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I knew I was spending much too much time at the
cyber café, on Rue de la Bucherie, in Paris.
I’d go to check my email, to keep in contact
with Lauren, in Greece; friends house-sitting for
us, in Colorado; and to keep track of the results
that day in the Tour de France.
Tourists from around the globe drop into this tiny
cyber café, a block from Notre Dame. The
Algerian manager was a graduate student, easily
conversant in multiple languages. His area of specialization
pertained to traditional Berber architecture. At
least that is the conclusion I gathered from the
images he would print on the color laser jet. The
texts were neither in English nor French. A page
or two would usually be sitting on his desk or in
the printer bin.
A variety of keyboards accommodate the wide array
of languages that would walk through the door, in
characters from Hebrew and Sanskrit to standard
English and French. Seven of the thirteen computers
were set up with English keyboards, in proportion
to English speaking visitors.
Sometimes I’d be stuck using a French keyboard,
which looks almost identical to an English one.
The subtle differences can be frustrating, but infinitely
easier than trying to figure out one of the non
alphabetic keyboards.
Two American girls stuck their heads in the door
hoping for a vacant seat. I noticed them several
times that day. Each time I watched a dejected frown
sweep over their faces, finding still no open keyboards.
Once they saw an empty slot, but backed out the
door when they saw the keyboard was French. As they
passed my seat, I suggested that a French keyboard
is better than none and that the differences are
not that big if you "hunt and peck," like
I do. The girls said they'd tried to use the French
board the previous day and would rather wait to
use an English one.
I was still there, sending emails to Lauren in
Athens, when the girls returned again. This time
they finally succeeded.
Turning back to my screen, I was greeted by fresh
email from Amsterdam. Good. My Dutch friends had
sent their telephone numbers so I could call when
I came to visit. I pushed the “print”
button, walked over to the printer and retrieved
my printout from the top of a pile the printer had
just coughed up. The stack of other printouts weren't
mine, so I left them there. At the cyber café
you pay extra to print something, so if you aren't
careful it can add up. I paid the manager for my
copy and bought a cold bottle of water and a candy
bar. It’s a bit over priced to buy a candy
bar at the cyber café, but better than leaving
and losing your place.
People were stopping by the door, stick their heads
in, looking to go online, in a constant flow of
traffic. At his screen, the manager sat surveying
the room and logging users on and off. I noticed
a little old lady, barely four feet tall, enter
and navigate her way past the seated patrons busy
at their email. She was dressed like Snow White’s
apple-toting nemesis, looked about ninety years
old, and walked as if using an invisible cane. Someone
near the door had pointed the manager out to her.
I overheard her tell the manager, in an unfamiliar
French accent, that she had been standing in a line
outside Notre Dame when she overheard a couple talking
about sending and receiving messages without using
paper, envelopes, or stamps. She asked if this was
a form of prayer? They said it was better than prayers
because you usually got a reply. Well, the old lady
decided it sounded like some kind of miracle. So,
she asked the couple where she might find out about
this “internet”. They pointed to the
cyber café. Mind you, this woman was not
a tourist, unless visiting from a different time
period.
When she asked the manager if he could perform
miracles he looked around the room and saw that
all the places were filled and told her she'd have
to wait her turn, like everyone else. That made
her so happy to know that everyone else was already
having miracles performed for them that she started
jumping with glee, like a little girl! She told
the manager how happy this made her! At that point,
since he was a bright person, he realized she wasn't
wanting to check email.
The manager smiled at the thought that had just
entered his mind. The old woman had taken whatever
the couple in front of Notre Dame said too literally.
Sadly, he had to tell her that, no this was only
a place to receive and send messages between two
humans who are both using computers; and that “surfing
the web” was similar to using an encyclopedia.
The machines were unfortunately not designed for
sending messages to God or other spiritual beings.
No, sorry, there were no actual miracles.
No actual miracles?
No, sorry.
Oh, well, said the woman, if I return at a time
when you are not so busy, will you show me about
this internet?
He smiled, escorted her to the exit, and bid her
goodbye, saying, aside to those of us who had been
an audience, “that might be a real miracle.”
On his way back to his post, the manager noticed
a pile of unclaimed printouts on the printer and
went asking, desktop by desktop, who they might
belong to. No one knew. I suggested they might belong
to the woman who just left. No, not her, the text
was English and she was French. That meant seven
likely people. The two American girls shook their
heads no. The next person who stood up to leave
was charged for the cost of printing. He was an
elderly man who was puzzled that he was charged
for this wad of paper and said he didn't recall
printing it. But he paid anyway. The topic of the
printout: "Preventing Alzheimer's."
A little while later the two girls logged off their
computer and got up to leave. One came over to me
and handed me ten Euros. I wasn’t even puzzled.
I now had proof that I was sitting in the cyber
café far too long. They thought I worked
there.
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