This is a story about a gorgeous park, a dumpster dive, and how sometimes I get little reminders that the world is full of good things, and good people.

My visit to Jardin du Luxembourg was impressive. I hopped on a bus, and immediately embarrassed myself by paying with a subway ticket. I’d brought a light brunch with me—an iced coffee and a salmon-avocado baguette—and made my way to what I thought was the Orangerie. On a Monday, it was closed—but walking through the gardens, I was taken away everything going on.

The garden itself is split into two facets over 25 hectares; there’s the French garden, and the English garden. If I’m being honest, I can’t tell where one ended and the other began. But what I can tell you is that there was so much to enjoy about this park—children racing sailboats in the huge fountain; students studying textbooks and having picnics surrounded by tall trees; a fountain that told the story of Greek gods that I couldn’t quite make out; teen equestrians taking pony rides.

This is what really made public spaces in Paris special to me; it was so clear that, rather than being tourist traps, or places where simply sitting on a chair came with a price tag (looking at you, London), these were places where locals were making use of the space—to rest, to read, to connect with others, or just to be outside in nature.

Paris felt like a place where I felt like an outsider as a tourist; I longed to feel like I could call myself a local, and I could take for granted that beautiful public spaces would be here to welcome me.

I didn’t, though—I still felt like a Canadian, walking around on the outside looking in. I took some pictures of the statuesque trees—at least 30 feet tall and manicured with perfect right-angled corners. I lingered by the empty fountain. I took pictures. After a few hours, I decided to head to a local souvenir shop that had been recommended to me, Marin Montagut.

When I got to the stationery shop, about 10 minutes away, I searched for my camera to take a picture. After rifling through my bag for at least five minutes, there was only one conclusion I could come to:

I’d left my camera in the park.

Panic set in slowly. I immediately started hot-stepping it back to the park, trying to temper my racing heartbeat. All my photos and videos are on that camera, I thought.

It’s gone by now, was my immediate reaction. Who would see a camera like that and not just take it?

They could resell it online.

There’s no identification on it, even if they wanted to get it back to me they couldn’t.

Do they have Craigslist here? Maybe if someone stole it then they would be open to selling me back the SD card, at least.

All these thoughts swirled in my head as I retraced my steps. I found the location I last remembered having it; not there. I retraced my steps between that spot and the exit to the park; nothing.

I considered the one thing I’d done while leaving the park; I’d thrown out my sandwich wrapper. Was it possible that in a moment without thought, I had disposed not only of my sandwich wrapper, but of everything in my hands? Was it possible that I’d thrown away my camera?

There was only one thing to do; I went back to the small wooden shed where I’d thrown away my wrapper. I couldn’t see into the slot where I’d thrown away my trash, and the shed was locked. So in a moment I’m not proud of, I picked the lock with the use of my long nails and a bobby pin, and let myself into the garbage, rolling out the dumpster to examine its contents.

All I can say is Thank Goodness that the dumpster wasn’t too full. It was large and mostly empty, and with the help of a long stick I was able to move around the garbage enough to the point where I could tell my camera wasn’t in it.

By this point, I was near hyperventilating. I thought about all the memories that were on my camera, how much of this trip I’d enjoyed already—everything that was lost.

I called my boyfriend in London to calm down, and to talk through what was happening. I was really hoping he would say “have you checked the secret pocket in your purse?” and BAM! There it would be!! And I’d be a fool, but at least I’d have my camera.

No such luck. Although he lamented with me, he confirmed that I’d done everything a normal, not-panicked person would have done. After hanging up with him, I went back to the last place I’d seen my camera again.

And this time, I saw someone I’d seen before—a maintenance worker. I immediately went up to him, and—in my broken French—asked if he’d seen a camera. He said no, but he told me there was a help “hut” nearby for guest services. I thanked him profusely and set off, trying to calm down the hopeful part of me—after all, who would turn in a camera?

Well, it turns out—a good person. Because it was waiting for me in the lost & found!

I wish I’d had a chance to say thank-you to whoever turned it in; they were long gone by the time I’d received it. But I was—and still am!—so grateful to whoever saw it and thought, someone must be missing this. I’m so grateful I got it back, and that I was able to share all these pictures with you!

Also in the lost and found office was a woman who, in an attempt to make me feel better, told me she’d lost her whole purse and had it returned; it had her passport, her children’s passports, her phone with ticket information (“And we’re flying to Portugal tomorrow, it would have been a disaster!”). I told her my story of breaking into the dumpster and riffling through garbage, and I think she felt better too. But it showed me; there really are good people in the world, who return things without rewards or blackmail, just because it’s the right thing to do. Thank you, stranger. And thank you to the Jardins du Luxembourg staff for getting it back to me safely!