Sets of three: A hobo life lesson plays out in France.

It is common practice among hobos, as with many primitive cultures, for elders to hold court, espousing eccentricity and propagating philosophy to anyone who will listen.

Much of what is heard from the elders is of questionable value.  Take, for example, the old “wisdom” often passed down regarding hygiene and first aid: urine, the elders always insist, is an antiseptic, which we youngins should never forget when we get into trouble.  The example always given is that if a hobo is injured, this is his one sure-fire way of disinfecting a wound.  I never did have to test that theory, but like many of my contemporaries under the age of 80, I have spent many an evening debating this point over a campfire.  For example: you couldn’t very well purify water with it, now could you?

That aside, my old friend Hubcap Charlie did pass along certain grains of wisdom that have proven most prescient since I arrived in France.  As he used to be so fond of saying:

“The best of luck and the worst of luck always come in sets of three.”

In my first two weeks in France, I had already been arrested once for being too Acadian and/or insane and once for being an undocumented huddled mass, only to be subsequently released each time due to fortuitous circumstances involving, first, Belgian clairvoyance and, second, legislative snafu.

So I should not have been surprised when, shortly after reaching the burgeoning seaside resort of Holetown, I found myself entangled in a criminal investigation of acts that had occurred weeks earlier, while I was still on the high seas, sitting among countless tons of okra.

I have been told in the past that I resemble such varied characters as Clint Eastwood , Jack T. Colton and the Marlboro Man.  But it wasn’t until I walked into Trouville-sur-Mer that I discovered that I also resembled one Jacques Trichet, a Norman thief who was until recently well-known locally for various misdemeanor acts no more threatening than, say, a light mugging.  But this time, Mr. Trichet had defrauded the government and inadvertently left me to answer for his crimes.

Well over a year ago, Trouville’s famed local seafood market suffered a devastating fire, leaving dozens of people out of work, including Jacques Trichet, who, while not picking tourists’ pockets, sold them fish.  In the weeks after the fire, the government had swooped in with subsidies for the business owners, while construction of a new market was planned.

Jacques, whose employer had left town shortly after the fire, saw his big break—his chance to move from small-stakes thief to first-rate felon.  He completed the subsidy paperwork on his boss’s behalf and—always the employee going the extra kilometer—did him the additional favor of collecting and spending the money as well.  What a perfect dream for a French thief: instead of stealing from tourists like a common nobody, he was now feeding from the trough of a bloated government subsidy program.  Ah, the life!

Assuming that he might get caught, Jacques made sure to commit his crime while the police chief was out of town, leaving his assistant, with whom Jacques had engaged in various nefarious business affairs, in charge.  As it turned out, Jacques received the subsidy funds and got out of town without being caught.  But his contact, whom Jacques had never actually met in person, came to my aid, entirely inadvertently.  When I was picked up at the train station for fitting Jacques’ description, the assistant came straight to the scene and, thinking he was doing the real Jacques a favor, told his underlings to release me.  It was a case of mistaken identity, he told them, with a wink in my direction.  And I was free, again.  Even better still, Hubcap Charlie was vindicated, on at least one point, if not others.