I look into the fluorescently-lit mirror in the Paris hotel . . . and an old man looks back. He’s not a cheerful-looking old man. He’s not a serene-looking old man. And he definitely has no hint of French joie de vivre in that craggy face.

Nope, that is one old dude in the mirror. 

Let’s just take a moment to check the inventory. I am stiff, tippy, and mostly unsure whether that pain on my left side is a sore muscle or a heart attack. I only wear pants with elastic waistbands, which is a surprise to no one who saw my prosecutor wardrobe back in the day. And of course in the time needed to scroll down to the year of my birth on an app, I could go make a sandwich and check the weather. And sometimes I do. Why not? With one foot in the grave, it’s always wise to have a sandwich as the clouds roll in. 

But here I am. Looking in the mirror. An old man. But I can’t be an old man. That would mean that the last stop on the train is right around the corner. Yup, folks, I am not going quietly into the night. I am in complete denial of how this all ends.

Well, trust me, traveling helps with that silliness.

Incident #1

The train runs from Belfort, France to Paris and then on to Rotterdam. Simple enough. My wife marches confidently ahead with her back pack. I less confidently carry my back pack, which I’m pretty sure is the weight of a baby African elephant. And in another bag I carry two bottles of un-opened French wine that rattle around like two raccoons in a tangle. I teeter under this load, but mostly I am upright.

Our trip is going well, all connections met, so we need a little adversity to put the world back in balance. At Gare du Nord in Paris, there are 36 platforms where the trains pull in for loading and unloading. We check the big board and it says our train is at platform 3. It’s a tight connection, so we hustle. 

But it’s not our train at platform 3. 

Hold it, the big board still says our train is at platform 3. Lord, it is parked at the back end of this train we are looking at. But so distant it can’t be seen. And we are running out of time. My wife sprints down the platform to get on our train — yup, it’s a dog-eat-dog world in my marriage. I try to sprint along, but I’m pretty sure I have become the sacrificial guy left behind for the chasing hyenas. 

And then I accidentally drop my hat and one glove. 

Have you ever tried to pick up a hat and glove when you have a baby elephant on your back and you’re holding a bag with two raccoons in a tangle? Oh yes, and let’s not forget that you are an old man. It’s not pretty.

As I slowly bend over, trying not to topple, I see a young French woman off to my left — white sweater, black slacks, heels — racing to my rescue.

I am mortified. 

Listen, I am trying to age with grace and dignity. So I have read hundreds of books about aging and death. I have written articles and done therapy and lectured the mail carrier about the need to embrace growing old. I preach against chasing youth to everyone, including my five-year-old grandchild. I celebrate all the scars and wrinkles and carving away of my body. I am a fully actualized, AARP-certified old man. 

But as I see the young woman run to my aid, all my thoughts vanish except one — I can’t be that old guy who can’t pick up his hat, can I?

I hurriedly reach the last two feet to my hat, swaying precariously, bones cracking, muscles screaming, and scoop up the fallen items. And I flee to the train. The woman pulls up several yards away. I don’t even make eye contact. No smile. No thank you. Nothing. Not only am I an old man, I’m a rude old man with no grace and no dignity. 

“Bah humbug,” says Scrooge.  

Incident #2

The next day we are in The Hague, my home away from home. We are having a glass and enjoying the sun at an outdoor cafe in the city center. A tram line passes a few yards in front of us — the 17. Suddenly I see an older fellow trying to cross the tram tracks in his electric scooter. The scooter and the man topple over in the middle of the tracks and he falls off the scooter and actually flies out of his shoes. Yikes!

I jump out of my chair and am one of the first to arrive. He does not speak English. I do not speak Dutch. I gesture that I will help him to get up.. He looks at me, and then gestures with his arms and says “strong”, while shaking his head no.

I’ll translate for you — the guy lying in the middle of the tram tracks is rejecting my help to keep from being run over by the next tram because I do not look strong enough. I kid you not. He thinks I am too old to save his sorry, shoeless, toppled-over, soon-to-be-turned-into-spam rear end. Lord help me. Eventually, a few young men come over and pick him up. 

Wow. I am an old man.The world has spoken.

So . . . . . . the lessons from these in-your-face, travel experiences?

Stay away from fluorescently-lit mirrors. Duh. 

Joe