I'll take a good ole southern gent anyday over wine and cheese
By Charly Montgomery

Charly Montgomery, a senior at The College of Charleston, spends spring semester in La Rochelle, France.

There is this amazingly cheap airline that flies direct from La Rochelle, France, where I was taking classes, to London, where my mother's half of the family resides. The only problem with this airline is there is a strict limit on baggage allowance and weight. Since I had spent four months on another continent, I acquired a lot of stuff that must be added to the already hefty amount of luggage I left home with.

Never mind the baggage situation. I told myself. "Buy the cheap ticket and call Pelham." Pelham is a friend of mine who was living in Paris in a postage stamp sized apartment. Despite the size of her place, she graciously allowed me to store my excess baggage there while I visited family.

Problem solved. I thought. I had not thought about how I would get my giant orange suitcase from my home in La Rochelle to the train station. I think I took a cab because the 45 minute walk to la gare would have been nearly impossible dragging that thing behind me. Perhaps I took the bus. Either way, I have effectively blocked that memory.

I did manage to get my suitcase down and back up the stairs to the correct platform without too much trouble. I felt very accomplished once I dismounted the train upon arrival in Paris. This feeling was short lived.

For some odd reason there are not always escalators where there are stairways at Gare Montparnasse. You'd think there would be since every so often a train passenger will be carrying luggage, but that is beside the point.

After being frustrated by the poles placed in front of the escalators to ensure people don't attempt to take luggage carts on them, I was even more frustrated by the impatient people who wouldn't wait the two seconds it would have taken me to maneuver my suitcase onto the stairs. I was in no mood to be trifled with by people trying to scoot past me.

At this point I hear a voice from behind saying to me in French, "What's a little thing like you doing with such a large, heavy bag?" I felt a sudden rush of thankfulness that I'd been sent a sympathetic stranger to help me and smiled. This feeling was also short lived. As I got off the escalator, I turned toward the man who had just acknowledged my physical incapacity to handle my bag. I was certain he'd help me with the next leg of my journey, the stairs. Instead, he watched me struggle and didn't say a word as he pushed past me.

I felt, with my anger, an overwhelming longing for home, where strangers smile at each other as they pass on the street, where men open doors for women and offer, unasked, their aid with the lifting and carrying of heavy objects.

In the South, no man would have dared to comment on my situation if he wasn't going to offer his assistance. The French may have us beat as far as wine and cheese go, but when I need help, give me a good Southern gentleman - they can keep their merlot and brie. I'd rather sup upon a good ole Beaufort stew.