When we lost our passports and fell in love with Paris

If you’re destined to get stranded in a city and you have the freedom to choose it, my advice is, choose Paris. It happened with us a few years ago when we lost our passports within an hour of landing there. In two weeks, we fell in love with the city and its people.

I had planned a four-day stopover at Paris with my wife on our way to meet our daughter in New York. Quite aware of the thefts on Parisian trains, we had taken precautions. Our cash and valuables were stacked securely in suitcases, I had kept our passports and cashcards in a belt-wallet tied around my waist. No thief would be interested in our passports and cards, I thought. But the thieves at Gare du Nord, the busiest railway station in Paris from where we had to take our metro just after alighting at Charles de Gaulle airport, thought otherwise. Three of them, all Africans, huddled around me when I was standing on the elevator holding two suitcases. On getting off, I realised my belt-wallet was gone and the three had disappeared in the crowd. Standing lost, we felt vulnerable.

After filing a report at an unfriendly police station, we took a metro to our Airbnb accommodation. It was a pleasant three-room flat on the fourth floor with a balcony overlooking a lively street. From the bedroom window on the other side, we could have the glimpse of the majestic domes of the Sacré-coeur Basilica. Tom Earsel, our host, was a young French journalist with a ready wit and impeccable sense of humour. He was in a relationship with Sylvia and whenever his flat was leased through Airbnb, he shifted to her place.

We went to the Indian Embassy the very next thing. The consular attaché was cordial. He promised to issue new passports within a day if we, especially my wife, stopped looking grim and managed to smile. This theft was not a mishap but God’s way to give us a chance to enjoy the beautiful city of Paris, he said. We were given two forms to be filled and brought the next day along with a fee of 200 euros.

Our cash cards having already gone, we didn’t have that much cash. Our daughter was trying to send the money from New York through Western Union, but a passport was needed as identity proof to receive it. I asked her if she could send it through Tom, our host. But she was apprehensive about trusting a stranger in a foreign land with that much money.

In the evening, we told our problem to Tom. He said he could loan us the amount, but he would have to ask his girlfriend. He talked to her in French for a few minutes and then said sheepishly, “I’m giving you the money but can’t tell you how badly she scolded me.”

We got our passports the next day and the US visa 10 days later.

By then, we had enjoyed the sights and sounds of Paris to our heart’s content, sometimes walking from The Louvre to Eiffel Tower or cruising in the panoramic Seine or mingling in the crowd at Champs-elysees or Montmartre.

Before leaving Paris, we gifted a bottle of Bordeaux wine to Tom that he insisted on sharing with us on our last evening. After downing the first glass, he told us why his girlfriend scolded him the other day. He mimicked her voice and said, “Tom, why do you have to think twice before helping a couple in distress? If you don’t trust and believe people, life becomes impossible on this planet.”

Tom was an angel of a person, and so was Sylvia.

NO THIEF WOULD BE INTERESTED IN OUR PASSPORTS AND CARDS, I THOUGHT. BUT THE THIEVES AT GARE DU NORD, THE BUSIEST RAILWAY STATION IN PARIS, THOUGHT OTHERWISE