I first spotted him walking the south corridor of the Oppenheim shops in the cold, morning air. He was old and thin but surprisingly tall, six feet and three inches at least, and upright. A peculiar smile was fixed to his lips as he scanned about and fluidly sauntered, dancer-like, window to window.

The man was hard to miss. Besides his height and curious behaviour, his fashion style grabbed attention. He wasn’t tailored to boring perfection like an Italian banker, or dressed by his family in L.L. Bean. No, this lanky old dandy put himself together, undoubtedly, and he knew what he was doing. The hippest man on the scene.

He wore healed, black boots, broken-in but maintained well. His pants were thin-wale corduroy jeans, slim-cut, the colour of faded wheat. An unexpected choice for a senescent gentleman, but looking good nevertheless. I immediately wanted a pair. A thigh-length overcoat, clearly wool, was buttoned-up high to ward off the cold. Its black houndstooth pattern tempered the light-coloured jeans and gave some heft to the thin man’s frame. A scarf of some ethnic origin and fine material wrapped his neck like a lazy serpent. Topping it off, and complimenting his white beard and mustache, was a grey fedora of exceptional style. The milliners at Mühlbauer could not have produced better. The crown’s top was pinched and kneaded to liking. The brim was wavy and traveled. Only a slim hatband was apparent. No feather, pin, or else broke the simple spell.

From demeanour to fashion, the old man was au natural. His style defied his years, or maybe he defied expectations of aging. Whatever it was, I stayed out in the cold and admired him for it while my wife slipped into a kitchen shop. Maybe he was waiting for his wife too, but it didn’t seem like it. He wasn’t waiting idly, in any case. He glided around the walkway with measure and ease — striding, swinging, pivoting. His gleeful expression was ever-present. When my wife exited the shop, I nodded in the old zingaro’s direction. She looked and paused momentarily. ‘Stylish,’ was her only word before setting off again.

We moved on, hand in arm, and I thought about my own age. The years between the old man and I were probably not many. I would be his age, if lucky enough to make it, in as much time as I’ve been in France and married. A period as fleet as a summer vacation. It struck me odd that I would think of him as old, then realized people in their thirties probably think the same of me. How we feel about ourselves is what matters; how we feel in the heart and soul. My old soul gets younger with age, like a Benjamin Button, but my body keeps me abreast of the truth. The spry, old man I watched that morning was someone to take inspiration from.

Fifteen minutes later we were perusing shoes in Josef Seibel. I had forgotten the old man entirely. Then suddenly there he was again, dance-walking the aisle next to me with the same bemused look, like he knew the meaning of life and wanted to guard it a while. I figured he probably did know. His age was more apparent up close, older than I first thought, belied by his manner and style. His eyes were glassy, though it could have been the cold. His hands were bony and fragile. His skin was loose and pale, almost translucent. Blue veins were easy to see. I watched him more intently this time, hoping to make eye contact. When he finally looked my way, I motioned to his splendid hat and said in a mix of French and German, ‘Beau chapeau, monsieur. Wunderbar!’

The simple words in two languages, spoke with an accent that belonged to neither, were not entirely ridiculous in this border town where French and German shoppers mixed equally. One tongue was likely to register if not both. My gesture was clear in any case. His smile enlarged tenfold. He nodded and emitted speech I could not understand. Not a language, but constrained words. Impaired. Perhaps a past stroke, or an injury, though there was no physical sign of one. Or maybe he’d always been that way. Whatever the case, his language, like his style, was his own. I smiled back encouragingly. I knew he understood me by whatever means, if gesture alone. I knew he was saying thanks. He turned away again, a little quickly, but with the grace of someone having done it a lot. Perhaps avoiding the need for more exchange, understandably. But he was obviously pleased.

I rejoined my wife, who had not been far, and we idled towards the door. She had heard the old gentleman and leaned in to speak low to me. ‘There’s a problem.’ I shrugged and thought to myself, there’s no problem there.

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