn’t tell if these were tourists or church-goers. Do tourists sightsee at night?

“Are you religious?” I asked quietly.

“No. But my son loves churches. He always wants me to bring him here,” she whispered as we passed a fourteenth century astronomical clock and I imagined her son walking piously alongside us. Or maybe he would be dancing around the sanctuary, leaping off pews.

I still knew very little about Lucille. She had a son. She wasn’t married. She had a lot of books. She rolled her own cigarettes. She wasn’t religious. She liked the thrill of catching a train at the last possible second. She was obviously very trusting; she knew hardly anything of me as well.

After church, we went to a cozy spot with a cafe vibe and a full bar. There was a little lofted area that overlooked the whole place – which was so tiny it held about five tables in all. We sat, knees touching, at a low, squat table, as she conversed with the server and owner – someone she seemed familiar with. Again, the gastronomical reputation of Lyon still completely lost on me, I let her order two of whatever she wanted, and we feasted on a simple dinner of beers and pork sandwiches. Everything delicious.

Over dinner and beers, Lucille finally forced me to speak my staccato French. It was my turn to apologize for my language skills but she agreed that she would still speak English for me, she liked to practice! That was the difference between us, I suppose, I cared more about my ability to express myself than my ability to be understood. But I agreed to speak French for the whole meal, which stalled our conversation significantly.

I said, I am 27. I am from Delaware. I am a teacher. At university, I studied English and Theater. 

All truthful, introductory statements about myself that I couldn’t elaborate on in French. But we were both excited to learn we were the same age and we both majored in Theater and English – or in her case French-Literature.

“What do you want to do when you get back to the United States?” she asked.

I wanted to say, I want to be a writer, but I didn’t really know how to pronounce écrivaine so I skipped that part. I wasn’t too comfortable calling myself a writer anyway. I could only shrug and sigh, “Je ne sais pas.” I don’t know.

“You could teach, no?”

And I tried very hard to explain why I don’t want to be a teacher: Me? I do not want that. I like that but… no. In the United States, it is normal to be a teacher when you study English. My sister is a teacher. I think that everyone, my family, to think… I shook my head and apologized, “Desolée. My French sucks. I’m trying to say, I don’t want to be a teacher. But I’m afraid that’s what I’ll end up doing because it’s easier.”

“I understand completely,” she said sympathetically in her perfect English. And she went on to explain how she’s an actress, more like a struggling actress. And she’s currently starring in a friend’s modern day retelling of Medea and she wishes I could see it because, in her opinion, it’s brilliant! And she loves acting! But she doesn’t know if she wants to live in the city anymore. Like, she doesn’t know if her love of acting is worth the hassle of living in a city. Especially since she’s in a long distance relationship with her boyfriend who owns a vineyard in the South of France. But it’s easier, for now, to stay put since she shares custody with her son’s father who lives in Lyon.

As she’s talking, I just nod and sip my beer, halted by my inability to respond in her language and also floored by her incredible ability to express herself in mine. Finally, I say, “Dit moi de ton petit ami.” Tell me about your boyfriend.

She paused when I mentioned him, with her palms pressed together in front of her mouth and a shy twinkle in her eye. “This is going to sound crazy but I’m just going to say it.” She chops the table with the side of her palms for emphasis as she says, “I know that he is my soulmate. Ok? I know he is the one.”

And there’s a moment of silence where I think both of us might cry at this sentiment. I think back to Morocco and the shop owner in Meknes who told me my soulmate was looking for me. And I think for a moment that maybe Lucille finding hers in good enough and I’m baffled by my sudden solidarity with this stranger.

Suddenly, I laugh. “I’m sorry but how is your English so good? I can’t speak French like this! You’re able to say things I can only say in my head!”

She thanks me modestly. She explains that she always thought her English was horrible because of a trip to Germany she took when she was in grade school. Perhaps for an English club of sorts, but they were all meant to mingle with other schools and practice English together and all the German students could speak English far better than the French students. She was embarrassed. Which I could completely relate to in this moment.

“Well, don’t worry. Your English is perfect. Don’t let anyone ever tell you different.”

That night I found myself in a twin-sized bed with primary colored dinosaur bed sheets replaying my evening with Lucille. Our similarities felt remarkably uncanny. I could see my worries and hopes reflected in everything she was saying at dinner. Just as she struggled with where she needed to be, who she needed to be close to, and what she needed to do to feel whole – I, too, was searching for my Where, my Who and my What. She made feeling lost not feel so lonely – which I needed almost as much as a place to put my head.

The next morning, I staggered down the hallway to the kitchen, fully dressed but bleary-eyed.

She greeted me warmly, as she sat unmoving at her dining table reading the paper. I paused in the doorway for a moment wondering what would be more rude, staying too long or leaving too soon. Luckily, she offered me coffee and breakfast before I had to stand there too long. 

She poured the coffee from a percolator on the stove and cut two hunks of bread for each of us as I sat down across from her. I took a bite immediately, always hungrier than I was willing to admit to myself.

“Would you like it toasted?” And then added when it looked like I might say no, “It’s really good toasted.” I nodded and she took my half eaten slice and shoved it in a toaster. 

We discussed the day ahead. She had rehearsal that morning and we decided to leave together – I could catch the bus with her and she would show me where to hop off and begin my walking tour of Lyon in the daylight. I was meeting my friend, Danny, later that day but I couldn’t check in to our hotel room until that afternoon. Lucille suggested I leave my bags at her place so I didn’t have to lug them around all day and then meet her back at her place that night and retrieve them.

So, we left together that morning and, as I did every where I visited, I secretly asked myself, “Could I live here?” And I let myself fantasize about being Lucille’s roommate and becoming a second parent to her son and living together as a sitcom-style family. Lucille would teach me French and we would be best friends of happenstance. 

Suddenly, she took off running towards a city bus and I followed, immediately breaking into a huge grin. We could run together like this everyday! I thought.

“Sometimes I’m late on purpose so I have to run,” she admitted once we were settled on the bus. “It makes me feel alive!”

The beautifully authentic glee it gave her to purposefully force herself to race around the city is what initially drew me to her. I would always find myself attracted to silly adults who allowed themselves to play through life.

Fast forward, almost five years later, I’m now living at the mercy of the G train and those that understand Brooklyn know that means I’ve spent much of the past three years waiting. Rumored to be so fast-paced, I quickly realized the reason people walk fast in New York is to make up for all the time lost waiting for trains and traffic. The only thing I have control over is how quickly I move my feet.

Recently, I was swiping my metrocard at the Fulton subway stop when I heard the G train rolling in. I pushed through the turnstiles and took off running down the stairs, crossing under the tracks to the opposite platform. I’ve done this so many times now that I know if I start running at the turnstiles and hop the stairs two at a time, I will make it on the train just before the doors close. This particular time, as I’m running through the underpass, listening to the train screech to a stop above my head, I see an older lady also running to catch the train. She laughs when I run past her and let’s out such a childish squeal of delight that I can’t help but laugh too. I reach the train and look back and she’s using the handrail to pull herself up the stairs as quickly as she can. I stick my arm out to hold the doors for her and she makes it just before they slide shut. 

We both find seats away from each other and we make eye contact and laugh. After a moment she moves next to me, plops down with a deep exhale and a huge grin on her face, and she murmurs something and I realize she doesn’t speak English. We say nothing, but I smile back, sharing in the same simple joy of racing the train and winning.

And suddenly, I’m floating away into my memory and taken back five years ago to Lyon and a French girl who gets a kick out of being late. And I can’t help but feel a little forlorn, for that day on the bus was the last day I would ever see Lucille. 

I returned with Danny that night to grab my bags and introduce my old friend to my new friend. After taking the same bus we took together that morning and showing off my quick mastery of Lyon’s public transportation, we showed up at Lucille’s front door. I rang the buzzer and peered in her window. She was standing in her room and waved when she saw us. 

We greeted each other with a warm, American-style hug while Danny, having already spent several months in France teaching, was accustomed to the standard two-cheek kiss which he executed so flawlessly Lucille joked that he had to be French.

I didn’t want this to be goodbye. “Can I see you again before I leave?” I asked a little too vulnerably. Her schedule was full and I did want time to catch up with Danny, so we agreed to brunch after Danny leaves, on the morning before I was to leave for Paris. 

When I rang her buzzer again four days later, toting all my bags to her doorstep once more, there was no answer, and this time when I peered into her window, it was dark. Able to connect to her wifi from outside the apartment, I called her. No answer. I sent her a message. No answer.

I didn’t know what to do. But I didn’t want to believe I was being blown off. Maybe she’s forgotten, I told myself. Maybe something came up with her son. I decided to stay in the area in case she realized we had plans and came running. She did say she liked to be late on purpose. 

So I wandered around her neighborhood to kill time. Eventually, without really knowing why other than needing something to do, I floated into a beauty parlor and got a haircut. I was going to Paris after all and my pixie cut had grown into a shag over the last month. 

One wash, cut and blow-dry later, still no word from Lucille. I looked at my visibly crestfallen reflection and decided she actually had blown me off. At first, I was confused. Why so willingly invite me into your home only to go radio-silent on me days later? I paid for my haircut and decided I couldn’t spend one more minute feeling pathetic about someone who was practically a stranger. It was time to leave Lyon. I took the train to my next Blablacar rendezvous and by the time I was en route to Paris, in a car with three handsome Frenchmen, I was fantasizing about my next new best friend.

To this day, I still don’t know why we didn’t get to say goodbye. I never tried to contact her again. I only know that I was incredibly lucky to have her friendship, even if it was just that one night.