I Believe in Things That I'm Grateful For

The other day at work, it was my co-worker’s last day. Christophe and I started on almost the same exact day, but we didn’t meet until he got back, nearly a month later, from his visit to his son in France. Everyone kept telling me about “the French guy” since what a francophile I am apparently propels off of my body in waves.

I noticed that didn’t immediately fit in with the rest of the crew, but we got along immediately. He’s very French, and I only know how to say that as a compliment. He would make me laugh, sometimes we’d talk shit in French to each other and some of our other co-workers would get suspicious about what we were saying, but I didn’t really care.

Part of me is sad to see him go because he was a catalyst to end my depression and move on.

He was in his 40s, I think. It was a bit of a trip to realize that that is closer to my age than any of the young twenty-somethings we worked with. He spent over fifteen years working as a firefighter in a city in the south of France, but once his divorce was finalized, he decided to move to the United States and live here for a while. He worked part-time with me but also worked for a vineyard in Napa doing tastings.

We would talk about our shared French experiences, and he looked at me and said, “You are the rare American who would make a good Frenchman.” I told him that was my ultimate goal, and he started talking to me, telling me about things I could do. Telling me about jobs that were perfect for me because I was American and spoke French.

He was the one who got me to get up and take action, go back to get this credential. I owe all of that to Christophe. He believed in me and somehow that made me believe in me. All of those ridiculous things in my head suddenly didn’t sound as powerful when I shouted them down with some silly French joke.

I’m grateful that I met the one random French guy in all of my entire town. Man, they are always saving my life, aren’t they?