During our van trips, Jo and I ended up spending one night at a huge RV park. We’d chosen the spot after a long drive, partly because we were too lazy to look for a secluded spot, and partly out of curiosity. Because these RV parks are a whole world of their own. It seems to be a way of life. Row upon row of massive vehicles, some towing a car or a trailer, some with their own generators. All sealed off; the only sign of life inside is satellite dishes pointed toward other horizons.
Encounter
It was late; we parked between a large RV and a small van (the only one at the rest area) that looked just like ours. It was reassuring to feel the proximity of a more down-to-earth way of traveling. Eric emerged from that other van fairly quickly—a traveler from Alsace spending a few days on the coast. With very blue eyes and a cheerful demeanor typical of someone in his forties, he greeted us with a jovial smile.
I was tired, slightly annoyed by the drive. I wanted silence, not the bland small talk that often accompanies these encounters that are quickly forgotten. I, too, wanted to close the door and shut myself away in our little space. But Eric wanted to talk. And Jojo, with his natural kindness and easy way with words, answered the inevitable questions about the truck, its equipment, and its technical features—all those things that bore me to tears and from which my mind tunes out as if by a survival instinct.
But you see, it was December 25th, and when Eric offered to open his nice bottle of Crémant d’Alsace—because we were friendly neighbors and because it was Christmas—it pulled me out of my little psychological shell. I saw a lonely man, sleeping in a small truck at an incredibly depressing rest stop, after having driven across France during the holiday season. In short, I softened; for a moment, I set my little self aside to finally take an interest in the other person. I remember consciously inviting myself to be open and welcoming, encouraging myself to see in Eric a full humanity worthy of my time and curiosity.
Judgment Despite Myself
So Eric settled into our truck, and we opened the bottle of Crémant. I asked him lots of questions—who he is, what he likes, where and how he lives—not as a conversational strategy but because I was genuinely interested. Eric is a bus driver; he loves his job. He’s been working on the same route for years and is well-liked by the regulars, who’ve even given him a nickname—“straw hat”—because that’s his trademark: he wears a straw hat no matter the season. He drives the same bus—it’s practically his own—and he’s lucky enough to be able to park it not far from his home. His shift is 14 hours long; he wakes up at 5:20 a.m.—with a 2-hour break during the day, he can go grocery shopping. That’s also why he’s paid so well—€2,200 net per month. Thanks to that, he was able to buy the truck and plan a few new upgrades.
Eric is talkative; time has flown by, and so has the bottle. A portrait then emerges in my mind of a generous yet lonely man—loving but with few people around him. I silently congratulate myself for having given him my attention; it’s actually a nice moment. I think to myself that Eric could make for a great subject in my book project. I’m touched by this unexpected encounter and appreciate the chance to cross paths with lives so different from my own.
Until Eric mentions a child, then a second one, an ex-wife, and a house he sold. Then my little inner scenario crumbles, along with the whole story I’d projected onto this man. I even feel a sense of disappointment—he isn’t so alone after all; he’s had a love life, with its sorrows and joys. He’s here by choice, not out of spite.
Eric’s life suddenly takes on depth and richness, and I realize—oh, the irony—that my welcome, which I thought was completely open and neutral, was in fact tinged with judgment. Positive, certainly, but judgmental nonetheless. I turned a human being into a “flat character,” as they say in English—a one-dimensional character, used to embody a quality in a very obvious way. I turned Eric into the “unloved good guy,” thereby robbing him of the possibility of being anything else. In my desire to do the right thing—of course—I reduced a human being to a vague caricature.
Non-judgment as a guiding principle
There’s no moral to this story. Just the realization of our mind’s incredible ability to construct stories we believe in, to form judgments—even subtle ones—that narrow our worlds and prevent open, direct perception. Behind the stories we tell ourselves lies a dense, multidimensional world—complex humanities and varied modes of presence—that our judgments, often hasty even when well-intentioned, cannot fully grasp.
Non-judgment, it seems to me, is therefore much more of a direction than a result—it is to be cultivated as an intention rather than as an end in itself. It requires an honest look at all our conscious and less conscious mental strategies, at all our little psychological constructs that we use to shape others in our own image.