It was a Thursday night in early June, 9pm. I boarded the Lake Shore Limited at Union Station in Chicago, found a window seat, and sincerely hoped that no difficult or creepy person would sit next to me. For the first time in a decade of going to residencies, I had decided to take the train instead of driving, mostly because I was leaving the country right after the residency ended. The train also turned out to be a lot cheaper and easier than flying.
This was going to be an 18-hour overnight haul. Just as the train was about to depart, a young man ran over and dropped his duffel bag on the floor next to me. He sat down in a huff, frazzled. He looked up, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. A minute or two later he pulled down the footrest on the seat in front of him. I asked how he managed to pull it down as far as he did (mine appeared to be stuck), and he nervously replied in a thick French accent “Ehhh… eats ajoostobul.”
What luck. I had just finished taking French II this past Spring semester, though I would definitely still call myself a beginner. I told him that I was going to France in July and needed to practice. He seemed excited to get some respite from English, and was curious to know which part of France I was visiting. He described the cultural attitudes and stereotypes regarding his home region, Bretagne, in contrast to Occitanie where I was going—explaining that in France people experience more prejudice based on the region they are from than they do based on what they look like. The conversation quickly turned to mushroom species, philosophy, and food. I couldn’t understand approximately a third of what he said in either language. It was fun to try and come up with a roundabout way to express something when I couldn’t remember the right word. His English was probably at an intermediate level. We mixed the two languages and must have sounded funny to folks in the surrounding seats.
He described himself as Indigenous Algerian and French, a penitentiary lawyer who lives in Brittany. I told him that I loved Michel Foucault’s book on the history of prisons in France, and he replied “Of course; it’s classic!” We discussed other French philosophers, and I mentioned Bruno Latour (whom I quoted in my previous journal entry). Turns out that Latour was his professor.
We ended up talking until 1am, mostly about mushrooms and foraging. His favorite edible mushroom is the hedgehog, or “sheep’s foot” in French. He was surprised to learn about hen-of-the-woods (maitake). Apparently they’re not as popular in France as they are in other parts of the world. He told me that I “learned” him many new French words, though really they were just names of mushroom species.
In the morning, my new friend went to the café car to pick up some coffee and tea. In return, I handed him a boiled egg that I had packed before leaving Chicago. He explained that hard-boiled eggs are not a thing in France because they are considered too dry. Fortunately, the one I gave him was soft-medium boiled; it’s how I prefer them.
A couple of hours before we arrived in New York, I watched him pull out a large wedge of aged cheese from his bag—over a pound—and eat the whole thing by biting into it as though it were an apple. I asked him if his stomach would hurt. He laughed and said, “Of course not. In France, we eat a lot of cheese. I’m used to it.”