will WE play in Peoria?

When we booked our hotel in Paris, I offered to share a room with Sarah. It seemed silly to me to put them in a triple room and me in a single room. Two doubles made perfect sense.

                            When I got to the hotel in Paris Thursday, I realized I had not requested two separate beds in one of those double rooms. The hotel had been sure to put us in rooms next to one another, so I didn’t bother to ask for it to be changed. It was a pretty big bed by Paris standards; it wasn’t that big a deal.

                            Then, there was the matter of the bathroom. It was small, which I had expected. It had a shower and no tub, which was also fine. At least the shower had a door. But the door to the bathroom was, well, not suited for the modest traveler. The door slid, like a closet door. Which meant it didn’t latch and provided no significant sound barrier. It also was paneled with ever-so-lightly frosted glass. Which meant it provided no significant visual barrier. It was a little like something out of a bad soap opera, where you could see the silhouette of the person in the bathroom. I cannot say that the designer was going for allure, since the toilet faced the door which faced the bed on the other side.

                        I should have checked out Patrick’s room before he got there. His had an actual door to the bathroom. Which was especially funny since it faced into the little hallway… which in itself was more private.

                        One evening when we came back to dump stuff off before going to dinner, our rooms were roasting hot. I had been sure to find a hotel with a/c, which is not a given here. Patrick sweats talking about temperatures over 60 degrees, so he was less than thrilled at the prospect of not being able to sleep that night. (yes, you could open the window, but we faced a busy street so you’d be trading hot air for traffic noise) When we told the guy working the front desk about the problem, he admitted grave concern because our thermostats had little wrenches show up on the display. He said that had happened in other rooms and was a sign of real problems. But that night when we got back, our rooms were cold. Like ice boxes. We found out the next morning that the concerned employee fixed the problem himself. I was so grateful. So maybe the room didn’t provide the most privacy. He’d made up for it.

My quest to see more of Paris continued with dinner. I’ve never been to the Latin Quarter and even though it’s probably a little touristy, that was where I wanted to eat. Everyone else just followed along.

                        Patrick decided he had a hankerin’ for chicken cordon blue. I told him it’s not something he’s going to find. It may not even be a French dish. He asked the guy at the hotel. He said he has only ever seen it at the grocery store.

                        So we combed the menus at the restaurants in the Latin Quarter in search of chicken cordon blue, or something close. We saw a place with chicken in a creamy sauce. We kept looking. Then once we decided that we wanted to go to that place, we couldn’t find it again.

                        We chose another restaurant that promised some sort of creamy chicken. But after we sat down, Patrick said he didn’t like it (said it smelled like fish) and we got up and left.

                    There was fondue place after fondue place. I knew that Bill had made reservations at a similar restaurant near home, so I tried to steer clear of those places. But there were just too many. We chose one that promised some chicken dishes and went on inside. It also promised air conditioning. The air conditioning turned out to be a fan pointed at the hostess. Down inside where we sat there was no air circulation of any kind, hot or cold. Patrick suggested ordering fondue as an appetizer. I wasn’t so sure they would fully grasp the request and convinced him otherwise. The food was really good. Roast chicken for everyone else, turkey in a creamy sauce for me. We were just too hot to sit there for dessert and decided to get some elsewhere. Well, I had mine because I’d ordered a menu. And I could easily be convinced to sit and watch others eat chocolate cake. But chocolate cake in Paris turned out to be as challenging to find as chicken cordon blue. Finally, we gave up and went back to the hotel. I was too tired to continue the quest. Patrick and Julie went to a restaurant around the corner for a nightcap. I don’t know how they can keep up this pace. Even on vacation, a person needs to rest.

                    This is the third time I’ve been to Paris in 9 months. Not to sound snotty. But I decided that I was going to see a few things in Paris I haven’t had the chance to see before. So far, I’ve managed to go to two museums I haven’t done before. Today, my quest to see new parts of the city continues.

                    Bill recommended going to Montmare. There are artists there and there’s a spectacular view of the city. So we went. I didn’t see any artists. Unless you count the people who write your name so that the letters look like birds or flowers or whatever that is. The view only qualifies as spectacular if you climb the tower of the church on the top of the hill. I have grown three fresh blisters on the bottoms of my toes. I decided to pass on the climb. I didn’t expect everyone else to, but there were no takers when we got up there.

                    A souvenir shop in the neighborhood did prove to be a jackpot of sorts for Patrick and Julie. They loaded up there on gifts for friends at home.

                    Since Patrick had figured out the map to the Louvre yesterday, I put him in charge of reading the metro map and figuring out the best way to get to our next destination: a shop with American groceries not far from Notre Dame. It wasn’t too hard to find. It also wasn’t so great a store. But there were a few things I hadn’t been able to find here and couldn’t ask anyone to spend the money to ship here: pickles, Bush’s baked beans (oh, that beautiful bean footage!), mac and cheese. Then I opened my purse to get out my wallet to pay and realized my backpack felt light because my camera wasn’t in it. It was missing. Gone. Crap.

                    The last place any of us remembered seeing it was at breakfast. I’d taken pictures of Patrick putting ketchup on his eggs. Because Dad is disgusted by this completely normal practice and I wanted to show him that it’s done in France. Fortunately, we’d eaten breakfast at the cafe next door to the hotel so at least I could find it again to ask if they’d found the camera.

                    On the way back to the metro, we stopped at Notre Dame. Since no one had any more interest in climbing the tower here than they did at Montmare, I figured it wouldn’t take too long. Patrick said he and Julie love stained glass windows and you cannot skip Notre Dame if you love stained glass windows. I offered to go ahead to check on the camera, but they promised to be quick. Which they were.

                    By the time we got back to that cafe, I thought my arm would fall off from lugging around a grocery bag full of canned food. I guess if I go grocery shopping on vacation again, the next stop should definitely be to drop off the food.

                    No one working at the cafe had seen my camera. They went through the stash of lost items so I could see . No camera. Well, not my camera. I looked under the table where we’d been sitting. That sort of alarmed the women sitting there. Luckily they spoke English so I could explain I am not a weirdo checking out their shoes. There weren’t even crumbs under that table. My camera is gone. Lost. Along with the pictures in it. I called Bill, not sure how he’d react. He was calm. Said we’d get another one. It’s just a camera. True. But I’m still mad. Heck, it’s not like I panicked and thought someone had stolen my passport and gone to the embassy to get a new one only to find it later in my suitcase.

Maybe staying up until nearly 2am last night wasn’t such a good idea. Getting up and getting going this morning wasn’t easy. We slept through the hotel breakfast offering, which is a staple to travel for Bill and I. (we blame it on Kaitlyn, but it’s really just easier, even if it isn’t that good and is never a bargain)

                        Since our hotel is only a couple of blocks from the Eiffel Tower, we started by heading there. Just to see it. I think it is more impressive from the ground than from the top. And I’d convinced them that it would be cool to go to the top at night, for a different view of Paris. So after taking some pictures, we were off in quest of a meal.

                    I wandered around the Rue Clare district. It’s one of my favorites in Paris. Maybe because it’s where Bill and I stayed our first time there. I knew there were plenty of cafes. But I couldn’t find any. Finally, we spotted some awnings and figured that had to be an eating spot and walked there. It was a tabac. With food. I was hesitant. But Patrick saw someone with an egg on their plate and in we went. He wanted what that other person had. A croque madam. (toasted ham and cheese sandwich with fried egg on top) Turns out, we’d stumbled upon a spot that soon filled with locals out for lunch. And it turns out, we’d stumbled upon a really good meal. Of course, I’ll never be able to find the place again!

                        Now that we’d satisfied our need for breakfast, we could satisfy our need to see some more of Paris. We walked along the Seine to the Louvre. We stopped at a bathroom just inside the entrance to the grounds. Julie and Sarah were a little surprised by the attendant who stood by the line directing women to different stalls for reasons I couldn’t figure out. He didn’t bother me. I had to go.

                        At the museum, I thought something was wrong when the line was only five minutes long. We’d just gotten lucky. Inside, we picked up a map and chose a starting place. I wasn’t going to miss out on the audio guide again, so we stopped to rent them. The woman told us that we had until 9 at night to return them. (The Louvre is open late on Fridays) I looked at my watch. It was 2:15. I think we can make it.

                    The map to the Louvre is a waste of paper, although holding it at least makes you feel like you stand a remote chance of finding your way around. Since the Louvre is an old palace it is not only huge but it is not laid out like a museum. At points, you reach stairs that aren’t marked on the map and you have to decide if you are supposed to go up or down them to stay on the same floor the map thinks you are on. About three hours into the journey, Patrick figured out the map enough for us to find our way.

                    By then, we’d given up on seeing everything or even half of the place, and were just trying to get to the Mona Lisa. When you get into the right wing of the Louvre, there are signs up pointing you in the right direction. Note to self: when I go back, start there.

                    I’d heard that seeing the Mona Lisa in person is a disappointment. It isn’t really a very big painting and that seems to be the biggest comment. So maybe I’d really lowered the bar on what to expect. But when we got to the front of the mob standing in front of this most famous painting, I was not disappointed at all. I liked it. Far more than I thought I would. I stood a long time. I listened to the audio guide. I contemplated the painting. I cannot pinpoint what it is about it that is so intriguing to me. But there is something. I guess there really is some mystical quality to it…

                    After checking out some more Italian paintings, we all decided our feet could not take much more. We skipped the entire top floor of the museum and several wings. We didn’t go down the section of statues that’s home to Venus di Milo. (note to self: start there next time!) Finding our way out, even with the deciphered map, wasn’t easy. By the time we returned those audio guides, it was after 7pm. We’d laughed when told to be back by 9, but we were lucky to have made it!

                    Thank goodness there is a metro stop in the Louvre. It’s near the Starbucks, which I did not go into. I don’t really miss the coffee there, but a taste of something familiar was tempting. I refused to be that American who cannot go without a frappaccino. We hopped the Metro up to the Champs Elysee for dinner. It isn’t the best food in Paris but it’s one of the best views for people-watching.

                    That night trip up the Eiffel Tower was our next stop. We had no idea how late it was, since it gets dark so late in Paris. We got into the line, which I guessed would take about an hour. Then I saw the sign: top level closed. So much for that.

                    Our back-up plan: a night cruise on the Seine. We took the 11pm cruise. I had no idea how late it had gotten. And I hadn’t realized how cold it had gotten, either. About half-way through I was shivering. My rain jacket may be toasty warm during the day while walking, but at night on that boat it did not provide much warmth. I finally gave up and went down to the lower level… inside… away from the wind.

                    We walked back to the hotel from there. It was well after midnight and the traffic was as busy as it had been in the middle of the day. Don’t people in Paris get tired? Where are they all going? I’m going to bed.

                    The reality started to sit in that I am in Paris by myself for who knows how long. Back on the phone (again) Bill rattled off suggestions for how to spend tomorrow. None of it sounds too fun alone.

                    I’d actually called him for the name of the restaurant he liked on his trip here with Todd. Not that the idea of eating alone is appealing. Bill suggested throwing caution to the wind and treating myself to a really fancy dinner. That didn’t sound any more fun alone than a cafe. I can’t get the tv in the room to work (maybe I should ask for the key to Patrick’s room to see if it works). I might as well go eat.

                    I studied the metro map in my guidebook, then when I’d sufficiently memorized the route, went across the street to the metro station.

                    Apparently still a bit distracted, I got on the wrong train. Three times. Well, one time I got off at the wrong stop to escape from a woman who thinks she can sing and shares her lack-of-talent with passengers courtesy of a speaker she drags around and set up right in front of me.

                    It also didn’t help that the station where I could make a quick and easy connection is closed for renovations and that means taking a different train a different direction to get onto the line I really need.

                    Anyway,  I’d just gotten back to where I’d started to just start the whole process over again when Bill called again. I figured he was checking up on me to make sure I wasn’t pouting in the hotel room. “Where are you?” Struggling to get anywhere at the metro station across from the hotel. “They’re there. At the hotel.” Like a big goofball, I hung up and rain (well, walked super fast) back through the tunnel and up and down stairs across the street to the hotel and to the room. Patrick, Julie and Sarah were there.. thanks to their emergency travel passports and new train tickets. They told me how awful it was knowing someone had gone through their stuff at their hotel in London and stolen their passports.. and how great the police and the embassy staff had been.

                    They hadn’t eaten, so we decided they’d freshen up and I’d try, try again to find my way on the metro.

                    That’s when Patrick pulled the toiletry bag out of his suitcase (it snaps in)… and found the “lost” passports behind it. Despite tearing everything apart in London… even digging through the pockets of dirty laundry… the passports had gotten stuck in a spot so secret they’d gone undetected. Hundreds of dollars and countless hours had been wasted. You can only imagine how furious Patrick was with himself.

                    I refused to let Patrick declare today the worst day of his life. Or second. Or third. I gave in to putting it in the top ten. But I told him he could not let it ruin the rest of his day. Besides, he was getting hungry.

                    I managed to get us on all the right metro trains to find the cafe. By the time our food arrived, Patrick was laughing and joking about the whole passport thing. Julie didn’t seem ready to find it funny. Maybe a good night’s sleep will help.

                    When I’d read that the Musee d’Orsay is an old train station turned art gallery, I knew I wanted to go. Not even so much for the art, but for the architecture. What an incredible place. It is definitely from a time when travel was really a grand event.

                    I wasn’t really thinking clearly, though. I passed on the audio guide, which I normally relish when museuming. (especially alone). I figured I’d just read the signs. Uh, they’re all in French. Big duh. I was happy to discovery many Van Gogh paintings. After going to the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, I decided he is my favorite. I still think so. I also saw some Monet… including the woman holding an umbrella and water lilies. I remember water lilies was one of Mom’s favorites. Today I stood and looked at it and thought of her and didn’t feel sad. I felt happy. That was a nice change. Speaking of moms, Whistler’s was there. It didn’t seem to fit in with the other paintings. Maybe it would have made sense with the audio guide. I liked it anyway.

                    I managed to distract myself for a couple of hours there. As soon as I stepped outside I called Bill to see if there had been an update from London. Nope.

                    I didn’t realized how anxious I’ve been to see my brother and his family until I got here. The room overlooks the street (noisy!)… but it provided the perfect vantage point to watch for Patrick. I hung out the window and peered in every taxi that went by. Nope. Nope. Not them. I finally decided that hanging out the window is silly. So I went to the cafe next door, took a sidewalk table facing the oncoming traffic, drank a beer and continued to peer into every taxi that went by. At least it made me feel like less of a stalker.

                    I didn’t bring Patrick’s itinerary with me, but I swear they were supposed to get here first. I’d about finished my beer and started to wonder what was going on when Bill called. “You might as well go do whatever you want to.” What happened? Trouble in the Chunnel! An accident! Terrorists! Now, honestly, if something like that had happened, I don’t think that Bill would have called and said go have some fun. Still, it panicked me a bit. Turns out, Dad left Bill a message relaying a message he’d gotten. The Murphy family was in London. Where they’d lost their passports. All we knew is that they were going to the embassy to try to get new ones and not end up like Tom Hanks living in a terminal.

                    Given that I’d feared they were hurt, lost passports were a relief. Then I thought about what they were going through and how many tears were being shed on their end. Didn’t make me feel much like going out to have fun.

                    I did all I could think of to do. I paid for my beer and walked to a museum I figured they weren’t interested in. (le musee d’Orsay)

                    I dropped Kaitlyn off at the sitter’s house this morning and then I headed downtown to the train station… to start the big adventure I’ve probably been driving everyone nuts talking about: my big trip to Paris.

                    I had my first class ticket on the TGV. It featured a screaming baby in the car and a broken tray-table at my seat. Perfect.

                    I learned that if you are on a train in France and it is lunchtime, don’t wait to eat. At noon the line stretched nearly all the way out of the food car. I could see the line from my seat. I finally gave up and joined it. I stood there for 20 minutes only to find out they were out of anything worth eating. So I bought a cold sandwich. It wasn’t really very good, nor was it fun to eat without a little table, but by the time I got the food I was really hungry.

                    When we got to Paris, I decided the line for the taxi was too long. It should not take as long to get a taxi as the entire train ride took. So I figured I could figure out the Metro. How hard could it be? Not too bad. Although every time I get on a train, I worry I’m on the wrong one going the wrong way. Once I realized I was headed toward my hotel, I realized I had no idea where to go once I got off and out of the station. Turns out, the hotel is across the street. Even I couldn’t miss that.

                        So, what does an American do in France on the 4^th of July?

                    Nothing. Kaitlyn and I ate hot dogs for lunch. That’s pretty all-American. There was some sort of Independence Day something downtown, but I couldn’t find much information about it. The word “reception” was used in one email to describe it. Hhhhmmm… I sure do miss that traditional July 4^th reception.

The pool is blue (finally not green) and the weather is hot (hello, it’s finally summer)… so this afternoon we had friends over to go for a swim. Everyone tried to get me to go in… but I wasn’t buying it. Kaitlyn was so cold I swear her lips were turning blue. They tried to convince me the pool was “refreshing”… but I’m not stupid. I could see them shivering and hear their teeth chattering.

                Instead of going in the water, I decided it would be safe enough to sit in one of our lounge chairs and lounge with a glass of wine. Todd sat out there for hours and never once did I see him flail his arms and scream because of a bug.

                We don’t know why, but suddenly our yard is the place to be for flies of all sizes. Especially big. I now understand that a horse fly has nothing to do with a horse… it’s simply that darn big.

                So I’m sitting on the lounge chair when I feel a bug on my leg. I figured it was one of the massive flies that won’t leave us alone, so I swatted it away. That was when I realized I had mindlessly risked life and limb. That was no fly. It was a wasp. I screamed and made someone else stomp it out with her shoe. (well, it was already mad at me!)

                My leg hurts a little bit. Bill says I didn’t get stung. Maybe not. But that wasp did something to me. It bit me or it brushed me with it’s stinger as I was flipping it away.

                He says I should now be less afraid of them. I faced one. I’m undecided.