On being … sage advice in any language

By Ingrid Sapona

Apparently, the French translation of the word pessimistic is pessimiste. Simple, non? Even so, I was surprised when an Air France employee told me, in perfect English, that I shouldn’t be pessimistic. 

My sisters and I were in Paris and we were all flying home to different cities on the same day last week. To make things simple, we shared a cab to the airport. My flight was the last to leave and so I was at the airport more than six hours early. My suitcase was small and I did carry-on to France; I planned on doing the same on the way home. 

Well, the Air France folks were a bit more particular in Paris than they were here in Toronto. Together, my suitcase and tote weighed 13.4 kilos. Seems they only allow 12 kilos for carry-on. So, they said I had to check the suitcase. I was not happy about that for a number of reasons, including that my tote rested so nicely on my rolling suitcase and without it, I’d have to carry the tote all day. But more importantly, with so many Air France flights going out of that terminal, I thought the odds were high that a bag checked more than six hours in advance might go astray.

To check it, I had to exit from security to get it tagged. When I got to the person who was supposed to do this, I pled my case again. I emphasized that my flight was not for six hours and that I was concerned my suitcase would go missing in that time. The Air France gentleman looked at me and, as he attached the tag, he said, “It’ll be fine… don’t be pessimistic!” 

Next thing I knew, the bag was making its way down the conveyor belt. I realized that if the bag didn’t make it to Toronto at the same time as me, it really wasn’t a big deal. (I have clothes and stuff at home.) But the rest of the day — and especially while I waited at the baggage carousel in Toronto, all I could think of was that I wished I didn’t have to check the bag. It was a big plane and for about a half hour there was a steady stream of bags tumbling down the belt. Mine was not among them — but I’d say about half the plane was still waiting, so I was in good company. After a further half hour when no bags appeared, more bags finally started coming down the belt. I was relieved when mine appeared. Seems Mr. Air France was right… I should not have been pessimistic.

The comment struck me not just because I was impressed with his English. It hit a nerve because I am pessimistic by nature. I wish I weren’t. I try hard to counter-act my pessimism impulse. So, for example, when something works out better than I anticipated, I try to focus on it. I do this in hopes that next time my inner voice tells me things will not work out well, I can quickly remind myself of examples when things worked out. Indeed, on the same trip there were a number of “alls well that ends well” moments — things that seemed to go wrong but that ended up just fine. 

The best example was our visit to Notre Dame. Though it’s free to get into the cathedral, our time in Paris was limited so I booked us a “skip the line” tour. (We did this once at Edinburgh castle and it worked out great.) Well, the long and the short of it was the tour guide never showed up. I was so frustrated — not just because I had paid for the tour, but because the prospect of standing in line possibly for hours was not welcome. 

After waiting a sufficient time in hopes the guide would show, we headed over to the cathedral to join the line. En route I stopped a woman and asked her if she’d take a picture of the three of us. She was most obliging and when she handed my phone back, I asked how long the line was. She said it’s long, but it moves. So, into the queue we went.

It was one of those Disneyland snaking lines — I don’t know how many rows, but there were LOTS. As I turned the corner of the line for the second time someone standing behind the barricade looked at me and asked (again, in perfect English) if I wanted to go in. I chuckled and said, “Yes, of course, that’s why I’m in line”. He smiled and said, well, come this way. I thought he was joking. I said I was with my sisters and he asked how many. When I said “three”, he said that was fine. My sisters were a few paces ahead of me but I got their attention and then the gentleman opened the barrier enough for the three of us to slip in. 

I don’t know what prompted him to offer us to — in effect — skip the line. Could he read the frustration on my face and guess that we had been let down by the no-show tour guide? I doubt it. (I imagine we just looked like three tired, grey haired tourists.) Whatever the reason, I thanked him profusely as we headed in.

It’s funny, when such good fortune strikes I tend to attribute it to my guardian angel working overtime. I certainly did so that day at Notre Dame. Actually, I even did so as I pulled my suitcase off the belt in Toronto. I really have a strong belief in my guardian angel… maybe it’s because she works so hard to remind me — in different languages even — that I shouldn’t be so pessimistic.

©️2025 Ingrid Sapona

On being ... a good girl

By Ingrid Sapona

Some relationships and roles we have vis-à-vis others are immutable. For example, I’m the baby of the family. Doesn’t matter that I’m in my sixth decade — I will always be that and I’m treated as such in certain situations. But there are many relationships and roles we shape by our behaviour. For example, for most of my life in many relationships I’ve been seen as a good girl. As a child that usually meant doing as I was told. I didn’t find it hard, mind you, so why not? As I got older, being thought of as a good girl depended more on being studious and helpful. Again, as both these behaviours come pretty naturally to me, I’m pretty comfortable with that persona. 

But, there are times when being seen as a good girl is less than ideal. Recently, two very different situations brought this to mind. The first related to some volunteer work. I’m a relative newcomer to a volunteer committee. The committee holds a few events a year and various committee members volunteer to host each one. Sometime after the fall hosting assignments were set, the committee chair asked me to meet with her for a coffee. At that meeting she said the organization’s president suggested she ask me to co-host the event with her. 

I told her quite truthfully that of all the events, the one she’s working on is the least interesting to me. She smiled and said she understood, but she reiterated that she really needed my help. Knowing co-hosting was something I could do (though I really didn’t want to), ultimately I acquiesced. In consenting, I made it clear, however, that it’s not my cup of tea, but I would do it to help her out. (Read: I wanted to be a good girl.) 

At the event the organization president cornered me and said she hoped my co-hosting meant I’d consider joining the board. I told her quite plainly that I’m not interested in being on the board. She was taken aback by my response — clearly she thought she’d appeal to my inner good girl. Clearly offended, she huffed and said, “Well, I’m not going to beg”. My response was simply, “Thanks, I appreciate that”. She walked away and I could feel the good girl in me shudder, but grudgingly agreeing to join something isn’t particularly virtuous. 

In a further test of my good girl nature, someone from the same organization emailed me this week saying they understand I agreed to do X. I never agreed to any such thing. (No one had ever mentioned it to me, much less asked me to do it.) I simply responded that there must have been a misunderstanding as I’d not agreed to it and so someone else would have to be found. This time I didn’t even feel particularly bad for not going along — I just put my foot down.

Those little incidents were irksome, but nothing compared to a recent request from an elderly friend who asked me to help her navigate the U.S. health insurance maze. I was visiting her (I’ll call her Maggie) on a recent trip to the U.S. I love Maggie and in the past I’ve been happy to help her with things like her will and her home owners insurance. But I know nothing about the U.S. health insurance system. Other than being aware that it’s “open enrolment” time, which is why it came up, I’ve got no clue about the different coverage options or programs. Indeed, those of us living north of the border shake our head at all the ads and wonder how ordinary Americans (like Maggie) make sense of any of it.

I explained to Maggie that I can’t help because I’ve never even looked at such things and it’s very complicated. She insisted that there must be someplace I could call for help. She said that given my legal training, she was sure I could understand it all. I told her I didn’t think it was just a matter of making a call to get information. I explained that when my parents were alive my father looked after their health insurance and I never got involved. She was quite upset and we went round-and-round about it. 

All the drive home I felt terrible — like I had let her down. It means a lot to me that Maggie has faith in me and that she trusts me, but in this case, I think I was right to hold firm. I tried to take solace in the idea that making decisions that could prove to be detrimental to Maggie in the long run is worse than being of no help at the outset.

Anyway, though I’ve rationalized my behaviour in these different situations, the feeling of shedding my good girl status still niggles in the back of my mind. But, maybe it’s time to stop seeing my self as a good girl and instead embrace the notion of being a strong senior.

©️ 2025 Ingrid Sapona