Serendipity
A journey in Time and Faith
By
Bruno G. Sahut
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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Published by:
Bruno G. Sahut on Smashwords
Serendipity
A journey in Time and Faith
Copyrights © 2010 by Bruno G. Sahut
Acknowledgements
If there is a time and a place to recognize the significant contribution of others and to give thank to those individuals who made this venture possible, and, to make sure they are not forgotten, this is it!
First, and, foremost Leanne Carlson-Mann my friend and my quarterly tooth fairy caregiver; I would like to Thank you, for taking out of your busy if not hectic work schedule, the time to read my novel in the plane, your hotel room and at home, and, giving your space and energy to offer me positive criticism and literary re-enforcement.
Second, my fellow Tenor singer at the Regina Philharmonic Chorus, life good friend and Philosopher by trade Dr. Arthur Krentz for his thought provoking mentoring and his wonderful sense of humour.
Third, my life companion, partner, soul mate and my raison d’être Dr. Helen Christiansen who unknowingly, and, sometimes unwillingly has been my Trial catalyst.
Last but not least, I would like to thank Google®: its visionaries and their followers, without whom access to knowledge would only be the privilege of the few, and would have been kept in the Dark Ages of our past, present and future.
To my late father Pierre André Sahut
Papa je t’aime.
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Table of content
1. Serendipity: An Introduction
2. Mexico
3. Scotland
4. Hitchhiking
5. Number 13 & 666
6. Other numbers
7. Bas-Prunet
8. Honfleur
9. Neufmoutier-en-Brie
10. Djerba
11. Montmartre
12. Vincennes Paris VIII
13. One
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Serendipity:
An introduction
They are those who have faith in God. And there are those who do not believe and those who are not sure either way. Then, there are people like myself who have been given my father’s family name, and, a first name picked out on a calendar. My family or last Name is: SAHUT, my first is BRUNO, and my middle initial is G. Having or been given a name is trivial; this is your identification and usually there is not much to do about it but accept it as it is. I thought having a name to be a lot simpler and less troublesome than putting a daily meal together, or, waking the dog, until I became a witness to my own serendipity, and, aware of the extent of the meaning of my family Name. It is like, I am standing on a railway track and a freight train going full-speed-ahead just hit me. Buddha may have used a different expression, or, visualized it otherwise!
And this is my story, and, I am honored to share it with you.
As per my birth certificate, I was born on September 16, 1953 at 5:00 pm at the maternity ward of the hospital of Saint Germain en Laye, Seine et Oise, France. And according to my mom, she had to hitch hack a ride to the hospital to give birth to me. We did not have a phone, and there were no taxi and we weren’t rich enough to have a car. My dad was at work, and, could not be contacted for the very same reason. So when he bicycled to work in the morning and back 12 hours later, his sister told him he was the proud father of a healthy 11 pounds boy. His first name is Bruno as per the Saint of the same Name, celebrated on October 6th, according to the French Post-Office Calendar, and his last Name: Sahut. My fathers’ last Name. Therefore I was born Bruno G. Sahut a French citizen.
Someone somewhere at one point in time may or must have said, as they were reflecting on an event: Now that’s amazing, why did it happen to me? Or, “How come it happened and I was there to experience it?” And to try to find an answer was not an easy one as time and travel and space were involved for this quest! And there were a beginning.
Therefore at the beginning!
This is exactly what I felt, when on a sunny afternoon, I decided to fetch my dad at the train station for the six o’clock arrival! It is 1963, and a peaceful and warm Friday afternoon, in Chatou (pronounced “shatoo or shatu”), France. I am almost 10 years old, and in spite of my age, walked alone to the station. It is about 1 kilometer from the apartment building called HLM (Low Rent Housing), where we live in. I just have to go down two flights of stairs turn right, go down my small street: rue des Alpes, turn right onto Avenue Gambetta, and walk up the street and take to the entrance gate of the “Parc”, pass my “old” kindergarten, la Mairie (Town Office), go straight through the empty market place and after la place Maurice Berteaux, here it is the train station, with its diesel locomotives. I remember when a few years back the Steam Engine we would take to go up to Saint Germain en Laye, or to Paris. May be because, it was straight ahead, with one set of lights, and, I knew the way so well, I did not mind leaving just half an hour before, as I figured, that was the amount of time it would take me to reach the station. Upon arriving at the station I realized I was ten minutes early. This is nothing unusual, for the fact I did not take my straightforward walk. I took a path along an unfamiliar route, a curved path in the very sense of the word. When I reached the entrance gate of the “Parc”, instead of going my straight old way, I turned left, walked through a shadowy, more obscured, and mysterious narrower street because of its heavy trees, surrounding old and big houses with their high fences. This was definitively not the path my boyhood steps would take, at least not alone at it scared me. Furthermore, I learnt not to go places I do not belong to, and, I was afraid someone would ask me what I was doing in this neighborhood. In addition I had to go underneath the creepy old bridge of Chatou. Then I did not know how to get to the station from this side of the “Parc”, and, it was much further away with all these detours. And I am 10 years old. This was much more than I could take. I did not run because I had no where to run to except towards the station which I no idea where it stood from where I was, except may be on the right, somewhere! And no one to ask, not when you are 10 years old, not because you think you already know much of what is to know for your age, but at this age you do not talk to strangers! I remember the only time I asked someone was when I was 4, and, I was looking for my mom. My peregrination led me to the same train station, and to crossing the tracks. On my way back from the town limits and going again through the manually activated barriers of the same station, I stopped by a shoe store called “Le Sabot d’Or”, and, asked if they have seen my mom. One of lady salesperson recognized me from the week before and who knew my mom (she lived in the same apartment building) and how to get hold of her, told me to sit quietly until her arrival.
On this afternoon, six years later, my dad he did not know I would be walking back home with him, a surprise of some sort. I ran towards him when he arrived, and, he asked me what I was doing here, I said: ”I came to get you that’s all!” On our way back, I never told him what happen and about the ten vanishing minutes. I could not explain it, and, I thought it was a weird feeling. I could not explain it. But it happened I did not have any doubts. One of my first mysteries: How come if you take a curved line to reach an object, faster than if you go straight to the object?
Or did it start earlier, in Bas-Prunet, or at Birth, at the Saint Germain en Laye maternity ward, or a year later a few days after my “small” operation at the hospital in Nanterre, that would have my brother nicknamed me “le Petit Juif”? I was 11 years old, and, my parents always complained because I could not pee straight. Or did it all start when on a Saturday afternoon waiting for my mom at the entrance of our building door, a neighbor said: ”Oh! You like a little priest with your black raincoat and white turtleneck! I am not sure. It just so happened!
After spending two years in the Kindergarten, I went to an Elementary school: Le Val Fleury, a walking distance from my HLM (LRH). My mom would walk me there every morning and I would walk home in the evening with her. This lasted until I was old enough to do it alone, or if she was busy talking me to school, or someone forgot to pick me up. There was in France the opportunity for the working parents to leave your children after school hours. This was called: “aller à l’étude” or evening study time. They paid the teacher to do over time and to babysit us until 6 pm. It was also a very useful time where I could do my homework and ask our teacher comprehension questions if needed. At 10, I missed a lot of schooling because of poor health, and so I had to redo my 5th grade or 7ème année. At the time not without, thanking the “Rectorat” or the Academic School Board of Versailles I had to go through a Binet IQ Test. This was according to the new School Board directives, compulsory for all students. Its effects to redirect appropriately those who deserved to go to an academic high school, and those who would go to a technical high school. I will always remember the questions surrounding family relationships. I did not have a clue, as this was not part of daily warm up and compassion. I know my dad grew up raised by “Christian Brothers” and my mother by “Catholic Nuns”, and Serge went to a school run by Catholics, and was not allowed to use his “natural” left hand. I saw my cousins from time to time, but was never told their parents were my uncles and my aunts. Just that they were either my mom’s sisters and brother and their respective partners. I had to take the test even though I missed must of my school year. I failed the test and neither my parents nor I were made aware of the academic consequences of the results. My second 7ème année or 5th grade was outstanding, as I finished first in almost all the class subjects. I felt so good I started to tutor friends of mine who had difficulties in math. I also remembered the mom of one of them giving me 5 francs for tutoring her son. This academic success was to last until my 3ème or 9th grade. I spent my 6th to 9th grade or 6ème to my 3ème in the Collège Paul Bert still in the town of Chatou. This was a good school for non-academic students. I remembered going from academic junior high school to academic junior high school in the nearby towns of le Vésinet, le Pecq, and Saint Germain en Laye all in the west suburbia of Paris, to be rejected because I did not live in these “posh” neighborhoods, “HLM: Low Rent Housing” apartments complex are not, and, covertly for failing the “Binet IQ Test”. I did not really care, as at the time, I did not realize the real value of the test until 9 years later, in Neufmoutier, at a residential school for handicapped students.
I had a jolly good time in at the Collège Paul Bert. It is where I met my first true love: Danielle who was at the Lycée moderne, on the other side of the street in temporary classroom. I had a powerful and platonic relationship with Danielle. I realized she was an impossible dream because she literally lived on the other side of the tracks. She lived in a luxury condominium with her parents and younger brother. Her parents were beautiful in all the meanings of the word. They own their place and they were successful in their work and relationship. I felt a bit awkward, coming from a subsidized rental unit, but they were very accommodating.
Therefore as in all great romances, they are a bit too short lived but accelerating. It lasted one and half year and ended in 1969. I went to a collège technique and Danielle went to a Lycée to pursue her academic studies.
Meanwhile, I am 14 years old and we are in the year 1968. I had read the “Wall” by Jean Paul Sartre. I borrowed it from my brother’s library the year before, and to be too trivial, The Writing was on the Wall.
In 1969, I put my name forward and was elected “chef de Classe” i.e., the Collège Paul Bert students’ representative. It was the weirdest feeling ever. I was talking “equal” to “equal”, “eye to eye” in spite of my small stature to my teachers’ and the Administration. And, I was deciding on the faith of my classmates, and, for their benefits. I could not believe the power and the scare generated from the responsibility. If I could fight on the playground to have other respects my friends, I could easily “fight” for these same principles at the “boardroom” level. And we received some breaks: washroom breaks, self-discipline, lunchroom menu diversification, ease on punishments, among those I remember.
It was a great time. I made a friend of the older brother of one of my classmate and HLM neighbor. He was a Maoist and I became one too. I learned the trade of organizing demonstrations. I read Mao Se Tung “Little Red Book” in its French original version (Chinese made and Printed, i.e. made in the People Republic of China). I was six year old when our French president General de Gaulle officially recognized its government.
Unknown to me 1968 is the year Helen my future partner arrives in France. She comes to live with someone named Michel who she was sharing her life until we meet 8 years later.
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Mexico
December 1987, it is a hot day on the beach, at the hotel “ Las Flores ” in Mazatlan, Mexico. It is not unusual, still I feel the need, watching the local sales people walking from one hotel to another, and from beach to beach, to have my own “ Sombrero ”. I am looking for the real “ McCoy ”, the non-touristy type, made in Mexico for urban Mexican. A hat that will let me walk the street and be part of my surroundings. Like a “beret”, a French person would have worn, if they were still in fashion!
I looked around the hotel for a few days. Finally I found a hat in a “curios” store located on a small plaza. I liked the hat because it was a straw hat, with a small “tail” in the back. I thought it was quite unusual, and, elegant at the same time with its large rim and a high rise. I did not pay much attention to its inside label, except it said “Pigalle”. Now this was interesting to say the least, since prior to coming to Canada, Helen and I spent 5 years in Montmartre: Upper Pigalle, Lower Montmartre, in Paris, between the subway stations: Place des Abbesses and Place Pigalle, and, we were married at the Mairie of the 18th Arrondissement in Paris. What an amazing coincidence!
I left the shop and went back to the beach at the hotel. I showed my hat to Helen and in doing so discovered it was made in Sahuayo, in the Province of Michoacán, Mexico!
Ah, Sahuayo! Now that name that has one too many similarities with my family name if, I do not mention the name inside the hat itself: Pigalle.
I inquired around in English, because I do not speak Spanish fluently, and, not everyone around me speaks French, and, I am on vacations in Mexico, a proud country that booted out Napoleon the Third, from its territory. And my inquiry came to a natural dead end.
Meanwhile, I still wanted to test my new acquired “ sombrero ”. I wore it as we went to the hotel “ El Cid ” for their gigantesque New Years Party, to see as much of a “local”, I looked like.
I did not have to wait too long. As everyone of us were slowly seeping in, I went to see what was going on, and on my way back towards where Helen was standing in line, a non Canadian tourist asked me what was happening and when they were going to be served! It is true I had my Sahuayo hat on. I have a moustache, and wore a freshly ironed shirt and a pair of dress pants and a tan. What more Mexican French and Canadian can I be to a non-Mexican! When I gave him my answer there were no doubt left in this man’s mind. I was not what he though I was in the first place, i.e., someone who worked for the hotel, and who new the answer to his question!
My “ Sahuayo ” passed the test. It did it with what I would say: flying colors. I was not more advanced as far as the origin of the name. That did not, however, prevent us from having a jolly good time at this New Years Celebration party.
The answer came a year after, when we went to Puerto Vallarta. “ Sahu ” is a Native name of Mexico. It is pre-Spanish invasion/settlement, and it is the name of a tree that brings food and therefore nourishment. How far back did it go, I have no idea, unless a French or English speaking spirit suddenly sprung from a tomb, and, makes me travel back in time, and revel to me its true meaning. Fat chance! I am not this other Guy: “Carlos Castaneda”, and, my only companion in life is my wife, and she was born in Montreal in the Province of Quebec, Canada, not in the Province of Sonora, Mexico.
I could not yet find the meaning of “Ayo” as I did not ask anyone for it. I decided to go for it, the hard way: The Spanish-English dictionary. It means “Teacher”.
Here I have it, Sahu: Teacher!
Founded in 1530, Sahuayo: Sahu Teacher, “the Athens of Michoacán\ ”, is located in the Province of Michoacán, Mexico. Its Coat of Arms is represented by a series of three panels: on the first one you can see 3 “Mountains” or “Pyramids ” with a turtle on its forefront, and the second one of the Aztec Deity: Quetzalcoatl The Featured Serpent, and on the last one a Star of David like shape star atop of what looks like a tree.
Note that ironically part of the emblem of the Rose-Croix: can be found at: www.rosecroix.org/mediatheque/reportage_tv_quebec.html, and, click on “voir le reportage” to start the movie. You will see it 39 seconds into the movie), is also represented with a three mountains/Pyramids, and the “Turtle” is the Symbol of Earth according to many First Nations/Aborigine Tribes living in the US and Canada. (en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ Sahuayo)
I thought this is it, that is the end of the story. Let’s pack and move the camp. Oh, No! There is more to it.
Unknown to me at that time, even though Carlos Castaneda was still alive and well, and writing his books, I all read, there were three more “ Sahu ” to discover, in Mexico. Two were in the same Province of Sonora. Sonora is the Home the Yaquis Indians, for those of you who are familiar with the work of Carlos Castaneda!
And the name of this town is: “Sahuaral” in the Province of Sonora, Mexico.
“Aral” means: Altar.
Founded in 1641, Sahuaripa is located in the State of Sonora, province of Ostimuri.
And one in the same province of Michoacán as my hat came from: Sahuaya, Michoacán
From Teacher to Altar to Future unknown!
Or history unknown as a fifth “Sahu” came to life, and this time in Bolivia: Sahuaya. Sahuaya is the name of a Mountain range high in the Andes!
Mexico; Bolivia, South America, then why don’t I check the USA. They have cities and towns named after already famous world places like: Paris, Rome, Moscow…in the USA Why not have a town or a city called after my family name: “Sahu” and something
I should have guessed: Sahurita, Arizona, USA. And Native American, as well as Native Mexican population and religious beliefs, preceded any popular Western invasions!
As rare as it could be, these places had more stories and histories, than I could have ever imaging. This hat had to be a magic hat with secret powers to uncover a story, a simple story a story that link all stories, to a name, my name, and my family name!
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Scotland
What if! What if my family name has travelled? Then, where can I find out from where it all started? At that time I was teaching Core French, at Luther High School in Regina, Saskatchewan. During a break, I decided to ask Steve, my fellow English Teacher, if he had an English dictionary! The only one I was interested in, because it was large enough with tiny letterings was: The Shorter Harraps. In its pages under the letter “S”, I found what I was looking for: “Sahut”. It was a Scottish name, its origin went way back then, and before the “Clans’” came to be known as they are today. I was not a “Mac” and could not claim any infighting but I was a Scot nonetheless. My ancestry was Scottish from the 10th Century on, and, earlier. There was no Mac for Bruno, but a date: 981 ACE, and an affiliation, and a verb. Here it was for all to see, and what a discovery. Sahut finds its origin in old Scotland; not only that, but it is also the name of a tribe: The Peaceful People; and furthermore, there is a verb associated with my family name: to reconcile. Here it is in a quote by a British historian, and in a British resource book: a dictionary.
And that was it!
What is interesting is, and conceivable at that time i.e. the 10th Century, it may have taken a few decades if not centuries for this name to make a name for itself. Furthermore, to be part of one’s everyday language, is a feast to my psyche.
Then as famous and notorious as one can be in these times, it disappeared totally from the map and the language. One thing is sure it was not to be found in the Gaelic, or Celtic Language.
I had to stop there, and, think! Where did my family name go? Where did my ancestors go? They appeared from somewhere, reached Scotland, prospered and were noticed, were part of the daily life of 1000s, may be 10th of 1000s, were a staple against bad temper, and, still there were no trace of them being anywhere noticeable in Scotland for the next 11 Centuries and to these days in the 21st Century. They may have been massacred by the naked truth of the Picts “Blue” machine, or, they must have felt the need to move on, without leaving a trace. May be they moved to Machu Picchu. And we know what happened to its inhabitants!
Where my name came from or where it went after leaving Scotland, or did it go anywhere? Were they merchants or early bankers who decided to sail away and open businesses somewhere else? Every one of them: men, women, children, old and young alike, what are the odds?
Most intriguing, was to find “Sahu(t)” in the whirlwind of History and Religion.
I always knew my name being a French name. I discovered later in life it came from Occitania. And it has a meaning in French: “Sahut” is the name of a tree: a bushy tree, and, there is also a Sahuquet which a smaller version of the same tree. In other words, the ending letter “T” is versatile. The same way I found it in Mexico: Sahuayo, and, Sahuaral. In Mexico the name “Sahu” is a Native to the place, and, whose origin precedes the 14th Century Spaniard invasion. Why should the Aztecs name a tree after my family name, or why should my family ancestral name be named after a revered Native Mexican Deity. I did not go and ask the Yacci Indians. At the time, it seems they were in conversation with an American Anthropologist!
So my quest went on and my next step led me to a different country and time all together!
I used one of the most powerful time machine that H.G. Wells would have proud of, and I went deeper than Jules Verne would have ever imagined and in less than 80 days. I explored every inch of every documents ever written and navigated every continents and seas and oceans, and stopped in all the ports of Call. I scanned every body of evidence Pierre and Marie Currie could have ever thought possible. I found traces of certainty that Galileo, Descartes and even Darwin would have thought most improbable. I made reasons to link beliefs with reality. I “Googled” (Google Search Engine: Literature, Maps, and Books!) my way through Time, Space, and Quantum leaps!
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Hitchhiking
I learnt to hitchhike at a relatively young age! It was not for pleasure but rather by necessity.
This was to be my first day at “Le lycée Jules Ferry” my technical school in Versailles, and, I was waiting for the bus to take me there after a 45 minutes ride. I was 16 years old, and aside from walking to Le lycée Paul Bert, I had never rode in a car with strangers. I do not even think I was ever in a car except a taxi, and my move to Chatou. Then the bus it is, and, I am patiently waiting for it, until someone said the bus drivers are on strike, and, therefore there is no transportation to go to school. This is a disaster, and, my “waterloo” or “la Berezina” to mention just a few French defeats under Napoleon Bonaparte. Obviously if you are British or Russian, these battles may not have an apocalyptic meaning!
This is a school I did not even want to go to. It is in Versailles, it was a Technical school and apparently I did not have much choice. According to my academic file, and, because le Collège Paul Bert, I was coming from, was a preparatory junior high school for a senior high technical school, this ought to be my “non-academic destiny”. During these 4 years spent in Junior High I worked hard to reach an overall 98% average. I had a dream of becoming a Jet or otherwise Commercial pilot. In other words I wanted to go to an Academic School, so I could pursue my education and dream. Unfortunately at the end of the school year and in spite of my results, my math teacher told because I wore glasses, I could not become a pilot, and, at best I could repair planes, and that would be the closest I would be to airplanes. I needed a 20/20 vision plus!
If you are wondering, the answer is YES! My grade 5 IQ test was still following me.
There were no time to pity myself over this, and from the bus stop where I was standing at, I threw my fist in the air with my thumb clearly extended and visible to anyone willing to give me a ride to school. 50 minutes and four cars later, I reached my destination. Upon arrival I went straight to the principal office, explained the reason of my tardiness, and, was given a late slip I was to present to my English teacher. This was my very first class. The teacher was still explaining how she wanted the year to look like when I knocked on the wooden frame of the class glass paned door. She said: “Come in!” and asked for my name. I answered: “Sahut”. Amazingly enough, on this very first day of Senior High, before the whole class, she made a joke about my name and said: “Et moi de même”, which could be easily translated as: “I salute you in return”. I never said “Salut” or “Hi” to her. First of all it would be impolite, and my manners would have required a “Bonjour Madame” not a “Salut Madame”. I did not understand the connection between her “Salut” and my name: “Sahut”, nor did I think there was any!
My first impression was of confusion. In addition, they were old buildings, and a 6-meter/20 feet high wall surrounding the school. It was a bit creepy.
I still have a few good memories from this. The first one was an outstanding shop teacher and a great drafting educator. They were, as I had been told, tradesmen as well teachers. I learnt how to see in three dimensions as well as humanistic values. Even though I was 16, I was allowed to go to the teacher’s library and borrow a book in English written by Disraeli on the British Government and how pleased or displeased he was about their governance.
I will also remember my physics teacher who used to physically push me around and on to tables to make her point. What point! I never found out nor understood as physics became my worst senior High school subject.
I came to hitchhike a few more times due to late buses. I was never to be late again doing so. Then there was this time when my dad lent me his Mobilette (moped), to go to school. I rode from Chatou to Croissy-sur-Seine, and over the bridge of Bougival then to Port Marly and up the hill to Versailles. That morning, I never made it to school with the Mobilette. After crossing the bridge there were a traffic jam. I was stopped behind a car waiting for the traffic to move on, when someone waving from his car window to an acquaintance on the sidewalk and who had not noticed my moped nor the cars stopped in front of him, hit me. Here goes the back wheel, my school bag, and me flying everywhere. Fortunately, I had only superficial scratches, but the Mobilette was in need of repairs. I did not know much about insurances, and, this gentleman driver gave me his address and his name and asked me to tell my parents to send him the bill. This was fine with me, and luckily the repair shop where my dad bought his Mobilettes was located in Croissy-sur-Seine. So I pushed the moped back the best I could to the shop. The owner had my dad’s work phone number, and, not to worry they said, they would tell him about the accident. I was not too sure about the “do not worry”, because even though my dad was not mechanically inclined, he was very meticulous! I was afraid of his reaction. As I recollect, it went almost fine, as I was already hurt enough from the accident, I did not need more frights. There were to be one more incident when on a rainy day. The same rear wheel went into an unassuming pothole, and “pied” it. Again I had to walk back to the repair shop.
Interestingly enough the bridge of Bougival crosses the Nationale 13.
Upon graduating from this Senior High, it was decided that I would go a real academic Senior High school: Le Lycée de Nanterre: student population 5000. Remember we are in 1970-1971. At that time, this was a huge number of students, and, it represented the equivalent of about ¼ of the inhabitants of Chatou. I would spend two years in this school, and, take a “plain” train, a bus or a hitchhiked automobile to reach my destination everyday, the monetary savings I made on “car trips”, and I would give back to my parents.
It was during these times, among others I came to wonder and or came to grasp with other accidental occurrences.
On one occasion, our Science teacher mentioned the idea to go on a school trip and visit an engineering firm that studies, experiments, researches, and, develops and helps build all the Dams in France, and everywhere else in the world, French companies needed to build a Dam. It is located in the “Ile de Chatou”. Strangely enough I can see it from my bedroom window of our 2nd étage or 3rd floor apartment building. I do not know the place. I just see it from my window, so I did not put to much emphasis into indicating to the class I lived just “next door” nor did I volunteer any information.
As most of my school days, I hitchhiked back home, and, keep silent or do some “small” talks. Only this time, I mentioned to the driver about my teacher’s idea, and, the fact I was living in the HLM on the other side of the river Seine. As I was almost finished talking, he said he worked there as an engineer. He gave me his card as he dropped off me next to the town 11th century church on the other side of the “Pont de Chatou”, and let me know my teacher could contact him to organize a visit. What a coincidence!
I never mentioned the incident to anyone, even to my teacher, who eventually forgot his idea, entirely.
Then, there was that time when I mentioned to the driver I was interested in becoming a psychiatrist for newborn babies. We are in 1971-1972; the idea did not even exist (to my understanding and knowledge). To my surprise the driver said: “I am a personal friend of Lacan (Jacques Lacan: the world renown French Psychoanalyst), and if you so desire, he could arrange a meeting to discuss this new concept” and he added: “He is currently away until the end of the week, and he could call me back for me to see him (Dr. Jacques Lacan)”. This was a bit overwhelming to say the least. I politely declined the invitation/offer. I did not want to tell him we did not a phone at home.
That very summer in August, we went to Brittany. I was very kin on motorcycle sport, and I had a wish to see a motorcycle race. One morning I bought my monthly motorbike magazine, and read that this coming Saturday, there was to be a national championship dirt-bike race, about 100 miles from we were staying. I told my parents, and, they asked me how I would reach my destination, as we did not have any car and there was bus/autocar service to this place on that day. I told them I did not mind, as I would hitchhike. So I bought a road map, I found the town and realized there was more to it that just go there. It was almost impossible: lots of crossroads, windings country roads, few markers of any kind, still I started my quest on in the morning hoping to get there before the race start. I did not even think twice about how I would get back after the race. And here I go, it is Saturday, and I am on the outskirt of the seaside town where we were vacationing. I was lucky to find rides up to a crossroad. There I stood patiently. May be I should have made a sign indicating where I wanted to go. It was to late. Now I am in the hart of Brittany’s country: small one lane roads, small fields everywhere, very picturesque but none the less in the middle of “ nowhere ”, and on my way to somewhere where there should be a national championship dirt-bike race.
Then, there is this citroën “ID (pronounced: idée as in idée fixe)” pulling a trailer with a bike on it. It stopped, and a male passenger in the front of the car asked me where I was going. I said to the championship dirt bike race, and, I do not know how to get there. The car was full of people, and he asked me if I would mind sitting with the bike on the trailer as they were going there themselves. I think they had some fun driving in these small winging roads, as they were laughing and I was holding on to the trailer, not to be thrown away. Finally, we arrived and they set up camp for the day. This passenger asked him if I was not too scared, back there as the trailer was going from side to side of the road. I told him I was only too please to be given a ride that even though it was not to my liking, it was what I had to endure to go to the race, and I was ok. And I thanked him for the opportunity. He told me then I could stay with him and his friends for the race and they would find a way for me to go back home. This passenger was the current French and reigning European Dirt-Bike champion. He won both 2-leg races and maintained his standing in the championship. I did not know much about Dirt Bike racing and less who was in the standings. If there is a first for everything, that was it.
The following year would be my last year in Senior High school, as it corresponds to ”la Terminale” or grade 13th for North Americans. The school year is 1971-1972 and I am 18 years old.
This is the time to think about your coming year and University. Your marks are paramount as well as passing the “Baccalauréat” to get to the best possible position for University. I knew what I wanted to do; I wanted to become a Psychiatrist for New Born babies. Why? Because I wanted to know if there was a recurring quantifiable and measurable behavioral genetic pattern transmitted from parents to their children. What I came to realize during this last year is two fold. Firstly, the year I was sick in French elementary grade 7th or 6th grade in Canada, and had trouble understanding the pattern for mathematical fractions, and, secondly in French Senior High: 2nd or Canadian 10th grade, when this infamous physics teacher “despised” me, is that they were essential and key courses to my graduation and my medical school. Another aspect was, I was never eligible for a grant or funding, and nor did my parents nor I have the money to pursue my goals.
That year I did not pass the Baccalauréat and had to redo my Terminale! On the home front, my parents were at each other’s throats every day for nothing, and, I had this fight with my dad. I wanted to leave this poisonous environment but as I said, I did not have the means, and as my dad said: I should go and work.
Anyhow, my mom convinced him I could do another and last year somewhere else. She mentioned she had some extended family relatives in Honfleur. They had a garage: gas station-car repair shop, and, I could be in a boarding school, and that she would pay for it! They came to an agreement, and my 19th birthday, I moved to Honfleur to spend 1972 to 1973 in peace and quiet!
The fact my mom said she had some relatives in Honfleur may have had more to do with the person she was seeing: her friend, that the relatives themselves. I am too sure if they remembered her. Still the garage was there where I would leave my motorcycle every time I had the chance to ride it to go to school. We still had to find a hosting family to guarantee my stay. The school offered her the name of potential “sponsors”. One was chosen and the family with their two daughters accepted. I was officially a “pensionnaire”. Honfleur is about 3 to 4 hours from Chatou, and I had to take the Autoroute A13 up to Evreux then take a “route nationale” to get there. It was a nice ride. Nowadays, you can take the Autoroute A13 almost up to Honfleur!
When I did not ride my Ducati 350 sport, my mom bought me for my 18th birthday; I would hitchhike from Chatou up to Saint Germain en Laye via the Nationale 13 and to the Autoroute A13, then to Evreux and Honfleur. It would take me exactly the same amount of time as if I were to ride my bike, and that without exception. And stupidly enough and to make a point to my pride, I even made specific time appointments with my girl friend in Honfleur, and, always honored them by being on time! It was amazing. Even though I would be hitchhiking at a regular space-time continuum, I would never ride with the same people and in the same cars.
In the early spring of 1973, on my way home, once I reached Evreux, I challenged one of my boarding school body: Raoul C. with whom I was hitchhiking, to make a wish on the type and model of car he wanted to ride back to Saint Germain en Laye. He did and shared it with me to ante the challenge. There was no money involved just the fun of it, as neither one of us had any! Then as the hours went on, waiting and “thumbing” as many cars as possible, when suddenly a car, The Car, i.e. the Chosen One, just came out of a side street a few meters below us, turned right up towards where we stood and “gracefully” stopped and his driver gave us a ride back home. He was just coming to see his wife who was at the hospital.
I knew the hospital as I went there, as a patient and in observation, for two weeks, after what could have been a deadly motorcycle accident in August of 1972, if I had not had on my belly the thick padding of a folded motorcycle raincoat that absorbed the impact of my groin crashing onto the side of a trunk of a car that had stopped in the middle of that very road.
I had the time of my life in Honfleur, even though it was a boarding school. This would be the only boarding I ever attended, I thought. Still, all my classmates were great, my teachers were outstanding, and I was 19 years old, and I had a girl friend, whose dad was the Chef of Police at that time.
Another time I hitchhiked on my way back to Chatou from Honfleur. Two women stopped and gave me a ride in their car because as the driver said I looked “Jewish”! They asked me if I was Jewish, I said no, even though I told them about Serge going to Israel in July 67. In fact I have no idea. I don’t know what it means to be Jewish or Muslim or Christian or Buddhist or Hindu, or to be of whatever religious denominations. I know I was not baptized at birth, and the closest link to any religion is the result of an aesthetic operation on my penis. So to look or not to look like a religious affiliation has no bearing on me. I always wondered how they could have seen through my cloth. If it is a highway pick up line, then it is a good one! I will have to remember it, for next time I hitchhike: I’ am Jewish I am an easy “Pick up! Take me! Take me! or I pick up a woman hitchhiker: “Eh! Come on in, you look Jewish to me! How do I know? Easy, let me show you!