Hapuna Bay Beach, Hawai'i -- December 27, 2008

Hapuna Bay Beach, Hawai'i -- Making our way an hour-and-a-half from Pahala to Hapuna Bay, we encountered the interesting and endangered Hawaiian Goose, the state bird, also known as the "Ne ne" (pronounced as "nay nay"). These geese have adapted to the harsh lava terrain by growing claws instead of foot webbing and their wings are adapted more for short flights. Spitting little lava pebbles as we slowed down to get some pictures, several cars behind us were surprised by our change in speed; we learned a new meaning for the word "aloha."

After getting a few snaps of these very docile birds, we continued on our way higher and higher up to the crest of more than 4000 feet by the Volcanoes National Park; a sniff of a strong odor meant that we were having a strong vog* day. We rolled up the windows and recirculated the air inside the car until the outside air cleared. We drove north towards Hilo and then west around the top curve of the island to make our way to the Kohala Coast. We drove through gulch and waterfall country, through plains and ranchlands, and finally saw the coast and made our way to one of the most beautiful beaches I've ever seen.

Silky soft sand, a gentle breeze, warm water, gentle waves perfect for bodyboarding, a great bay in a very protected setting. Even though the day was warm (in the 80s--at the moment--here, you can blink and the weather changes), the sand was perfectly cool to walk upon.

Elliott ran to the water and swam and romped and bodysurfed for hours. Our friends were leaving today, but they wanted a last bit of time at this beach, which an online friend had suggested to me (thanks, Oona!).

As I got settled on the beach, I overheard a woman behind me telling her companion about the whales following other whales, and so on. I had to ask her whether there had been any whale sightings; she said yes, and pointed to the sea as one of the behemoths jumped out of the water in a wonderful display of black and white.

The only other time I had seen whales was in Sayulita, Mexico from a huge distance and I could barely make out their water spouts; these were much closer and the water spouts looked huge. Another woman told me that the water spouts have been measured at 300 miles per hour! After a few small leaps, the action died down and I figured the show was over for the day, so we ate lunch, chatted, took photos, swam, and sunned.

After Gary left to take our friends to the airport, the pod of whales came through again! This time, they were coming way up out of the water, turning in the air, and falling back in. It was so magnificent that I almost forgot to take photos. The one in my photo album that shows the whale is grainy and not very good, but it is a good reminder for my memory.

This beautiful vacation is almost over, just a few more days to go. Each day has brought a new discovery or experience that makes me more and more in awe of this majestic island. When I return to the mainland, I will write more in-depth stories of my days here; I've kept notes in my journal to keep things fresh.

Coming here has opened my eyes to just how varied a place our earth is and I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to exploring more and more of it with each new step on this blessed soil.



* vog is a volcano term for high levels of gas emitted from the volcano that mixes with water vapor and sulfur dioxide--smells yucky and can be dangerous to your health

Monsoon . . . .

. . . well, that's what it feels like today. Twelve straight hours of heavy rain; flash-flood warnings, and no sign of the downpour letting up. After a very exciting day yesterday four-wheeling through miles of wild and wacky dirt and boulder trails, finding the Green Sand Beach, realizing we had to climb down a cliff to get there (!!!), enjoying a gorgeous afternoon sunning and bodysurfing, we started our trek home and the rains start.

Lightning in the distance over the far mountains got closer and closer and louder and louder. The rain came in spurts, building as we drove up the coast from the Southernmost point in the United States to our little village of Pahala.

During a lull in the weather, Gary started a fire in the outdoor lava rock grill at the house while Morgan and I concocted a very special marinade for the chicken--soy sauce, island honey, pineapple, and garlic. Try it, it's amazingly good!

Gary slapped the chicken onto the grill and down came the rain; he stalwartly stayed out there, umbrella covering the grill, until all the grilling was done: twelve pieces of chicken, romaine lettuce, and fresh pineapple rings. The rain did not let up. He came in soaked but successful and the dinner, which also included garlicky green beans, was super delicious.

A plus with the rain is that the Jeep is a lot cleaner than when we arrived last night after our cross-country trek. We had so much fun, yet there were quite a few stressful moments when we considered walking--sraight up runs where only sky was visible as we climbed a very steep incline or red dirt where all we saw were boulders and mud. Inside the jeep, we were rolled around like dice in a gambler's hand. Yeehaw!

I was never so happy to arrive at a destination, but THEN, much to my chagrin, the Green Sand Beach was as the bottom of a very long drop in the bowl of Mahala Bay. Very picturesque and very green, but we had to climb down--yikes! Strapping our bags onto our backs, we made our way downn the "steps" into the bowl--ended up not being as harrowing as it looked from above, but STILL.

After a great lunch of tomato, cucumber, cheese, and avocado sandwiches on the amazing sweet bread they have here, the frolicking began. Much bodysurfing was done by the group while I totally enjoyed protecting the shoreline from pirate marauders and sharks. A few green turtles poked their heads up out of the water to see what was going on.

It was a terrific day by anybody's standards. We cursed the guidebook that called this area a "mild natural curiosity." Phooey on them! Just wait until I write my retaliatory notes. En garde!

Photographs and Memories (with a nod to Jim Croce)

For photos from the Hawai'i trip, please visit here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/11609140@N03/sets/72157611983868105/

For photos from Paris and Etrepy, France, please visit here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/11609140@N03/sets/72157612037542962/


More travelogues from the Hawai'i trip are on the horizon! Happy reading!

The Big Island -- Getting There

The flight from Baltimore to Phoenix, Arizona (the first leg of our trip to the Big Island of Hawai’i) left at 7am on Saturday, December 20. We stayed at the Sheraton near the airport Friday night so that we could just roll out of bed in the morning, hop the airport shuttle, and leave the car until we returned in a few weeks. Much easier than getting up at 3am and driving in the hopes of making it to the airport on time; I’m always eagerly happy to alleviate any amount of stress during the adventures of travelling.

Made the flight on time, but was sad to find out that when the refreshment carts rolled around, we were asked to PAY for drinks and food. This was so different from my flights to and from France; on those flights, everything was gratis (yes, I know I probably paid for it somewhere, but still . . .). We had delicious meals with bread and cheese and wine and even Champagne on the return trip. And now, here I’m finding I am asked to pay $7.00 for a half sandwich and a few pieces of fruit. Sad, sad, sad.

But I digress. The first leg was a little over six hours, with the second running about seven hours. Elliott was surprisingly easy to keep busy as he had just received a PSP game system from his grandparents the night before for Hanukah. I found it hard to sleep in those cramped seats and wished the whole row would clear out so that I could stretch out and snooze. A little stress arose when the pilot announced that we were running a bit late and that those of us going on to Hawai’I may have a run to make the connection.

Run we did, and we made the connection with just minutes to spare. On the next flight, I mused about how we had gotten to the point of taking such a big trip as a family. A friend from my Fellowship owns a house in Pahala, on the K’au side of the island. (After being there for a few days, I called it the “wild” side because it was so far away from the resort side and we could drive for miles and not meet another car. That, and the fact that the Kilauea volcano exploded again as early as April of this year.) Anyway, my friend mentioned the house, she had taken a friend with her, and he showed me a picture of the volcano and the seed was planted in my head.

I do things rather spontaneously, though I do like some planning, but for some reason, I knew we had to go to Hawai’i. The fact that the house was off the beaten track helped; I love staying at a resort as much as the next person, but you really don’t get the flavor of where you are visiting by staying in a hotel or resort. You’re shown only a certain side of the place unless you choose to travel outside the resort. By staying in a village with mostly permanent residents, we would be in the mix. I liked that idea.

So, almost as soon as I got back from Europe, we worked on getting this trip together. Quite a few people were surprised that we opted to bring Elliott along, thinking it would be a romantic getaway, but it was never a question for us. We knew he would love it; he’s a beach boy at heart.

When we got to the Kona International Airport, we were happily surprised to find an almost quaint airport; we disembarked via air steps (last time that happened was in Mexico) and the airport was mostly open air. What a refreshing change from endless glass walls and monotonously long hallways!

Retrieving our baggage, I jokingly asked where the Hawai’ian girls were with the leis who are supposed to greet us when we land. Too many viewings of Elvis Presley’s “Blue Hawai’I” have jaded me. Alas! That tradition is no longer.

After our bags had been fetched, Elliott and I grabbed lighter shirts and went to find a place to change. As we met up again and turned the corner to meet up with Gary, there he was with leis for the both of us. How wonderful! The beautiful scents washed over us and I finally felt we had arrived.

We rented a convertible car for the trip, so, with top down, we started our trip to the house in Pahala. We drove by coffee plantations, art studios, surf shops, macadamia nut plantations, rain forests, and too many flowering plants to count. Up and up we went and our ears popped. The scents were delicious, the sun warm, and the surf was up.

The house in Pahala was perfect; we pulled in under the carport, and settled in. A large yard surrounded the house, with springy, yes, springy, grass in the yard. It felt like you could bounce on it. Flowering and fruiting trees in the back yard drew us in with the colors and aromas. Pahala is a small town, with a mixture of folks, but since Hawai’I is made up of a variety of people, we were not surprised.

We had done some grocery shopping just south of Pahala on the way to the house and suffered from a bit of sticker shock until we realized that most of the items we picked up had to be shipped from somewhere else. The fresh fruits and some meats were very inexpensive, surprisingly. We picked up a loaf of Hawai’ian bread, which proved to be the beginning of a sweet addiction. The local bakery there in Naalehu, called the Punalu’u Bakery, bakes fresh every day a wonderfully delicious bread that they shape into long loaves, rolls, or buns. They also bake buttery shortbread cookies enhanced with amazing flavors of banana, coconut, coffee, ginger, guava, passion fruit, and pineapple. Here’s their website in case you’re interested in some of their goods: www.bakeshophawaii.com

That night, groceries unpacked and luggage stowed, we snuggled down in our beds. We all had a hard time sleeping, not just because we were in a new place, but because we knew that we were in a very special place and blessed to have the opportunity to spend time here discovering the Big Island’s rugged beauty and sultry charm.

Next: Black Sand Beach, Yellow Butterflies, and Green Turtles

Last Full Day in Paris

22 October, 2008 -- Last Full Day in Paris

Reading my journal of the last day in Paris makes me realize how optimistic I can be about my endurance in getting around this magnificent city. I had hoped to cover both islands in the Seine, the Ile Saint-Louis and the Ile de la Cite. After that, I felt I had enough time to find the Shakespeare & Company book store, visit the famous Latin Quarter, and then hop the Metro to make it back to the Eiffel Tower in time for the nightly illumination. NOT!

The two islands were wonderful and I actually walked around the Ile-Saint Louis two times because I enjoyed it so much. The architecture was astounding—the cutwork church steeple was quite striking, the shops (and some of their operators) just lovely, and the numerous cafes just brimming with people made me feel at home. The area seems to retain much of an older, historical aura. As I rounded one corner during my walking tour, I noticed an open door to what I thought was a church. I pushed open the door, barely entered, and looked around. From across the not-very-wide street, I heard “Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle?” (These guys get kudos for just that . . . .) A construction worker sitting in his truck with a coworker signaled to me that I should not be going in the building—it was a work in progress (darn, I’d forgotten my hardhat in the truck across the ocean), so I backed out and said, “Pardon. Merci!” Ooops, wrong church.

I continued on down the street, loving the window shopping, until I was drawn into an art gallery that was full of beautiful sculptures. And ooooo la la, the owner was quite a fine specimen, too. Latin music was playing in the background as I pondered how I might get one of these fine sculptures into my already over-stuffed luggage. As I did not get any brilliant ideas, I asked the owner whether they shipped overseas; he said yes and handed me a business card. Our eyes met, our hands touched, and . . . and . . . I said “Merci!” and walked out of the store, albeit slowly. (Sigh.)

When I made it over to the Ile de Cite, where the Notre Dame stands, I noticed a lot of police activity and limousines driving up to the back of the grand church. I stopped for a lunch of salad, French fries, bread, and a glass of wine. Ever so often during my lunch, about four or five policemen would come in to take a break and use the facilities (which were co-ed and downstairs). They’d march down the steps in formation, a few minutes would pass, and then they would march back up in a line, each saying “Merci” to the proprietor as they went back to their stations outside. This probably happened three times as I dined; nice scenery and very polite scenery at that.

An English family came in during my time there and the two little girls ordered “hot dogs”; their surprise was audible when their sandwiches came out measuring about a foot long each. Five beautiful French girls were shown to an outside table right in the front of my window; I enjoyed watching them smoke, drink coffee, and eat crepes. One girl with a black bob and turquoise sunglasses was most definitely the fashion queen of the group.

The wine had mellowed me even more than usual, so I headed out to tour the Notre Dame with high color in my cheeks. Unfortunately, the one day I had set aside to do this tour was also a day of recognition for a nun, Sister Emmanuelle, who had recently died. There were notable politicians speaking, a large film screen showing the Sister doing her charitable works, and there were thousands of people listening on the sidelines. Obviously, this woman was quite the icon to the French people. So I did what any woman might do in this predicament: I shopped.

This is one thing that I did not do much of during my trip up to now. I decided it was time for me to pick up a few tchotchkes for my family and a few friends. Because the street I was on was directly across from the Notre Dame, it was littered with souvenir shops, most looking just like the other. I finally ducked into the one that had some cool cooking aprons on a rack on the sidewalk. I bought one with the different breads of France on it for my daughter and her husband, a scarf for my older son, a cap for my youngest son, and other odds and ends that caught my eye. I enjoyed the shop and the shopkeeper noticed I was amassing quite a pile and offered me a basket to consolidate my purchases.

After I had checked out and was exiting the store, she called me back. Curious, I re-entered the store. She said, in English, “I have something I want to give you!” She rummaged around in her key-rings, and frustratededly cried out, “I can’t find it!” “But here, I would like you to have this!”; she presented me with a key ring that had faux diamonds and a heart and the Eiffel Tower—totally not my style, but it was thoughtful of her to do it, so I thanked her. She smiled and said, “The one I wanted for you, it was 'Shop ‘Til You Drop!'” I laughed, waved, and said, “Au revoir!”

The French people are generally not going to seek out an American tourist and be nice to them just to give them a good experience of France; they really don’t care. But, the few instances where someone went out of their way to be kind to me really meant a lot. Of course, I must remember that at the other end of the spectrum were those gigolos with their “come hither” looks my first day in town. Yikes!

So, still feeling a little high from my wine at lunch, I started walking along the Seine on the Rive Gauche. For some reason, I felt compelled to walk and walk and walk. If you look at a map and note where the two islands are (at about 1:00 on a clockface), take your finger and follow the shoreline around until you get to the Eiffel Tower (at about 10:00). I walked the whole way there. I saw vendors and buyers and lovers and boat captains and tourists and iron rings and quais and bridges and museums and walls made of living plants and two apartments that I really adored from afar. I felt a breeze in the air, the leaves crunching underfoot (but you have to be careful because picking up after dogs here is not standard practice—so crunching is GOOD). I smelled fresh bread and cheese and fish and people and the river. I saw beautiful, avant-garde fashions in store windows, small cars lined up in parallel rows of wonderful symmetry, flowers in windowboxes, a barge turned tourboat with an actual yard of grass and flowers, an old man being photographed for a magazine, angles and curves of ancient stone. I heard music from a one-man band, a thousand different languages, the clatter of heels on the sidewalks, the chug of a tugboat, the roar of motorcycle engines, the sizzle of a crepe on the pan.

This City, which I would be shortly leaving, had grown on me and I was missing it already. I was subconsciously storing memories so that I could dredge them up again when I felt the desire to be in this lovely place again. I walked so far that I had to stop several times to rub my aching feet; I passed by Metro stations galore, but felt I had to keep walking. I walked until the natural light dimmed. I walked until I found myself back where I had begun in Paris—at the Eiffel Tower. I walked out onto the green and just sat. I waited for the illumination. I watched a young man attempt to capture the perfect self portrait by digital camera. I saw horses being led away by their trainer. I saw people rushing by on their way from work to their apartments.

Sadly, I knew I would not find that bookstore and the Latin Quarter would just have to wait until I made my next visit. I’ve heard it said that one should always have unfinished business in Paris; that I do, and at that moment, I promised myself that I would be back, and soon. Time and life are too short not to embrace these moments of absolute perfection. I was happy. I was satisfied. Bittersweet tears sprang to my eyes. And, at that moment, the Eiffel Tower was illuminated. And so was I.

You Can Go Home Again!

October 21, 2008 in Paris/Etrepy

Paris had been calling to me for many years; why it took me so long to go back I'll never know. A generous birthday gift from Gary provided the means for this and several other trips I hope to take within the next year.

After the UU service on Sunday, Lisa and I talked a little bit about the country visit I planned to make to Etrepy. She offered to help me put the trip together, just as Severine had done. I told her I already had schedules and the like; it would be getting out there and just doing it, but I was a little nervous thinking about doing it by myself. With that, I asked if she'd be interested in accompanying me on the trip. She said she could do it on Tuesday, so we met early to catch the metro to the Gare d'lest (East Train). We took the train to Chalons-en-Champagne. The land changed from city to suburb to green countryside with picturesque small towns popping up occasionally. Lisa and I talked and laughed and we arrived at our destination in no time.

Checking in with the clerk at the rail station, we were told that the Avis Rental Car office was just across the street. It was a few minutes after noon, so I estimated we'd be in the town of Etrepy by at least 2pm. Walking across the street to rent the car got me quite excited. Alas! The Avis store was CLOSED for lunch! Aaaaarrrrgggghhhh! What we had forgotten is that in France, lunches are very important and can be quite lengthy—the clerk at Avis most likely would be GONE until 2pm. Oh no, what to do?

Lisa thought quickly and motioned for us to go back to the station. Using her expert skills in both French and bargaining, she transferred our tickets to catch a train leaving in a few minutes for a town a bit farther south; St. Dizier. From there, Lisa found, we could get a car and then drive a much shorter route to Etrepy. At least we'd be getting closer to our destination rather than waiting around for the Avis guy to finish eating his baguette. So we're on the train again and got a compartment this time, thinking it would be private, but a young couple bounces in and makes themselves at home, talking quietly and playing with their cell phones. I wasn't bothered by them and continued my usual conversation, but after a while, Lisa motioned that we should leave the compartment and find another one. We were close to our destination anyway, so we made our way down the train to stand by the exit.

Happy to be in St. Dizier, we found that the rental car agency was in the center of town, quite a walk from where we were. We asked about a taxi and were told to talk to the guy who ran the bar next door. A big burly guy behind the bar was surprisingly nice and understanding and got on the phone right away to call his taxi-driving friend, whom, he said, would have enjoyed driving us the whole way to Etrepy, except that she had to take someone to the hospital within the hour.

Several moments later, a little car zooms up to the bar, a bleached-blonde woman at the wheel. I sat in front, though really Lisa should have since I'm not fluent in French. The driver was full of energy and talked a mile a minute; all of which went right over my head. About a minute into the drive, I realized I had not put on my seatbelt; by this time were moving at a fairly nice clip, so just putting on the belt had me dealing with quite a bit of G-Force. I loved it!

We zoomed up to the rental car place, I paid the taxi driver, who had not stopped talking once, and we got out in a drizzle of rain. Short minutes and 100 Euros later, we were throwing our bags into the back of a little blue car and we were on our way to Etrepy! As we drove around the city (several times, by mistake), Lisa apprised me of the rules of the road, like the crazy thing of allowing people coming in from the right to have the right of way, unless we were on a specially designated road. I learned about the roundabouts and the speed limits.

Finally, we were out of the city and driving down beautiful country roads. Lisa said she could tell that I'd been driving a stick-shift for a long time because I was so obviously comfortable with it. Straight out driving, then round a curve, and another gorgeous little town would rise up to meet us. We had fairly good directions, but had somehow ended up on the back roads. I was quite impressed with how clean the roadsides were and the extent to which the Forestry Service was replanting and monitoring the trees in the area. It was good to see. Getting more excited as we passed the towns between St. Dizier and Etrepy, I was still very overwhelmed when the sign to Etrepy appeared before me. I was overcome and the tears flowed.

Lisa probably thought I was a lunatic, but she was very kind and gentle when she suggested we just pull over on the roadside so that I could collect myself and we would walk from there. I was shaking as I grabbed my camera and locked the door. We had parked near the driveway of a lovely stone home that was across a bridge for the stream. We saw that a millrace had been in operation there some time ago, as the water pouring out of the race made a waterfall. Lush and green, the trees were turning, but many flowers still bloomed in the field and in the flowerboxes on the town's houses.

It was cool and drizzly, but we walked on, my heart pounding. Still, nothing looked very familiar and I was fearful of finding the house. The village was eerily deserted and quiet. Up ahead, we saw the old church, majestic and tall, with an adjoining graveyard. In front of the graveyard, there was a gazebo-style roof to something that was underground; now this was seeming closer to home. I ran to the site and saw the underground spring where my mother and her neighbor women used to gather to wash clothes by hand while us children would play about the water and the green.

A statue of a young boy riding on the back of a goose still spouting water after these 44 years of my absence. Lisa offered to take photos of me there and the joy on my face is very genuine. Climbing the steps back up to level ground, I joined Lisa again and we continued walking up the street. To my right was a home that was a chalet-style building and I realized it was the one from the old photos of our street, looking down from our house. To my left was the Mayor's office, Number 7; I posed for another photo, only to find out later that not only was this the Mayor's office, it was also the location of my first school. We did hear children out back, so a school it must still be.

My eyes followed the road up toward the two-lane highway and there it was, on the right, my old house! More beautiful than ever, the brick clean, the wood on the garage doors shiny and new, and flowers, there were so many flowers. This was the most flower bedecked house in the neighborhood. Since I'd lived there, concrete flower boxes had been placed at the front of the stairs and along the ground level of the house. They were all full of beautiful blooms. Lace curtains hung in the kitchen window and everything looked freshly painted and very well cared for.

Directly across the street, in the yard that used to house those loud chickens back in the day, was a yard green with grass now and some deserted rabbit hutches listing to one side. On the concrete wall just below the wire fencing, I could still see the outline of where the old gravel/chicken poop pile sat. Next door lived a dog loudly protesting our visit to anyone who would listen. Before starting back down the hill to retrace our steps to the car, I stood a while longer just looking at the old house where I had lived and had had so many good memories. I thought about my mother, long gone, and my father and my sisters home in the States, and my grandfather, Georg, who would visit us from Munich and would bring along his son, my uncle Hans. As I turned away, I felt full and satisfied.

Walking by the courtyard, I remembered climbing into the limbs of the cherry tree where cherries used to drip like honey. The tree is long gone now, the area grown over with grass and wildflowers.It was getting colder and more rainy, so we walked more briskly back to the car. I would stop occasionally to see whether I could find my old neighbors' name on the labels, but to no avail. We got in the car and I realized that I didn't know how to put the gearshift in reverse! Oh no! What now? I made a tight turn, but could not quite make the full 360 without hitting something, so I let go the clutch, the car's engine sputtered out, and then rolled back exactly to where I needed it to be. Yay!

We drove slowly down the street cracking up over how well that maneuver has worked out for us. We saw a woman standing outside her house and I slowed down while Lisa rolled down her window. She queried the woman about who might know the folks who had lived there so long ago and we were directed to a small house down the street on the left with bright green shutters. Thanking the woman, we drove a little further to find that an elderly gentleman was standing next to the same house we'd been directed to.

Lisa asked the man about Madame Annique; yes, he did remember her! She had married and moved to a town named Sermaise, where she and her husband opened a café and bar. We got excited. We had to drive through that town on the way back to catch our evening train back to Paris. Maybe we could find the bar! We thanked this kind man and hit the highway.

During our drive there, I remarked to Lisa that I had been carrying postcards with me all week forgetting to send them; at one point, she said to pull over quickly. I did and we pulled into a post office parking lot. Brilliant! We got out and just as we turned to take the steps into the building, two women stepped out and locked the door! When asked about the timing, they looked at us as if we should have known that the Post Office closes at 4:30. We ran back to the car and remembered about the reverse—Lisa gamely pushed from the front as we moved backward to go forward again without hitting a wall. We were about giddy at this time.We drove into Sermaise, parked the car again when we saw a possible candidate for the café/bar we were looking for and walked in to query the guy behind the bar. He looked perplexed and said that the name did not sound familiar and that he was sorry. A very nice kitty cat came over and played with my leg; the guy said it would not scratch, but it definitely used me as a scratching post (in a nice way).

We got back out to the car and I burst out laughing because, can you guess? Once again, I had forgotten to park where I could easily get out. So Lisa was at the front again, pushing me backwards until I got clearance. My jaws were starting to hurt from all the craziness and laughing. We were quickly running out of time to make our train in St. Dizier, so tension was heightened and the laughs, though nervous, came easier and easier. We got into St. Dizier with only a few minutes to spare and glory be! We could not find out way over to the side where the train station was located; we looped around several times and wondered if we'd totally lost our bearings!

Finally, we saw the overpass, I gunned the engine, we almost went airborne, I turned sharply to the left and pulled into an illegal parking spot, locked the car, threw the keys at the clerk telling him that we had parked illegally, and were ready to cross over the track to board our train. But, no, the conductor held his hand up. Another train was coming in and we couldn't cross; I was bouncing up and down nervously while we waited for the other train to pass, hoping ours would still be on the other side when it cleared. YES! We raced across the remaining tracks, greeted the conductor with big smiles and flushed faces, and climbed up the steps. With seconds to spare, we had made it!We shed our coats and sweaters and stowed them in the overhead compartments and flushed and happy, settled in for the ride back to Paris, two exhausted but very happy travelers. (Thank you, Lisa!)

Unitarian Universalist Fellowship of Paris

Sunday, October 20 in Paris

I spoke with Lisa last night. She is the apartment owner's daughter who has lived in Paris for eight years with her husband and daughter. A few days ago, I mentioned to her that I would like to attend the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship of Paris while I'm visiting here. She was not sure she was going to go, but has now decided that she will accompany me to services. I was a bit relieved.

While I would have been fine going to this service and introducing myself, having someone else there is always more enjoyable. We talked a while; Lisa loves to talk and I'm glad of it. We agreed to meet this morning outside the apartment and take the Metro to the temple. (During our time together, I hinted at the fact that I would not mind company at all on my upcoming journey to my little town of Etrepy and left it open that Lisa might consider accompanying me. She was amazingly fluent in French, we got along well, laughed a lot, so I knew she would be fun company.)

Not long after, we found ourselves at the temple being warmly greeted by folks she had not seen for several years. All of these people were English-speaking ex-patriates from Germany, Italy, Scotland, Canada, and other countries. The temple was beautiful, though not as ornate as many I had already seen during my travels; the interior was in the process of being renovated so there were quite a few dusty corners and dropcloths to contend with once you left the main sanctuary. The pipe organ was grand and the music vibrated to our souls.

Rev. Gretchen Thomas of Australia, former of Paris and Knoxville, Tennessee, spoke in her sermon of the shootings in Knoxville last July and the way that Knoxville's congregation has risen to the tragedy in so many different ways.

Several attempts to get me to stay for the retreat they are having next week failed, but I've gotten an invitation to come next year when the retreat will be a three-day weekend in Spa, Germany. Always good to have unfinished business in Paris, I hear.

Sacre Coeur and the Red Light District

Monday, October 21 in Paris

Cool, yet sunny weather greeted me as I left the apartment to hop the metro to what would be, so far, my favorite part of the trip. Montmartre!

Walking up the tight little road from the Metro, I found myself in crowds of tourists and bargain hunters. Boxes lined the streets with fabrics, lingerie, shirts, or other clothing, many of those items marked down to 2Euros. Even if I had wanted to, I would not have gotten close to one of those boxes without a fight. Not interested in shedding any blood, I continued on up the steep street. At last, there, I could see it, as if perched between the buildings: the Sacre Coeur.

To the left of me as I made my way to the bottom plaza was the double-decker merry-go-round featured in the film "Amelie." Quite a few scenes were filmed in this neighborhood, so it will be fun for me to see the film again when I get home.

The Sacre Coeur is a beautiful church, one that I remember quite well from my childhood. In an old home movie, my uncle Edi is shown climbing up the steps with great exaggerated effort, stopping every few steps to wipe the "sweat" from his brow. He was such a kidder!

One time at the old house in Etrepy, he scared me so bad with his imitation of the hunchback of Notre Dame—he had rolled his eyelid up, put some clothes under his jacket to create a hump, and hunched low and chased me all over that house—my little legs scurrying as fast as they could to escape him. I finally managed to squeeze myself between the mattress and boxspring of my parents' bed in hopes of eluding the monster. (Explains a lot.)

Entertainers come here in fair numbers, hoping to make some money whether they are playing the harp, singing popular tunes in French-accented English, playing "Au Vie En Rose" on violin (which was hauntingly beautiful), or being a mime. The mime on the post when I walked by was very, very good. Moving slowly to react to a situation, he watched everyone and made eye contact. As I put my euros in his jar, he made a look of joyous surprise, bent down and took my hand, and mouthed, "Enchante!" I curtsied and left before a real romance blossomed.

There are many steps up to the church, but if you keep up a good pace, the view at the top is well worth the effort. Along with the Sacre Coeur, I visited two other churches, and in each, I lit a candle for my long-deceased mother; I truly wish she could have been here to revisit these places from days long gone.

The Montmartre neighborhood is a beautiful section of Old France, with winding cobblestone streets, tight alleys, and a steep hilly descent to the other, flat part of the city below.

My meal at a café right across from where the artists ply their wares was expensive for what I got; I found out I paid 8 euros for a Coca-Cola! If I consider that while I was sitting there, I also got a show, it really was not too bad. People watching there was terrific, as the boys in their caps from the cafes tried to lure potential customers into THEIR café, and the portraitists chased down potential sitters by flattering them into submission.

Continuing my walking tour, I found many quaint side streets and at one café, a beautiful piano melody wafted out onto the street from a teeny-tiny restaurant; I could not quite see in all the way, but I spied a beautiful pair of men's hands playing songs so sweet that they stopped me in my tracks. I took a picture from my limited vantage point just to remember.

After my visit to the area, I walked down to the Moulin Rouge, the beginning of the sleazy district which only gets worse as you make your way down to Pigalle. According to my tour guide, if I were a brave voyeuristic type, all I would have to do is make my way down to a park a few blocks away and I would most likely be able to view varied sexual trysts out in the open as a source of entertainment. As a female traveling alone, I decided to venture only in the upper end of the district. A guy at the nude girls' club motioned for me to come in and get my own lap dance--no thanks! I noticed the Musee de l'Erotisme was open; not as interactive as the lap dance, but it could be fun--I paid my entry fee and walked in.

The sign outside advertised seven full floors of erotic art and history. Wow!

Could it hold my interest for that long? I doubted it. Upon entering the museum, a 1920s-era porn film was playing on a small-screen television. Black and white, one man and several women were frolicking in the scene I watched. Most interesting was how self-conscious the players were, occasionally looking to stage right or left or straight into the camera. Beyond that were rows and rows of phallic symbols, sexual toys from centuries ago, statues with oversized penises (hmmm, wonder if the artists were male??). This was quite an extensive collection, but instead of describing it; here is the link for your own perusal: http://www.musee-erotisme.com/fichiers/home.php?lang=en&PHPSESSID=2d0079008a78c10b621a446168cee217

One of the most awesome things actually sat in the front window of the museum; I took a video of it, but cannot share it on a public space. A leopardskin director's-type chair with the seat cut out in a U-shape; inside the U-shape was a motorized set of rubber tongues (yes, you read right) that flowed around and around (they were going a little slow for my taste, but if it had a speed control, well, then we could be in business!). There was even a small water trough to keep the tongues lubricated! Too much.

The art became more modern with each floor, with the last one venturing into the world of sado-masochism and such; quite tastefully done, but still put me a little on edge, which is most likely its purpose. As I left the museum, I had a laugh when the very first sign I saw on the street was a bright black and yellow sign "Deviation." Even though it means "detour," I giggled out loud at the appropriateness of its placement. Maybe the French DO have a sense of humor!

Parks, Pomp, and Pommes

October 17 and 18, Friday and Saturday in Paris

These two days were spent mostly outside and walking around this beautiful city. On Friday, I visited the Jardin de Tuileries (which means "tiles" in France as this area used to be a quarry for tile). The Musee de l'Orangerie abuts the park and I decided that, since it was much smaller in scale than either the Louvre or Musee D'Orsay, I would go inside for a very short while.

This museum houses some of Monet's larger waterlily paintings and they are truly magnificent, not only in size, but in their ability to transport you immediately from the concrete museum structure housing these breathtaking beauties to the gardens from which he drew his inspiration.

Other artists' work included in the museum were Soutine, Modigliani (a favorite), Matisse, Cezanne, Picasso, and others.

Spoke to my older children on the phone while I was sitting near the Louvre and when I told my daughter that I probably would not be going to see the Mona Lisa, she moaned, "But you have to, Mom, that's what you do there!" She is right, but I just wasn't feeling it; this trip is more about walking the city and being outside in the wonderful weather than being indoors in museums.

I assumed that, from where I was, that the Arc de Triomphe, sitting on its hill at the end of the Champs-Elysees, probably would not be a long walk.

Much later: I assumed wrong. The haul over to the Arc was quite lengthy and tiring. (I still don't know how these women here do it in heels and still look like models.) After making my way up here, I am ready for New York City. Crowds of tourists and commuters and neighborhood folks, there were moments when I was feeling a bit claustrophobic. When that happened, I just slowed my pace and concentrated more on what was going on beyond the swirling groups of people. Like passing the Tiffany store and ogling the jewels; or the Peugot store, advertising some sort of sale (sure!); or seeing a really handsome man on his motorcycle (I just couldn't run fast enough to chase him down).

The long walks through the city afford me the feeling of immersion, not as a tourist. When I'm walking, my only cares are how far I can go, where I'll need to rest and get a bite to eat, and whether I've enough space on my digital camera for all the beautiful photos I'm wanting to capture.

The walks have been the best part of the trip; finding quaint streets with those lovely flowerboxes I rave about, passing by bakeries and cheese shops that envelope you in their aromas ever so heady, walking behind an elderly couple quietly talking to each other as they make their way slowly down the boulevard.

Right now, I'm taking a needed rest in the Parc de Andre Citroen (yes, named after the famous auto maker). This is a very interesting place, with quite a few themes or as I would call them "rooms." Different colors and growing styles separate these rooms and are quite magical.The center green is dotted with people: young teachers playing ball with children, teenagers opening a Twister box and shedding jackets in anticipation of the game, other teens gathering at the fountains, shedding some of their outer clothing and playing in the water (brrr, they will be cold later), and then there's this beautiful little boy, riding his bike around and around the greens, looking at me each time and smiling, and finally stopping to converse.

I spoke to him in French, explaining that I don't speak much in French and that I'm from America. I asked if I could take his photograph, he said "Oui," and smiled and flashed a peace sign. Then he went on his merry way. About fifteen minutes later, he and his father came up to me and the father thanked me for being kind to his child and for taking his picture. When I said goodbye, the child waved and said "Goodbye" in English. What a darling!

There is also a tethered hot-air balloon here in the park; it takes passengers on a very short ride up and down, but its real purpose is to tell Parisians about the air quality in the city. Today it is yellow; I will have to find out where that lies on the scale.

Even later at the Café de Commerce near the apartment:

After a nice omelette followed by my usual chocolat chaud, I notice a group of men in hunting attire gathering outside the café windows. Their jackets are nicely tailored and are red or green; they carry the brass horns that I've only seen as Christmas decorations or in photographs. After much merrymaking and greeting of friends, they adjourn to the park across the way and start playing music that sounds patriotic and makes you want to get up and march. They played for about 30 minutes and then were gone.

I ordered the tarte de pomme to continue the celebration.

Cimitiere du Montparnasse

16 October, Thursday

Received some information from Severine last night regarding the little farming village called Etrepy, in which I spent two years of bliss as a child. The most amazing thing for me is realizing that the town is not "just outside of Paris," but more like two hours away by train and taxi. She thinks I should be able to find my old house rather easily as the village only has 140 inhabitants.

I knew the place was small, but not that small! She printed out train schedules for me and gave me a list of taxi services; my idea was the get a driver to take me out to the place from the nearest town served by a train and then return after a few hours of my wandering around and taking photos for my family.

I'm pretty sure I won't be doing that trip this week, but should start planning early for a day next week, either Tuesday or Wednesday, as I leave on Thursday.

Today, I had planned on doing an artist's walk, but when I got above ground from the Metro near Tour Montparnasse, the weather was terrible. Windy, with the rain blowing sideways; even my oversized scarf did not keep the wet off my face. I decided to skip a few places and pick up in the middle of the suggested walk: The Montparnasse Cemetery. I LOVE European cemeteries; my first encounter was obviously in the French town I had lived in, but when I was in Munich, I felt the same way. Lovingly cared for by family members and plants and flowers were allowed to be physically planted in the ground at the tombstone or marker. Here in the States, visiting my mother's grave does not feel personal at all, as she is interred in a wall behind a plaque bearing her name and my father's names, his death date still, thankfully, not needed.

I stayed close to buildings to avoid most of the rain, and I walked quite a way before entering the tall stone entrance to Montparnasse Cemetery. As soon as I walked through the entrance, the sun came out and shone brightly. I got a grave layout map from the guard and made my way through the rows and rows of graves. I did not see all of them. The ones I did see were magnificent; not necessarily because of who was interred there, but because of the sculptures and art and mementoes left on top of the tombs. This is a quiet graveyard full of artists, philosophers, writers, politicians, and intellectuals.

The statuary and stained glass was what I had come to see and I was not disappointed; beautiful pieces of art adorned the tombs, from weeping women to angels flying homeward to pieces reminiscent of the art nouveau style. One outstanding piece is that of the Charles Pigeon family—Mr. Pigeon was an inventor and created a gravesite that could hold all the members of his family. With notebook in hand, Mr. Pigeon sits up sideways in a full-sized bed, as his wife, both seemingly fully dressed, lays next to him. A guardian angel stands watch over all.

Many notes and mementos were left on Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Bouvoir's joint grave, as well as on others. As I was admiring one beautiful sculpture, an elderly woman gingerly made her way to the back row of tombs, picked up a broom, started sweeping away dead leaves, and began having a merry conversation with the deceased. It was heartwarming, but felt very peaceful and normal. I continued on down the row, smiling, wondering what visual treat I would next encounter.

Surprisingly, it was a broom! The cemetery keepers of common ground were gathering leaves and clearing the roads with these awesome brooms—they look like what I would commonly think of as a witch's broom—long straw gathered around a wooden stick. I want one!

After my visit to the cemetery, I walked down a few side streets, where many famous artists have either studied or lived. Tiny side streets with cobblestone streets and filigreed steel window guards with windowboxes of bright red geraniums. The beauty of this city still stuns me every day. Yes, it's a lot of cement, but cement done with style and beauty. A formal beauty made personal by lace curtains at a window or a door knocker that doubles as sculpture. I can't get enough.I walked so many miles today; thank goodness for comfortable shoes! I don't know how these Parisian women do it in heels! The wind and rain had put a damper on the early part of the day, but the sun came out and stayed, while the clouds filtered out to blue sky.

On the way home, I treated myself to some desserts: a flan and a tarte monge. French desserts are wonderful; not too sweet and very fresh ingredients. The tarte had a layer of fresh berries that just burst with flavor when bit into; the flan was creamy and smooth, but still had a density I was new to. I loved the older French man in front of me in line today at the bakery; he was loading up on desserts and sweets and sheepishly looked at the rest of us and said, in French, that, of course, they were not for him. We all nodded knowingly. A demain!

Le Tour Eiffel on a Very Windy Day

Forty-four years ago, I visited the Eiffel Tower with my parents. I was six years old. Even though we only got to the second level that day, I felt on top of the world. Forty-four years later, I am back again. Today, I will ascend to a higher level and feel the Parisian wind on my face and look out on this most romantic city.

As I stood in line for my ticket, I was surrounded by many people speaking many different languages; Spanish, African, German, Dutch, Italian, Indian. My ticket allowed me to stop on all three levels; level 1 had a tourist shop, a restaurant, and a special post office where you could get cards stamped with "Paris Eiffel Tower"; the second floor had more shops (food and tourist), the very expensive and hard to get into Jules Verne Restaurant; and the third floor had the most amazing views (though very windy), and some historical information about the tower.

The Eiffel Tower was built in 1889 for the Paris Exposition and designed by French structural engineer Alexandre Gustave Eiffel (b. Dec. 15, 1832, d. Dec. 28, 1923). Quite a few Parisians at the time thought the tower was a travesty and signed a petition to stop its construction. Luckily, many Parisians did like it and it stayed. After later failed attempts to have it taken down, it has now become on of the most important symbols of Paris.

At the top level, I left the elevator and walked to the edge and looked out at the city. I could see so many landmarks from there: the Notre Dame, the Sacre Couer up and away on its hill in Montmartre, the Arc de Triomphe, the radical new Musée du quai Branly, and the Seine and its bevy of tourboats and barges.

As I walked around the top, the power of the wind increased; on the far side, the wind was so strong that it surprised a man and picked the hat off his head and pushed it through the protective grillwork and sent it sailing out over the city. Wonder where it is now?

As I made my way back down to the lower levels, I stopped to get postcards from one shop and picked up some Eiffel Tower statues at another. I realized I was hungry and walked back the same way I had come; ended up at a small café called "Oh!…Pouvrier."The server was not very friendly, but I was able to order and enjoyed my meal. An older French woman came in and was seated two small tables away and we began chatting. I apologized for my minimal French, but she said she was happy to practice her English. We spoke about the food and Parisian life and then a little about the economy. She was helpful when I said I wanted to take my leftovers with me; seems this is an unusual request in France and the servers were not willing to help me. So, I sat a little longer, ate slowly and finished most of the food. I also learned afterwards that the service is already included in the bill; I'm sure the server was surprised by the extra tip because she never cracked a smile for me.

On the way back to the apartment around 4pm. Decided to stop by the cheese shop where I found some beautiful brie and a goat cheese, the bread shop for my baguette and two croissants, the butcher's for a roasted chicken (without feathers!!!!), and the vegetable and fruit stand so that I could make myself a nice dinner in the evening.I went home and feasted, already planning the next day's walking tour around Montparnasse.

Days Two and Three in Paris

When I was making the arrangements for the Paris Apartment (www.theparisapt.com), the owner told me that Severine, a young French woman who lived upstairs, would check on me and help me with whatever I might need during my stay. I met Severine tonight and she is a breath of fresh air. Very sweet, kind, and determined to make my stay as enjoyable as possible. Her perfect English is peppered with a slight British accent; I found out that she had been taught English by someone from Britain. It sounds beautiful! The owner is very lucky to have someone like her taking care of the apartment and the guests who stay there. I told her the most help I would need is finding train schedules for my day trip out into the country to visit my little village, Etrepy. She was surprised to hear that I had lived here so long ago.

I've also spoken to the apartment owner's daughter, Lisa. Lisa is an American living here with her attorney husband and teenaged daughter. I told her I was very interested in attending the Paris UU (Unitarian Universalist) services that Sunday (I was lucky that my time there overlapped with their service as they only hold them once a month). She was not sure that she would attend services, but I hope that she and I can meet and spend some time together before I leave.

The Eiffel Tower is my first tourist stop in this beautiful city. It is within walking distance from the apartment and I plan on going all the way to the top to look out over this amazing city. When I lived here, my father and mother only took us children up to the second level. I'm ready to ascend higher in many ways; who says I'm not making progress?

I did catch a small glimpse of the Eiffel Tower earlier during the wild ride from the airport and I teared up a bit and felt very emotional. I keep asking myself why it took so long for me to come back here when I have always had such happy memories of my time in France. It's almost as if anything before and after just could never compare to that idyllic time; I know that a lot of it was my age, but the experience of living in that beautiful, very green, small village, being a part of a close community of women and children, the food—especially the French bread, which my mother would flavor with sweet butter and granulated sugar—I can still taste it to this day—all that had high sensory perception value and has stayed with me my whole life.

October 15 – Wednesday

My first real meal on French soil. I am at a small café called Le Fournil de Pierre on rue de Commerce. Sitting in the back where there is dark wood, high windows, and beautiful art on the walls. Even the piped-in music is perfect. My croissant is flaky and rich, the chocolat chaud is just hot enough and very chocolatey, and the fruit is fresh. Hot chocolate here is served with sugar cubes and a small bar of dark chocolate (I munch on the sugar cubes and do not add them to the already sweet chocolate brew.) After I eat, I will continue up the road on to the Eiffel Tower. Passed by a fromagerie on the way here and was overwhelmed by the aroma—can't wait to try some new cheeses while I'm here.There are many beautiful and fashionable people in this city; maybe because there are so many nationalities represented here. People walk everywhere; I have definitely noticed much fewer overweight people here as compared to the States. In fact, the only obese person I've seen so far was a tourist from the Americas.

Later that day:

After I left the café, I walked over to the La Motte Picquet – Grenelle metro, which is the intersection for Metro lines 6, 8, and 10. It is one of the most travelled stops on the Rive Gauche. Across the street from the metro and under the rails is a large open-air market, carrying everything from designer handbags to fresh sea urchins (see my photos here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/11609140@N03/page13/). The aromas of cheese were overwhelmingly satisfying, the fish and fowl not so much, but they were offset by all the fresh flowers; it was all part of a grand picture.I love the French and their fastidiousness of show and symmetry; these traits are seen everywhere. If you looked at the photos above, you can see it even in the way vegetables are stacked and presented for consumers. It is also in their gardens, the layout of streets. Rather delightful!

Next: Le Tour Eiffel

Day Two (Kind of): The Swindle

5am European Time (October 14, 2008)

According to the rustic map on the back of the airline seat in front of me, we'll be on the ground in less than an hour. After disembarking and going through security, I'll need to find an ATM to get some Euros and find the stop for the RoissyBus—this is a bus that will take me from the airport into the center of Paris and drop me at the Opera metro stop. From there, I can get on Metro line 8 and ride to Commerce. The apartment is just around the corner from the metro.

11:15pm (same day)

Took me a little while to make my way around Charles DeGaulle airport; they're doing some renovation work and certain areas were closed. Finally found the ATM and got my money; then wandered over to the information desk to find out where the RoissyBus pickup was located.

After I got the info, I passed by a young woman looking at a map. She asked whether I spoke English and we started chatting. She was going to be in Paris for only a day as she was on her way to London for some job interviews. Found out she was from Virginia; the Bristol area. What a small world! I told her about the Roissybus and showed her where the stop was; she thanked me and said she would be back for the next bus as she needed to get her own stash of Euros. The bus arrived; I boarded and gave the driver a 20. He almost snarled at me as he had to make change.

At 8am, it was still dark outside, so I didn't get a real good sense of the Paris suburbs as we were flying by in the bus. Since it was the height of rush hour, I did notice the cars, though, right away. All much smaller than what we have in the States, even the vans and trucks were built on a much smaller scale. What the bus driver lacked in niceties, he more than made up for in driving skill, maneuvering the bus down tiny Parisian streets. I was impressed. After I got off at Opera, I did not get my bearings right away and walked quite a bit before I was headed in the right direction of the metro.

I stopped on a corner right across from the Opera and tried to figure out where the darned metro was; a few people walked up to me to ask directions. Surprisingly, I did help THEM, but at that point, couldn't find my way out of a paper bag.

A few seconds after this group walked off, an man in his 50s stooped down in front of me and picked up a ring that had fallen to the ground. He asked whether it was mine; I said no, maybe it belonged to someone in the tourist group. After some back and forth, he gave me the ring and said I should keep it; then he started walking away. After what I found to be a well-rehearsed pause, he turned around and asked for food money. (The red flags should have gone up at this point!!!) After some haranguing, I gave him some money, then he said it wasn't enough, and stupid me, I gave him a few more dollars.

Now, if I'd been in my warrior mode, as soon as he complained about the amount I had given him, I would have snatched the money back and started off down the street. But I didn't; guess I'm a con man's dream on either side of the Atlantic. Funny thing is, I didn't even make it to the end of the block before a younger woman stoops down in front of me and, heavens to betsy, if she doesn't find a gold ring that had somehow fallen at my feet!!! It was my lucky day! Can you believe it??? I looked at her and told her I'd already been taken once today and to move on. (I saw this swindle happen later in my trip, too, and thankfully, a Frenchman warned the tourists in time to not lose any money.) I still have the ring I got from the first man; I am keeping it as a physical reminder to be on the lookout for these kinds of swindlers no matter where I am.

Finally, thanks to the help of a nice young man handing out fliers, there was the metro; I clunked my luggage down the stairs, bought a "carnet" (a ten-pack) of tickets, got on the metro and finally began to relax. When I came up out of the Commerce Metro, I recognized from pictures the park, then the Passage des Entrepreneurs, then the house! Yay! I had made it; the codes all worked smoothly, the key fit in and unlocked the door, and I was finally at my temporary home!

The apartment was small and cozy; I unpacked and crashed. I thought I might get out to discover a bit of the neighborhood and get some groceries, but I was so tired, I gave in to the overwhelming desire for sleep.

Day/Night One of Trip to Paris

3pm Monday, October 13
Dulles Airport (from my journal)

Here I sit at Dulles Airport, waiting for my flight to Paris. It is finally sinking in that I'm really doing this; I'm really going back to visit a place I have not seen since the early '60s.

I feel like crying. I feel like jumping up and down with excitement. My heart is pounding. On the ride here from Spotsylvania, Gary decided to take Route 3 as an alternate to the highway. By the time we reached the Orange County line, I was in the throes of a serious asthma attack. I thought I was fine emotionally, but my body was reacting to the stress I must have been feeling anyway.

Water and several doses of inhaler later, I was fine and breathing normally again. We took another shortcut (past farms and vineyards), so the drive ended up being much shorter than expected and I was at the airport much earlier than I needed to be. I was dropped at the door and then found myself totally on my own.

Elliott had stayed at a friend's house last night, so he sent me off with big hugs and lots of kisses all over my face.

Got through the check-in/baggage desk quickly, as well as the security check (a piece of cake), so I stopped in at a café to get a bite to eat, relax, and do some reading to pass the time.

Still had an hour-and-half to wait, but I've always said that I'd rather wait than be late, which has happened only once, on a flight to Mexico.

Now I'm at the boarding area and I just got a text message from a new friend of mine, "Imagine the Possibilities!" I have this person to thank for that positive affirmation which I will keep uppermost in my mind on this trip and those I plan on taking in the future.

I love sitting here watching the people and listening to the different languages. Speaking of people watching: I was taking an escalator up to this floor and noticed a young woman chatting on her cell phone. She stepped on the escalator a few steps before me. I also noticed she was wearing a very short skirt. As she walked up the escalator farther away from me, more and more of what was under the skirt was showing. All I can say about that is that I am thankful she chose to wear underwear today.

A young French woman is sitting across from me chatting on the phone. French is one of the world's most beautiful languages. It is silky. Fluid. Playful. Rich.

Another friend just texted me with: "Bon vacance, mon cherie." Going to take a break now to freshen up a bit before the flight.

A little while later: We've been in the air for 20 minutes. I'm all plugged into the stereo system listening to relaxation music. We're already flying over water; the last time I flew over these waters was in 1974, when my mother and my sisters and I traveled to Germany and stayed for the whole month of June. The primary purpose of that trip was to find out whether my mother would be able to donate a kidney to her ailing sister, Inge. (Just realized that one of the stewardesses on this flight looks very much like my friend Silvia—amazing!)

Anyway, in Germany, the medical tests all came back negative and we came home saddened that my mother's wish to help her sister could not be fulfilled.

Thirty-four years since that flight and 44 years since I've been in France. What will it be like to see Paris through adult eyes? My memories of that city and of Etrepy are colored by my youth and inexperience of the time. I still remember the house where we lived and the courtyard behind the house where a magnificent cherry tree grew—I could never get enough of that sweet fruit.

Had some wine with dinner and am feeling considerably more relaxed, albeit a little flushed. The married couple next to me is from South Africa; they were in the area to attend their grandson's marriage in Annapolis.

Going to get a little rest now; the crew asked us to close the window shades, most likely to help stimulate sleep. Maybe we'll be in France when I wake up.

Coming Back

Coming back to real life after a fabulous trip abroad can be very hard, notwithstanding jet lag and having to catch yourself to keep from saying "merci" to everyone.

Even harder is when something tragic happens to someone you care about while you were out of the country. My good friend, Jim B., suffered a serious stroke four days before I arrived home. For years, Jim has been a stable presence at my favorite coffee shop, Hyperion Espresso (on the corner of William and Princess Anne Streets in Fredericksburg). Jim, in his hat, sitting outside smoking, always with several friends around enjoying lively early-morning political conversations or just some of Jim's bad jokes. I could tell the time by the sighting of that hat as I drove by on my way to work assignments.

Jim is a staunch supporter of local musicians and artists and has developed a website and mailing list to keep everyone apprised of certain local musicians' gigs, new CDs, artists' shows, and other useful information. He does this gratis because he has a generous spirit. From day one, he has also been a huge supporter of me and my house concert production company; early on, he and I would talk for hours about names, marketing, creating a web presence, and how to get the best musicians interested in what I'm doing. We would talk so much we'd end up slap-happy and silly, throwing out the dumbest names we could think of . . . just because.

Jim was also a good ear for my personal trials over the past few years; he was extremely non-judgemental and helped me realize that one of the reasons I fell for a con man (he knew him also) is that I am the type of person who has faith in people, no matter what. He bolstered me when I was down and would tell me over and over that I was a very good person with a big heart and not to feel any less about myself because of what happened. A week before I left for France, my family and I went for a daysail with Jim and another friend, Barry. It was a wonderful day, full of sunshine, good wind, and tons of laughter emanting from the cockpit. Near the end of the day, Jim took the helm; he stayed there for a good portion of the sail home.

After visiting Jim when I returned home, I realized he has a long uphill journey ahead of him. His doctors say he should get back to 90 percent. That's a great prognosis. Even though I couldn't understand everything he said when he spoke, I could tell that his sense of humor is still very much intact. When Gary called me with the news, he said that Jim told him that the only way I could visit him was if I came bearing a good French wine (is there any BAD French wine?). Needless to say, after several slowdowns and delays at the airport, I was running with seconds to spare to the wine shop before leaving DeGaulle.

To my dear friend Jim, I wish a speedy recovery. That fine French wine is in my wine cabinet, waiting until he can savor it and hold that glass again with his strong left hand while taking the helm with his right. Bonne chance, mon ami!

Adieu for Now (October 2008)

originally written on Sunday, October 12, 2008

This is the last BLOG I will post for at least two weeks; I have decided not to take my laptop to Paris. It will be a bit strange to not know at a moment's notice what everyone is doing or says they're doing. Or to get an electronic invite to a great night of music or an interesting play.

I am hoping that the internet cafes are way too expensive for me to get my fix while I'm gone, too. I need to step away from the screen and live fully.

That said, I get so much out of my various BLOGs' comments and those who do the commenting. The amazing support I've received during my learning time has made the transition to beautiful time just superb.

It's been a great month since I decided to make this trip; things that were hanging on a precipice have finally disappeared over the edge, never to raise their ugly heads again. I had been holding onto a lot of negativity in my life and finally, they were no more. It is such a blessing! Granted, because of that, some dynamics among friends and family have changed, too. Old and new friends have kept me calm and my new mantra is "Imagine the possibilities!" It's all as it should be.

Emily, Tim, and I finished our redemption song and it was sung at the Bistro to a good crowd. I hope Emily will sing it again while I'm gone and that she has huge standing-room-only crowds for the next two Tuesday nights.Speaking of music, as I sit by my window writing this, I am also listening to The Transmitters (a local reggae-ish band) playing at a restaurant right across the street on Sophia. Quite a crowd has gathered as the weather could not be more perfect. Though they do not know it, it's a lovely sendoff for my trip.

I'm still a bit shaky as I ponder the logistics of the trip; getting to and from the airport, through all the rigamarole of customs and baggage pickup. Then I get to decide whether to spend a huge amount of Euros to get a cab to the apartment or take a bus and then the metro. I'm trying to keep my bags to a minimum so that taking these forms of transportation will be doable, but I'm having some trouble. Which shoes to leave behind? Do I really need the heavy coat or will just a lined raincoat be sufficient? (As of today's weather report, it is going to be cloudy for a few days and then rainy. Ahhhh! All the more reason just to relax in a cafe for hours.)

I will learn a lot on this trip. I will make new friends, find new second-hand shops, great cafes, and the best places to get bread and cheese in the 15th. I do not expect that any huge revelations will come to me on this trip; I don't want any pressure on myself to come away with experience away and above from just sensual experiences. My joy at opening the door to a bakery will be sublime as I inhale the aroma of fresh-baked bread. My senses will be awakened to good French wine and cheeses I've never even heard the names of before.

I will be visiting sites and museums and possibly my childhood home, but more for me, this trip is about being in a foreign country, a place I have not seen for 44 years, reminding me of a little girl with big dreams and happy eyes and a snaggletooth grin. I will take her hand and fall in love in Paris.

Until

Here is the link to my old travel blog for perusal until I bring this one up to date: http://www.womanspeak-womanspeak.blogspot.com/

Hope you enjoy and please feel free to comment and follow. Thank you.