Mauritian Apparition.

A single ray of light awoke me.

Her name was Kiran.

She was pulling back the curtains, exposing an expansive view of the Place des Vosges, for the most mundane of reasons—to shed light on her morning’s chores, cleaning up after an errant hobo who by all rights didn’t deserve the pleasure of her presence, let alone being the subject of her toil.

It was Saturday morning, a fact apparently appreciated by everyone except for me. The children running across the closed-off grass and the street musicians in the arcade were all playing their weekly Saturday morning roles; I was the only one off-kilter. Even this magical creature that had appeared before me—with her penetrating jet black eyes telling me that she had a story that I would want to hear—was ready to fulfill her Saturday morning ritual and then be gone.

In my recent reincarnation as the roaming roommate of Paris’ premier timeshare hobo, Tommy C. Billings, Saturday morning brings with it a regular routine. Saturday is the only day of the week that sees Tommy awake before noon. Since his weekly timeshares end on Saturday mornings, Tommy gets up and out early, scampering off to pick up keys for our next accommodation, which we check into after lunch.

Unlike Tommy, I work hard all week, so I sleep in an hour or two after he’s shoved off. But by ten a.m., I am on my feet, have loaded the dishwasher and have the place in decent condition, at least by our modest bachelor standards. But not this week. This week I overslept and awoke to the shocking realization that I was being cleaned up after already, by none other than the humblest of goddesses, in disguise as a mere, mortal housemaid.

Once I had regained my consciousness, composure and a slight semblance of decorum, I introduced myself: I am the bum you shouldn’t be lifting a finger for. She smiled, revealing a second window into the machinations of her imagination. The first was in her eyes and the second was in this wry smile that told me that she had limited patience for what she could make of me—yet another indolent slug smiling at her from yet another Saturday morning sofa bed. I knew I had some convincing to do.

I prepared two cups of hot chocolate, quick-wittedly forgoing the usual dash of Bruichladdich, which I deemed would be an inopportune concoction under the circumstances. As I offered her a mug, I explained myself: all self-deprecation aside, I’m actually not the idle lump of nothingness you just awoke; my Saturday morning lethargy is the result of a full week of industriousness. I told her about my hard week of busking and coaching. She smiled again and then told me her story.

First, I should say that Kiran is not the only kindred wanderer I have encountered during my time in France. Jaap the Dutchman, Cyrille the Belgian, Eric the entrepreneur, and of course Tommy all come to mind. But Kiran has by far the most compelling story, not the least because hers involves the most personal sacrifice and the near-impossibility of turning back. Also, I don’t recall ever experiencing the desire to kiss Jaap, Cyrille, Eric or Tommy, an issue that was foremost on my mind as soon as I caught the first glimpse of Kiran.

Kiran’s journey began three time zones, one hemisphere and 6,000 miles away, on the slummy outskirts of Port Louis, Mauritius. She made the same decision that literally hundreds of millions of people make each year—to flee her homeland and seek a better life abroad. Although Mauritius is, by African standards, at the pinnacle of economic achievement, Kiran, being the product of a Hindu father and an indigenous Mauritian mother, felt the deck stacked against her. She bore the double-edged legacy of being both the descendant of indentured Indian field laborers and of the emancipated Creole slaves they had been brought in to replace. Through a friend at the airport, she finagled a seat on a flight into Roissy two years ago.

Despite her present occupation, Kiran would on many levels be envied by even the most elite of this fine city, including in this fashionable neighborhood. One example: back home in Mauritius, she thought multilingualism was the norm, the status quo, nothing more than a basic starting point in life. It wasn’t until she arrived in France, a destitute desperado in coach class, that she discovered that the wealthy and wise of the first world covet skills she takes as second nature.

What she realized was the great linguistic irony of the modern world: while the bourgeoisie of Paris, New York, and London spend lavishly on language courses to impress each other with token linguistic skills, the world’s poor are scraping along handily functioning in two or three languages every day, from Kurdistan to Kashmir to Kuala Lumpur. Kiran, whose name translates literally as “beam of light”, was brought up with both Hindi and Mauritian Creole at home, later learning English and French in school. Add an African passport and she’s lucky to be a maid.

Mauritius, technically considered part of Africa, is well over 1,000 miles offshore. For over five centuries, Kiran’s island nation has played host to the marauding hordes of no less than four European powers. As is evident in her mélange of physical features, her ancestors may well be equal parts Indian, indigenous and European, the latter being anything from Portuguese to Dutch to French to British. The tint of her skin, the color of her eyes and the texture of her hair tell a centuries-long tale. Kiran is a melting pot, all on her own.

This Mauritian mystery seems so foreign and yet at the same time so familiar. Seeing my reflection in Kiran’s eyes, I recall my own melting pot, my native Louisiana, which has spent the same five centuries playing host to some of the same colonial powers. A centuries-long Louisianan orgy of Indians, Spanish, French, English, and Irish, with a few gators thrown in for good measure, has resulted in a state full of misbred mutts and tooth-deprived rednecks. How did the Mauritian experiment turn out so much prettier? And how does a hungover hobo ask his maid on a date?

Only time will tell.