Paris, France
I am told (by my mother) that the spelling of my name is French. M-A-D-E-L-E-I-N-E. (Note the "extra" 'E'.) I must say that I have always been particularly proud of the distinctive spelling of my name - thanks, mom. (Even though the spelling has lent itself to endless mispronunciation; it is not Madeline as in the little fictional girl with the navy dress and yellow hat.) It also turns out that I was born on 'Bastille Day' (to educate yourself, read here: http://french.about.com/od/culture/a/bastille-day.htm), July 14th. Thus, while I myself am not French, it seemed appropriate that I visit some day. And what do you know, that day came. December 11, 2013.
I was greatly enthused by our mode of transportation to Paris. After catching a night bus out of London we arrived at a ferry station; the ferry was to carry us across the seas to Calle, France. My conception of 'a ferry ride' differed slightly from what actually took place. I had imagined something that resembled the rides that Doris Day or Deborah Kerr took:
… not so. Rather than the dreamy and romantic voyages of 1950's movie stars, our ferry adventure included a 2 am 'mall-on-water' adventure. Plastic chairs, white washed walls, arcade room, food court fluorescent lighting and not one dashing young man… as the French say, c'est la vie. Monica captures so well our level of enthusiasm on the ship:
Paris is a several hour bus ride from Calle. Due an instance of tremendous negligence and forgetfulness on my part, our company was separated. Monica and Stephanie on one bus to Paris and I on another. It is worth noting at this point that our only possible form of communication was via email, which of course, requires an internet connection. (And of course, an internet connection we had not.) We optimistically planned for me to wait at the station in Paris and for them to take the Metro to meet me. (We had no clue as to how far these two stations were from one another.) I arrived in Paris around 6:00 am. The cold, drab and industrial looking bus station was hardly the charming Parisian scene I had hoped for when first arriving in Paris. It would be optimistic for me to say that I had slept for more than an hour the night before. It would also be optimistic for me to say that the bus station was more than 35 degrees (F). And so there I sat on the hard and cold plastic chair in the bus station, waiting. I was beginning to succumb to self pity and the worry that Monica and Stephanie would be on an endless search for me in a foreign city, when I met Peter. Peter was a stout man, probably in his 60's, with a very European looking mustache and friendly eyes. He was from Slavokia which he referred to as "my country". He was sitting in the cold and plastic chair beside me, staring contentedly out of the window in front of him. I was trying to stay awake and stay positive; the obnoxious American pop (yes, American) music playing in the background was aiding the first cause but not the latter. Just then, right as Katy Perry was singing about something going "boom boom boom, even brighter than the moon moon moon…" (ok, really?) Peter leaned over and asked me if he could buy me a cup of coffee. I was so struck by the kindness of this stranger and expressed my warm gratitude to him. So we sat there, both sipping our coffee, trying to stay warm and awake. We chatted there for quite a long time until my dear friends and I were triumphantly re-united. (Thank you girls for being willing to seek me out.) Who says there are not kind people in France?
And out into the city we ventured.
The master navigators. Thank the heavens for these two.
Arc de Triomphe
Looking equally aghast.
The city of love.
This little girl struck me as so ... French.
Monica frolicking about in the leaves.
Sunrise in Paris.
During our European travels, Museums (and churches) were a frequent source for intellectual engagement and warmth.
Such grace, such beauty.
If I ever get around to it, a post on Geneva will be next!
