Getting to the Temple of Donon

By: Kathleen Soriano-Taylor

March 5, 2013

We'd been walking about 30 minutes before we saw anyone on the path. It must have been 30y, because I remember checking my watch when we stepped off the train. Half past eight, the tiny golden hands read. My friend, Andreas, and I had just barely made the train from Strasbourg to Schirmeck; my last memory in the station was sprinting, holding snowshoes in one had and our validated tickets in the other, towards him, his arms and legs outstretched between the open train doors and the platform, as if his body would stop the train from running on schedule. The hour-long train ride was mostly spent in silent pride that we'd made it.

We talked about our families and lives back home, and I thought it was funny how quickly you make close friends abroad, jumping on the things that connect you. We were both so excited for the hike, a 20 kilometer snowshoe to the summit of Col du Donon, where there was a protohistoric temple. It was the first hike I'd done without a guide, without a large group of French and Erasmus students. It was going to be an exceptional hike from the start.

The church bells had just finished ringing nine before we saw her. It was strange to see anyone so early, on a path that seemed to be in an abandoned place, separate from the real world and real people and time itself. We weren't in France anymore, but not back in the United States either. Instead, we were somewhere in between, somewhere encased in fresh snow. She was in a black jacket and regular clothes, walking slowly. It was clear this world belonged to her, in the way that she walked, unphased by her surroundings. We were the outsiders, dressed in winter hiking gear, holding snowshoes for when the terrain would ask for them. My initial reaction in seeing her was surprise, and a little annoyance. For a moment, the route felt like ours, and seeing her reminded me of how far from home we really were.

As we passed, we heard her cry.

I turned, and saw her face in her hands, trying to bury ineffable tears. I knew I was in France, where the culture is very personal. It wouldn't be right for me to insert myself into her troubles, but my American upbringing couldn't let me leave her behind. "Je m'excuse… mais, comment-allez vous? Peut-on vous aider?" I couldn't say everything I wanted, if I could even find what I wanted to say. It sounded clumsy, if not rude.

I remember my host-brother's fiancée, a 26 year old Australian who'd been speaking French nearly all of her life, telling me that there are moments where she can't express everything she wants to in French. In English, our maternal language, we can ask a question in a certain way, using certain words, full of unspoken yet understood sentiments. She, fluent in French, still found that difficult. And on this day, I found myself in the same situation.

I stood next to the woman, stopping both of us from continuing on the path. My arm was around her, and she continued to cry. "Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?" "What's wrong?" None of what I was doing was fitting in French culture, one of stoicism and privacy, and I wondered if I was making it worse.

Finally, she spoke. "J'ai perdu mon mari… hier."

I felt the breath fall out of my body. "I lost my husband yesterday." There was nothing he or I could say. It wasn't a matter of language anymore. We've all dealt with loss, or at least I have. And for the most part, it doesn't matter at all what people tell you. It's just words. In those moments the differences in our cultures both disappeared and clashed. I asked her if she wanted to talk. "Non, merci." If she wanted us to walk with her. "Non, merci." I held her and told her there was nothing I could say. But it would get better, whatever better means. And she looked at me for the first time, as I let her go. "Oui. Ça irai." "Yes. It'll be okay." She used the conditional. It might be okay. I hope it'll be okay.

We parted, and Andreas and I walked carefully, not looking back, leaving her in the world that didn't belong to us, where we hoped things would be okay. Six hours later, we reached the summit and its temple, a place made of fog and snow that made us feel like if we stepped a little too far, we'd fall off the face of the earth.

"This would have been a very different hike if we hadn't seen the woman, in the beginning," Andreas had said. And he was right. We're two bumbling Erasmus students running around on a mountain. Seeing her had brought us back to reality. We're in France. We're in the "prime of our lives," my least favorite thing that adults tell me. We're human. We're mortal. The hike became a reflective journey, and when we made it to the temple, 1,009 meters in the air, it wasn't just about making it to the summit anymore.

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