When I walked down the street and crossed the Battant bridge (pont Battant),
I could slowly traced my friendship with the Toitot to Grande street (Grande rue).
That Saturday afternoon in 1995, while I was window shopping alone at the Grande street, I met with Eckhard who was also idling alone by chance. This German guy was a classmate of mine and we had been quite close because of our mutual help in grammar and vocabulary.
Eckhard invited me for a drink in a cafe where he talked about the reason why he was learning French in Besançon:
One day he heard some nice music coming from a small church in Munich. By curiosity he entered the building and found an Asian lady who had also been attracted by the same music. Through their conversation in English, he learnt that Eriko, the Japanese sweetie, was learning art and the French language in Besançon and travelling in Europe. They had a good impression on each other, so they exchanged their address and began their correspondence.
As they got to know each other more and more, Eriko told Eckhard about her difficulty in expressing herself in English, the German gentleman decided to learn French in order to communicate better with her. And of course he chose Besançon on Eriko's advice, although the latter had already returned to Japan. When Eckhard came to Besançon, several people that Eriko had known were already ready to receive him.
"Let me introduce a French family to you. They are very nice people."
Without much hesitation, I followed him to the Battant rue and I can still hear the bell ringing when we pushed the door of the fur coat shop. The smiling faces of Ernest and Nicole appeared and approached us. The French-Malaysian friendship was then given birth.
Echkhard introduced me to them and I gave them a brief account of my profile in my elementary level of French. I was not the first Asian student they knew. Before me, they already had a small list: Eriko (Japanese), Takeko (Japanese), Qi-Yun (Korean), Jui-Chu (Taiwanese) and Philippe (Chinese from China). The couple had been trained with the foreigners to slowly articulate words and ask simple questions in their mother tongue.
It was early afternoon.
"Would you like to spend the weekend with us in the countryside?" said Ernest to both of us.
"With pleasure. But I have nothing with me." I was surprised at his prompt invitation.
"You just pack some clothes and come back here by six. We'll be closing the shop and leaving then."
The following eight years, I often walked up the Battant street alone with my rucksack at the same hour. And it became the most familiar street to me in Besançon.
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