Gratitude, a Lingua Franca, France

Gratitude opens the world—it is the lingua franca of our species. Even if we grasp no other words in a foreign tongue, we will always strive to master please, thank you and where is the bathroom? the last of which implies the very definition of gratitude in its hoped-for relief of urgency. Once removed from the safety of familiar landmarks and customs, we come to value kindnesses of all size, but particularly small ones: the tip of a hat or the words buon giorno offered on the quiet streets of Verona in the early morning hours.

When we plan for travel, we study how to communicate our gratitude for exchanges both large and small, most especially for these moments when a stranger’s altruism brightens our sense of a nation. In Venice, a passing businessman notes our struggle and lifts my friend’s gargantuan red suitcases without a word, one in each hand, at the foot of a steep arch. The cases weigh over fifty pounds each. He carries them up and over to the bus station for us, departing with a quick wave goodbye.

 Pulling out of Rome, my mobile phone is dead. I cannot reach our host to inform him of our arrival in Orvieto, where he is to meet us that evening. I appeal to a woman on the train, who hands over her cell phone without the slightest hesitation that I might steal it. When I thank her profusely, she shrugs as if it happens all the time.

In Paris, we discover that our bank cards will not allow us to withdraw cash. At the end of dinner at a tiny brasserie in the Rue Cler, the owner informs us that he does not accept credit cards. For the first time in our lives, we cannot pay the bill. We panic. Will the owner call the police? The couple next to us, overhearing our plight, offers to pay for our meal, insisting that we can mail them a check when we return home.

A passing shower in Glasgow sends me dashing into a dark pub, my legs exhausted from walking all day on hard stone streets. As I settle into the high-backed bar stool, the damp afternoon sojourn has me missing loved ones back home. I say something to this effect when the bartender slides a pint of ale across the mahogany counter. When I request the tab, he smiles and says it’s on him.

With every trip, there is kindness. It need not be monumental to matter. Passersby in Seville lend directions to my hotel when I appear lost; in London, a man in a dapper blue suit holds the doors to the Tube when he sees me running to catch the train; en route to Amsterdam, a flight attendant moves me to the front row so that I’m first off the plane. Our flight is an hour late leaving Seattle, and there are hundreds of passengers to care for, but she watches out for me. My heart swells with gratitude when I make my connection, just barely, thanks to her. 

What good do I do in exchange for these gifts? At first, I cannot conjure grand evidence of my own compassion, at least, not enough to warrant the host of charmed adventures I’ve had. Then I reflect on the kindnesses I’ve learned to practice, inspired by those who have been generous to me on the road. At my regular coffee shop near King Street Station, I buy pay-it-forward drinks for strangers I will never meet. When visitors forget mittens and bumbershoots on the bus, I chase them down to return them. When walking downtown, I meet the searching eyes of tourists who inevitably want to inquire about the direction of Pike Place Market.

The more we travel, the more we see humanity in each other’s eyes. Our journeys not only reveal new customs and languages, they make us more obvious to each other. In exploring the world, we are granted the opportunity to be kind, and the opportunity to receive kindness from others. We are bound to each other by nothing but the human race, and somehow, despite all the ill in the world, this connection triumphs.

Years after an adventure, our struggles recede and gratitude remains. Our memories narrow to the moments when we overcame a challenge, often with the aid of a native—we were safely ferried, arm in arm, through the twisting labyrinth of an ancient city; a conductor lifted us by the hand aboard the train as it pulled away; we were invited to dine upstairs with a family just as their restaurant closed for the evening. Aid arrives when it is needed most, as if someone is watching out for us, and so our greatest adventures are fed with human kindness, and they end, if we’re fortunate, with eternal gratitude.

About the Author:  Gabriela Denise Frank is the author of CivitaVeritas: An Italian Fellowship Journey. Her work appears in The Wolf Skin, ARCADE and Behind the Yellow Wallpaper: New Tales of Madness, an anthology by New Lit Salon Press. Her next trip, which can’t arrive soon enough, is to Australia and New Zealand.

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