OVERSEAS BRIEFING

Author: Jason Siegl

I see him every day, all over town. He has followed me from Santiago. Despite that, I tend to forget he's even there. But he never forgets me. I am the only one who can help him.

I pass him on my way to the Metro. He sits on the stairs, ragged, cold, lonely. I wonder how long it must have been since he's slept on a mattress, eaten a home-cooked meal, shaved his beard or been hugged by someone he loves. I do not know his name, where he comes from or why he is there. In some ways, I want to know everything about him; in other ways, I wonder if that knowledge will change my actions.

He lives in what many consider the most glorious city in the world. He could walk around and in a day see the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe and the Champs Elysées. He could stroll along the Seine and see Notre Dame Cathedral. But he does not see these sights as we see them. For him, they are merely spots to encounter tourists, whose generosity worldwide is unmatched by the locals. He has not seen Paris from the top of the Eiffel Tower; he has not taken an evening cruise on the Seine. He has forgotten the wonders of Paris, and has himself been forgotten.

He follows me into the Metro. I sit down and take my seat, and pretend to be off in my own little world, though I secretly cannot ignore his presence. He is a jack-of-all-trades. One day he might sing a traditional French song, another day he'll play the violin - if he's in a mood for agonizing irony, he might play "Strangers in the Night" or "My Heart Will Go On." He makes eloquent speeches about men of his condition (there are few women like him), or how he hates to beg but no longer has a choice. He is also industrious, selling a variety of goods such as nuts, travel guides and newspapers.

When he has finished with his performance or speech, he goes around the car, asking for spare change, a meal ticket or even just a smile. As he approaches the passengers, their eyes quickly go to the ground, knowing that they cannot look him in the eyes and justify their refusal to give him just a few cents out of their pocket. For them, and for me, it is what makes giving a smile so much harder than giving a coin.

He finally comes to me. Some days, I feel generous and give upwards of a euro. Other times, though my heart screams at me to give him a twenty, I look away and feign ignorance. For him, such a reaction has come to be the norm. But such indifference must sting harder with every pang of hunger.

He steps off the Metro and climbs into the next car. At the end of the day, if he's lucky, he might have scrounged up enough to eat. If not, he will leave the station with his blanket, and find a grate to keep him warm in the face of a cold winter night.