Well, it's taken forever to get around to writing, mostly because work and life have been hectic, even long after our return from the trip. (Goal for 2008? Slow down and simplify. Odds of actually doing it? Eh...ask me in a year.)
Our mission trip was awesome, I really feel good about everything we accomplished, and whenever you’re leaving a place and the people you came to serve are asking how soon you can come back, that’s usually a good sign.
Our journey there was really uneventful, which was a welcome surprise. Unfortunately, due to some passport issues that proved insurmountable, we ended up being minus a bass player for the trip. When you’re going there on a creative arts-focused mission, that can be a big complication. Fortunately, the rest of our team included a couple of very talented guitar players who stepped up and either got comfortable with an instrument that wasn’t their preferred one, or just learned to play something new altogether. We arrived, tired and a little dazed, on Monday morning to be met by Bill, the missionary we were going to serve. He took all our bags and equipment, and we all found our way to the train station, with plans to meet up in Poitiers later.
As a quick aside, I often get (and got) odd looks from people when I said something about going to France to do mission work. I understand where those looks come from, as France isn’t what one typically thinks of when thinking of mission trips – it’s a developed country very similar to the US in many ways. So it’s not like we have clinics to build in the middle of Poitiers. But religion and faith in France is a very complicated topic, and France’s commitment to a resolutely secular state is grounded in some very real and very understandable history. The church was used as a tool for power and manipulation for centuries, and the legacy that left in much of Europe is a great deal of cynicism about organized religion, justifiably so. However, the church is an institution of humans, so while I do believe that God does tremendous work through churches all over the world and I do believe that God wants us to have the community that it can provide, the church will be flawed, as humans are flawed. All those centuries of manipulation and power-grabbing and fear-mongering are not what God wanted or wants, but they leave a powerful legacy that is difficult to overcome. So you can see where modern-day churches in Europe in general have an uphill battle – and this is what we wanted to help with. To provide some outreach that would hopefully give an example of God’s love without any expectation or pressure – to just offer a fun evening of good music and good food, and a chance to foster a positive community that is outwardly-focused.
And now moving on…
We arrived in Poitiers a few hours later, taking for granted the ease with which we were able to hop on the train. This was something we wouldn’t take for granted later. (Farking rail strike.) It was straight to work, as we began to set up the church space for the coffeehouse and went grocery shopping so that we could feed the team. Dinner that night was simple, and I think most of us were out cold by about 9 pm, after what felt like one incredibly long day.
Tuesday dawned with news of a rail strike that seemed awfully far away, since we didn’t need to be on a train any time soon. I set out for the music store in town to help the band pick up (by which I mean pay for) our equipment rentals. While wandering around the music store, we noticed that we could buy a used drum kit for approximately what we would be paying to rent it for four days. This seemed like a no-brainer to us, so we were able to buy it for the church and leave it as a lasting gift. There are a few drummer
s in the congregation who have just started coming and are just beginning to explore a relationship with God, so we’re hoping that this will provide them with an avenue to get involved.
It was another long day for all of us, with the band rehearsing their considerable set list, our guitarists learning to switch off bass-playing duties, and our hospitality team cooking, baking, and continuing set up for our outreach events.
I have to say, as the only returning member from the last trip, I was really grateful for the fact that the church now has a stove and an oven. Cooking lunch and dinner for a large group of people using only two hotplates, like last time, definitely stretches the bounds of creativity.
Tuesday evening, the church’s band came in for practice, and we quickly discovered that they were performing some songs that we knew, so we all joined in together. Part of what we were there to do was also provide encouragement to the church, which has very limited resources, so it was great to see our musicians working together with theirs; that kind of collaboration was one of the main reasons we went on the trip. After a long night of rehearsal, we retired back to our hotel on the town square.
Wednesday morning, we decided to take a little break to appreciate our surroundings before heading into the coffeehouse that night. We went to go see some Roman ruins at Sanxay
that were about a 20-minute drive from Poitiers, which was a cool experience for all of us. Living in the US, it’s kind of easy to forget that there were actual people who built things that long ago – it’s not that we didn’t have people on this land capable of doing it, but most Native American cultures didn’t do much in the way of permanent construction in the sense that the Romans did. We had a traditional French lunch with pate (not a favorite of many people, but the veggie one that I had was pretty good), coq au vin, which is a delicious braised chicken in red wine sauce, and apple tart or…some other kind of dessert that eludes my memory now. The main feat of the day, however, was squeezing the entire team into our two small rental cars. We did it, and most people even ended up having feeling and circulation return to all their extremities at the end of the day, but it was definitely a squeeze. As one of the drivers, this didn’t end up being a big problem for me personally, but it did leave quite an image. (Let’s just s
ay that Special K and Dr.C ended up sharing a backseat built for two with a third person. A very skinny person, but still a person. Kudos to all for their patience!)
The afternoon got away from us a little as some things took longer than expected, like lunch, and some things turned out to be snags, like the fact that everything closes for lunch from 12:30 to 2:00 in that part of France (and probably in many smaller towns and cities). At this point, Mrs.C and I had to rush to get food prepped for the coffeehouse, which ended up meaning that we spent all night in the kitchen. All night. Churning out batch after batch of cookies and brownies, making up a lemon meringue pie recipe, attempting to make apple tarts and then just making a massive apple pie – it was quite the feat, I have to say. We were able to pop out for a few minutes here and there, particularly toward the end of the night, which was good and enabled us to catch what I considered to be the highlight of all our outreach events – the songs we did in French. Before we left, I had translated, or received translations of, a few worship songs in French. I had also spent a lot of time with N, one of our vocalists, teaching her the correct pronunciation of the French lyrics. And it really paid off – it gave us a way to really connect with the audience, and it was cool to see them respond so enthusiastically.
The next morning we were all back at the church for more rehearsals, soundproofing the not-remotely-soundproof room, and, for Mrs.C and me, lots more cooking so that she could
actually wait tables that night and I could run the sound board. We took a break in the late afternoon to walk around and discover Poitiers a bit, which is a really interesting old city. It is home to the oldest church in France and the oldest baptistery in the Western world, and was home to the Dukes of Aquitaine, the place where a major battle of the Hundred Years War happened, the place where Charles the VII was proclaimed king, and the site of a formal inquest of Joan of Arc. In fact, if you explore the region at all, you will see tons of places that featured in the life of Joan of Arc.When I think of everything she did by the age of 19…
well, it does make one feel a smidge inadequate. Have I lead an army? No. But there are multiple reasons for that, I suppose – not the least of which is that I’m a pacifist…
That evening’s coffeehouse started a little earlier than we’d expected – or rather, people arrived earlier than expected. We were in the middle of making dinner for the team (ratatouille that night) when someone came into the kitchen and asked if she could have some food. Not a hungry or homeless person, mind you – well, apparently she was hungry, but she had just shown up early. We did manage to find a plate of food for her, choked down our dinner, and we were off and running. The night went by quickly, and the place was packed. People who went to the church, people who knew people who went to the church, people who just stopped by, it was awesome. When it came time to perform the French songs, which people had been requesting, 
Anne-Caroline, one of the missionaries who was their former worship leader but who had been on maternity leave for a while, asked if she could sing with our band. We quickly said yes, and almost as quickly, she got a big case of cold feet. But she did eventually come out, and oh. My. Gosh. It was one of the most moving experiences I’ve ever had in my life – an entire room packed with people, all on their feet, dancing, singing, and all just in the same place, in that fundamental, spiritual way. Members of their band played with our band, and it was just amazing to witness. By the time we were done, most of the band was on the verge of tears, and we were all just glowing. It was a truly awesome experience.
That night we went to a pub for a drink (non-alcoholic for some…), and then got some post-coffeehouse pizza and gathered in one of our hotel rooms, chatting about the next day. The next day was Thanksgiving – not in the US, but it was the big American-style Thanksgiving that the church puts on for the community. Since some U.S.-style holidays that have been imported have taken on a very dark tone, the church has introduced Thanksgiving, the spirit of which is something that the church is trying to encourage – thankfulness for all the gifts that we’re all given, and a spirit of serving others. (Granted, Thanksgiving is a loaded holiday for a lot of people, since it’s associated with what white settlers did to Native Americans and can also exemplify American excess, what with the traditional food coma and three slices of pie for dessert. However, maybe it’s easy for me to say this, but for me, there’s more to it than that. For me it’s about surrounding myself with family and friends, and you can’t help but be grateful when you’re able to do that.)
We had packed up the equipment that needed to go to the hall where we were having Thanksgiving the night before, so it was a matter of hauling equipment and setting up the large space. A few of us also went with Bill, as he wanted some help picking out the wine to be served with dinner – it was the first day of Beaujolais Nouveau season that week, which is quite a big deal in France. I can’t say that I’m a huge fan of it, but we did settle on a nice one, and a couple of us got a few bottles of our own to bring home, with the assistance of the very friendly and knowledgeable shop owner. That’s something I like about France, which is true of much of Europe. While they certainly do have large grocery stores, and those stores stay quite busy, there’s something that I find tremendously appealing about a fruit store, a cheese shop, a meat shop, a bakery, and just going to a place that specializes in what they do.
We selected a winner, the name of which completely eludes me, and I went to Bill’s house so that I could babysit their four kids and allow Anne-Caroline to go rehearse with our band so that she could perform that night. I don’t know what it is that’s so cute about a kid speaking in a language that’s not your own, but although their kids are bilingual, I spoke to the younger ones in French, assuming that it would be easier for them to understand me that way, since they were just starting to be verbal. I, of course, fell asleep on the couch watching “The Rescuers” in French, and we all bundled into the car when Bill came back to get me and the kids, and headed over for Thanksgiving dinner.
Now, this is a large event. 150+ people, and the church only has about 50 members. Mrs. C and I had made stuffing for the gathering (it was really good), and it was joined by the turkey, cranberry sauce (intolerable to most French people, but some seem to love it – I personally prefer the cranberry-orange relish that my dad makes), mashed potatoes, and salad that comprised this enormous meal (which was, of course, capped off with pie. Lots and lots of pecan pie. I think my teeth, and my dentist, are still ticked at me.)
The band played a few sets that night, the kids from the church sang a couple songs, and the church’s worship band played a few songs – it was a lot of fun. It didn’t have the intimacy and the electricity of the smaller coffeehouses, but it was still a good time and the band turned in an excellent second-to-last performance. It was a late night getting everything cleared out of the space, considering that we stopped playing around midnight and then had to tear down and clean up – it was definitely all hands on deck.
We were up the next morning at the offices, ready to head out for a day outside Poitiers, checking out what the region had to offer. It’s a really fascinating part of France, historically, and 
the Loire Valley has a ton to see in the way of castles and fortresses. Our destination that day, after a bit of a late start, was Chinon, a fortified castle where Joan of Arc proved that she’d been ordained by God and wasn’t out to betray the king of France. The story goes that St. Joan, as she is called, was brought to court to meet the king. However, the real king was dressed as a normal person and hidden o
ut in the crowd of onlookers. An imposter was dressed up as the king and presented to St. Joan. However, upon their introduction she said “that’s not the king, that’s the king” and correctly picked him out of the crowd, even though she had never laid eyes on him before. (Well done…)
Unfortunately for me, I spent a little too much time that afternoon worrying about logistics for our return to Paris so I probably didn’t absorb the entire experience, but it was still very cool to wander around and soak up the history. I even climbed a tower and made it out to the top (kind of). The problem was that there were open grates, and much as I know that tower had been standing for several hundred years and wasn’t likely to crack under my weight, no matter how many croissants I’d had that week, it just freaked me out and I went inside after handing the camera over to K.
We made it back to Poitiers, returned the car, and then Mrs. C, Lil’ S, and I all went to babysit for Bill and Anne-Caroline to give them a night out on the town, while the rest of the team tore down the coffeehouse and got the church set up for church the next morning. (Well, that’s what they were supposed to do, at any rate…) Bill had jokingly referred to the ever-worsening exchange rate, worsening if you’ve got dollars that is, as his “daily pay cut”. The problem is that it’s true. They get their support from people in the US, and basically these days they see about 70 cents of every dollar that people give to support them. Yeeowch. So it didn’t seem like much for us to babysit and help fund a night out for them, which they basically never get to do anymore.
After they returned home, we went back to the church office which looked…well, exactly as we’d left it, since the general consensus had apparently been that ping-pong and beverages would be a better way to pass the time. But the novelty of the ping-pong eventually wore off, and eventually everything got set up as it should have been for church the next morning. We trundled off to our last night in our hotel, walking through the town square at night for the last time.
The next morning a few of us went for a short walk (we had wanted to go to a chocolate shop that we’d been trying to get to all week, but it was closed on Sundays. DANG IT.) and headed over to the church. It was then brought to my attention that, due to the rail strike, our train to Paris that afternoon wasn’t going to be running.
Dammit.
There was some brief caucusing about what to do, and then we had to get ready for church. After the sermon, I got up and spoke a little, with Anne-Caroline translating for me. My French is decent, but I figured that it would be better to have her translate so people could focus on the content of what I was saying, instead of getting hung up on how badly I was mangling it! I actually got up and said in French “Bill asked me to speak this morning, and I said ‘of course.’ But since I don’t want to kill the French language, Anne-Caroline will translate for me…” It was basically just about how I’d come to my relationship with God, and why we had come to Poitiers on the trip to serve the church there.
After church, it was all business, as I worked with Karen, an American living there who had been there when the church started 20 years ago, to find some way to get us and all of our stuff to Paris. The only train running (there were three of them out of a normal schedule of 40+ or something like that) went to Montparnasse, which is in the very southern part of Paris – nowhere near the airport, and nowhere near our hotel. And the thought of piling nine people plus musical equipment and baggage into cabs to get up there was completely unappealing. And likely wouldn’t have been possible.
Unfortunately, Poitiers is a smaller city without a lot of tourist traffic in general, and not only are most things closed from 12:30 – 2 for lunch in that region, most things are also closed on Sundays. Like car rental places. Nonetheless, we started calling every 800 number (or the equivalent) that we could find to see if we could get anything. Well, our luck was not holding very well. Someone at the church offered to loan us a trailer so that Karen could take our stuff to Paris and we’d meet her there after taking the train. This wasn’t a great option for several reasons – first of all, it’s a long drive there and back, second of all we had a person in our group who is claustrophobic and a packed train for two hours would have been among the worst ideas I could think of, and third of all, I had no way of knowing how easy or difficult it would be for us to get to the airport from Montparnasse anyway, with me being the only person comfortable with communicating on my own in French.
Just to check, we called a local car rental office, but when she heard the machine, Karen hung up, assuming that them getting a message from us on Monday morning wouldn’t be very helpful. The reason we needed to get back was that our hotel in Paris had been pre-paid and we had checked out of our digs in Poitiers. So our options were becoming more and more limited. However, apparently the guy who ran the car rental agency in Poitiers that we had called was having calls routed to his cell phone when the office was closed, and he called us back, even though we didn’t leave a message. He also had three cars to rent us as a one-way rental that we could drop off at the airport in Paris – I couldn’t make this up, and it just seemed like a completely unexpected way of God providing for us and just saying “okay – there’s really not another way to make this work…so here you go”. Three of us who can drive stick shift headed down to the airport (there’s a teeny airport in Poitiers) with Karen, and the guy met us there, with a lovely Peugeot sedan (Dr. C got to drive that one…lucky), and two Citroens, one a 7-seater, which held me, K, and almost all the bags, and another 5-seater that would be holding people.
Over the course of our time there, I had begun chatting with Jo, a lovely British exchange student who needed to get home some time that week. Since it looked as though we would have enough room for one more, I asked if she’d like a ride with us to Paris, since the trains were still proving to be unreliable. She happily agreed and rushed home to pack a bag. Eventually, the vehicles were loaded up, Jo was ready to depart with us, and it was time for some tearful goodbyes. I couldn’t believe it was over already, the time had flown by. But as I said earlier, it’s usually a good sign when the people that you went to serve are asking you to come back soon.
We hit the road, and I was glad for my good memory and sense of direction, as I got us out of Poitiers with minimal “Oh crap, I need to turn now!” moments – although at one point I did have everyone in the wrong lane, because I forgot which was the right one. Oops. Well, everyone did an excellent job of following. We set off around dusk, and as the night came on, so did the rain.
Because that’s what I wanted, when driving a vehicle the size and shape of the Space Shuttle in a foreign country at night. Rain. Samanabastich. There were also a lot of cars and large trucks on the road, and the reflection of the headlights off the spray from the tires made it basically like driving through a cloud. But not in a good way. The only part that was more fun was the high winds. Because the Space Shuttle doesn’t have a low center of gravity, kids. But we made it, with a couple stops for gas and snacks. At one point, one of our drivers got really, really tired, so we stopped, I took over his car, K drove the one I’d been driving, and after a stop for caffeine, he and K chatted and rawked out all the way to Paris. (Yeah…sure he was tired…)
There were a couple accidents to contend with on the drive up there, although happily none of them involved us. When vehicles were merging because of an accident-induced lane closure, a semi was trying to get in front of me. Now, particularly because we were going so slowly, I was following very closely and there wasn’t really any room for this guy to get in between me and K’s car. Nor any reason for him to see that as his opening. So as he continued to merge, oblivious to my presence, I leaned on my horn. Which prompted him to lean out of his window, waving a bat, and yelling at me in French.
M’kay.
I was so ticked off, and feeling vaguely road-rage-y, when V, who was sitting in the passenger seat, idly said “now see – this is when you really need to have a pistol in your car…”, and then I was laughing too hard to give a crap about Batman.
We arrived at the Charles de Gaulle airport region, and it was then up to us to find our hotel, since the directions we had weren’t very good. At all. Likely because we’d entered them incorrectly without realizing it. So after driving around and driving around, we finally ended up at our hotel. We had been driving for about 7+ hours, and I was exhausted, feeling a lot of pressure and responsibility still for things that probably weren’t my responsibility at that point, and couldn’t handle anyone asking me what to do next, when all I wanted to do was sleep and forget about that day – which had been a nightmare for me, alternating with some funny bonding experience time. So I got really edgy after a couple people did – and attempted to remove myself from the situation before I got bitchy.
I asked the concierge where the nearest gas station was, and he told me, so K, Dr. C, and I headed out to gas up the cars, so that we could just head straight into Paris the next morning. We used the GPS in Dr. C’s car and found a closer gas station, so we decided to head there first. After about 20 minutes of driving, we got there, only to find it closed.
At this point, I really lost it – I cracked, all the pressure finally got to me. K asked me if I wanted to just go return the cars tomorrow, and I went off, basically saying that I didn’t want to keep everyone waiting tomorrow morning while we returned the cars, since we already had less time in Paris than people were expecting, I thought people would be ticked if they had to wait for us to return the cars and they didn’t seem at all comfortable going into Paris by themselves even though they’d been told the whole time that folks were on their own in Paris, and blah, blah, blah. The “f” word was used liberally to describe a lot of things, and K calmly stood there and let me freak out, since it had been a long time coming and none of it was being directed at him personally.
After I stopped to draw breath, I heard Dr. C’s voice come over K’s shoulder saying “it’s okay Mandy…you can be real with me…”, at which point I finally just started laughing at the absurdity of the situation. I’d been in a car for the better part of the last 8 ½ hours at that point, I had no idea where we were, but I knew people had finally been deposited at the hotel with all our bags, and they could head into Paris tomorrow while we returned the cars. It wouldn’t be the end of the world. But I still did want to get the cars returned that night if possible. So Dr. C turned to his GPS to find the next closest gas station, and as Special K and I were talking we heard him exclaim, very loudly, “What the f**k????”.
Because apparently the GPS told him that the next closest gas station was 26 kilometers away. And that we had to take a route that looked like the pattern for a crazy straw.
But not knowing what else to do, we got back in the cars, and set out to find it. Driving through some of the sketchiest exurbs of Paris, where there were no streetlights and everything was boarded up. Hmm… And then we arrived…at another closed gas station. At which point the laughter began again, because we were just so frickin’ tired, and we’d left the hotel about an hour before then. So I took the lead, relying on my very sketchy memory of where we gassed up the cars three years ago, and a sign I saw pointing to the highway. So we got on the highway and had to turn around, and then finally ended up at the airport gas station.
Which was also farking closed.
We decided that this was God’s way of telling us that we should give it up and head back for the night. So we did, and upon finding the hotel again, I said to the concierge (in French), “well, we’ve driven around for 1 ½ hours and all the gas stations are closed, so we’ll need to get parking for the night.” At which point he looked at me as if I’d sprouted another head and said “well, of course they were closed, it’s so late…” I could have reached across the counter and strangled him, I really could have.
If I may take another moment – whenever I’ve been in France, I’ve always had good experiences and really haven’t encountered the stereotypical French rudeness, and I do think it’s greatly exaggerated. People have always been nice and friendly and helpful – and yes, it may help that I speak French, but I’m not a native speaker by any means, it’s just that I try. And I’ve found that even trying badly will get you really far. However, I encountered that rudeness more than a few times on this trip, which was upsetting because I wanted people to have that same great experience that I had, and I don’t feel like we necessarily did. (Of course, all bets are off if you’re anywhere near the Louvre, because many people assume that you’re all tourists and don’t feel compelled to try to retain your business unless you’re at one of the really upscale places. But it’s the same in New York and DC and most big cities here – Paris is no different.)
Mrs. C had patiently waited up for us, and we were all so tired that we had the giggles – it was well past midnight at that point and most everyone else had gone to bed. We talked with B, one of the original drivers, because it occurred to us that he might have to sign off on the car he was supposed to have driven even though he was too tired to make it all the way. So he agreed to go with us to the airport, and we all eventually went to sleep. The next morning, I got up in time to meet the rest of the group downstairs and give them our big Paris guidebook and give them ideas of where to go and what to see, and then I headed back upstairs to shower. In the smallest shower ever. Ever.
We headed for the airport, gassed up the cars, and returned them to two very nice guys at the airport (and by the way, National Car rental really came through for us on this trip – they were great). B did, indeed, have to sign for the car, so I was glad that we’d brought him, even though that meant less time in Paris for him as it was his only day there and he was heading home with the rest of the team the next day.
The cab rides into Paris took forever, the first group took about 2 ½ hours, and we made it in
just under 2 hours. Sheesh! Farking rail strike – which also meant that the normally lovely Paris Metro was very unreliable, so we decided that walking everywhere would be tiring, but probably for the best. We went to lunch at a place that I remembered very fondly when it was under a different name, but the meal was still tasty, with some delicious potatoes dauphinoises (basically French scalloped potatoes). We went to Notre Dame, and walked up the Ile Ste. Louis a little, stopping for pastry and souvenirs as we felt compelled. We then crossed over to the right bank, and headed up toward the Louvre, up the Champs Elysees, and down to Trocadero, where you can get some of the most dramatic views of the Eiffel Tower anywhere in the city. There was also considerable time spent shopping on the Champs Elysees as B has four ladies at home to shop for, and he couldn’t return home empty-handed.
The day had been gray and rainy, and although they’d seen a lot, the other group had retired a little early to a café at which we met them. We then set out to find a suitable place for dinner – and by suitable, I mean it had to be able to seat 10 people in a group. We found a place that had two tables that we could split between us. I was disappointed as I’d wanted the whole group to be together, but since we were only a few feet apart, it wasn’t the end of the world. Dinner was warm and tasty and over too quickly. After dinner, we found a taxi stand and split up into groups to head back to the hotel. Unfortunately, B and I got a cab with a fairly incompetent driver who kept the meter running as he pulled over to consult his GPS unit after tersely telling me that we weren’t lost. Our fare was far too high, and when we arrived at the hotel, K had been waiting for us and I asked him to get the concierge immediately, since I didn’t know the French word for “rip-off”. The concierge was of moderate help (certainly more helpful than when he told us to search for closed gas stations), and we didn’t pay the full fee – but we should have paid far less than he charged us. Jerk.
Tuesday morning came around and we loaded all of our bags onto the airport shuttle. Those of us who were staying longer still wanted to make sure the team got off safely, and besides, we wanted to avoid the BS surcharge for a cab to come to the hotel from the airport. (One cabbie had charged 15 Euros extra for that the day before. Jerk.) After bundling all of our things on, we settled in and I asked the driver which terminal United left from, in French. She scowled at me and said she didn’t know.
Perhaps she was so cranky because her pants were cutting off circulation between her upper and lower body.
Eventually she said that all flights to the US left from Terminal 2, and dumped us there. Not knowing any better, but not trusting her, we got off at Terminal 2. To find that we should have been at Terminal 1. Biznatch. SO, we loaded all of our things onto luggage carts and eventually made our way to the train that went in between terminals. The train on which you are not allowed to take luggage carts. Did I mention that we had suitcases and carry-ons for nine, plus two guitars, a bass, a keyboard, and two black trunks with cords and other equipment? We got as far as we could and started to bring things down to the train platform. The train there had been sitting there for a few minutes, so we decided to start loading things in, as time was of the essence. Unfortunately, as we were about halfway through this process, a chime rang to signal that the train was leaving. We then went into mass panic mode and people began throwing bags and such into the train. I was holding a door open as Special K came barreling into the car pushing both large black trunks in front of him. The doors finally closed, and we checked to make sure we got everything. (Fortunately, we did.) People in the train were laughing at us, but it was okay, we were laughing at ourselves. We got to Terminal 1 finally, and hauled everything up to the correct counter. The group got checked in without a problem, and with no overweight baggage fees this time (hurrah!), and we bid a fond farewell.
K and I had talked about staying longer after the trip since the beginning, realizing that one extra day of vacation would get us several more days in France. The timeline had to be adjusted somewhat to fall in line with our financial reality, but we still wanted to make it happen – seeing it as an opportunity not likely to come along again any time really soon. So we went for it. Unbeknownst to us, Dr. C had been thinking about doing the same thing as a surprise for Mrs. C. However, she’s difficult to surprise, and once she found out, they asked if we’d mind if they stayed longer as well – to which we said of course not, it sounded like fun. They found a hotel near to ours, and in light of the rail strike, that was a really good thing.
We hailed a cab to take us and our bags to our destination, and actually found one that would take all of us and our stuff. He was also a very…brisk driver. Mrs. C occasionally gets car sick, so sitting in the front seat is best for her. Not being the type to get car sick, I’m not sure how it helps, but I’ve heard from multiple sources that it’s the case. Anyone have ideas on that? I’m sure it’s got something to do with how much of what’s in your field of vision is stationary versus moving, but I could be mistaken. And I digress. From time to time as we swerved in and out of traffic, we had a few close calls. None of these seemed to bother the driver who told me that when he got into the car, he told the car that he was in charge, not the other way around. And apparently, in 10 years driving a cab, he’d never been in an accident. But the best part about these very close calls was my view of Mrs. C, who would occasionally clamp her hand over her mouth to stop from yelping in fear, or saying “holy crap!” or something similar. There was even one that was such a close call that it warranted two hands.
We arrived, 30 minutes and 90 Euros later, and deposited ourselves at K’s and my hotel. We left our bags because our room wasn’t ready yet, and set out to find the C’s hotel. We went the wrong way at first, but used it as an excuse to stop for lunch. Eventually, we did find their hotel just a few blocks away from ours. After cleaning up a little, we decided to head out. We had learned the day before that museums and tourist attractions were closing early due to the
strike, so the sooner we got out and about, the better. We wanted to head to Les Invalides, which is an old military hospital and the French equivalent of a VA hospital, actually still housing 30 or so French veterans. Behind the hospital is the Eglise du Dome, which houses Napoleon’s tomb, as well as several others. However, as we walked up to the front gate, we were directed away by police officers, and saw rows of horses and guards standing at attention. I asked the officer what was going on and he told me it was some kind of military ceremony, and that the building would be closed the rest of the day. Fortunately, we were close to the Rodin museum, so we headed over that way. It’s housed in a beautiful old mansion, with a lovely sculpture garden. I am susceptible to museum coma, but I did well at this one. (Being outside for part of it helps.)
We stopped for some hot chocolate and a little bread and cheese on our way back to our respective hotels and decided that, instead of going out for dinner, we should get some bread, cheese, meat, and wine and just have dinner in our room. After venturing to a few places, for some cheap (and hopefully good) wine, some lovely fresh bread, some interesting meats, and some produce, all of which didn’t take us much longer than a trip to a full-sized grocery store would have taken, we retired back to K’s and my hotel room and dug in. It was a simple dinner (although we got some tasty pastries for dessert – we were in Paris, after all), but very tasty and filling. And after all of the activity and hub-bub of the past week and a half…very tiring.
Yes, the wine probably had something to do with that. One bottle was not good, but the rest were and all were under 10 Euros, maybe under 5 if I’m remembering correctly – so well done, us. I wish I’d gone back to get a bottle of the really inexpensive one I really liked, but the timing just didn’t present itself.
In any event, K and I were asleep by approximately 8:30 pm, and slept until 8 the next morning, and I have to say – I really needed that sleep. It just made a world of difference!
That morning was clear and blue and beautiful. We started out walking up the Champs de Mars park, which runs north-south leading to the Eiffel Tower. The view was amazing! From there we walked across the Pont d’Alma to Trocadero, and from there up to the Arc de Triomphe. The last time I was in Paris, my dad climbed the Arc de Triomphe all by himself because neither my mom nor I are good with heights. Well, this time I was determined to climb the dang thing – I was 
somewhat emboldened by my experience with the Torre del Mangia in Sienna, and I told Keith and the C’s not to let me wuss out. So we got there, and K and I headed up the spiral staircase that brings you to the top. Once we
emerged, the view of Paris was stunning to say the least – we were at the center of the star, with major roads extending out from underneath us in all directions. At first, I kept saying “I’m okay, I’m okay…” as I stayed determinedly away from the ledge. I started to get more comfortable, (after all, it was far shorter than the Torre del Mangia) and made my way over to the edge, peering out, not down. (That would surely have made my field of vision go fuzzy. And then there’s the vomiting and loss of bladder
control.)
We went our separate ways for the rest of the morning and met up again for dinner that evening at a restaurant that I remember loving the last time I was in Paris. Although it wasn’t quite as good as I remembered it being last time, we still had a lovely dinner. Then came the super-fun task of finding a cab in Paris during a rail strike. We would have otherwise sucked it up and hopped on the Metro to take our chances since some lines were running fairly well, but the line that went near our hotel? One out of every ten trains was running. Which meant long waits and possible jam-packed cars, which are not good for the claustrophobic, even if it were to be only for a few minutes. So we went to hail a cab, which entailed a substantial wait at a taxi stand. As one pulled up, a woman on her cell phone casually sauntered up in front of us and asked the cab if he would take her somewhere, at which point I told her, in French, that we had been there before her, and that she could wait her own damn turn. She looked at me for a second, as if debating whether or not to argue, but apparently my “don’t piss me off look” translates into French, because she made some lame attempt at an apology and backed off.
Unfortunately, by this time it had become quite apparent that K was really not feeling well, and was in some kind of digestive distress. Pobrecito… We went back to our hotel and called it a
night, but I do recall waking up several times with him (and he woke up several more), at one point being really concerned because he was burning up, had the chills, and his pulse was racing. In the morning, we stopped by a pharmacy before heading over to Hotel des Invalides, where a very nice French pharmacist and I had a chat about what would best help Special K make it through the day. He was definitely a trooper, though – determined not to miss out on being in Paris because of some stomach flu or other. But he can give you a detailed description of a stunning variety of the bathrooms of Paris. Well done there.
After les Invalides, the guys decided to head to the Louvre, and Mrs. C and I went to the Paris Opera House. I’ve been to Paris several times now, and I haven’t ever been to the Louvre – it’s not that I don’t think it would be worth seeing, as I’m quite sure it would. It’s that it’s so overwhelmingly huge and I’m so
overwhelmingly susceptible to Museum Coma that I have just never wanted to devote an entire day or an entire afternoon to seeing it. Not that I don’t appreciate great art, but that’s generally not the kind of tourist I am. I like to walk around, soak up the atmosphere, wander a little, and try to take in as much as possible. I’m sure I’ll make it into the Louvre one day, but to date, I’ve just never felt compelled to go. The Opera House, however, was very cool. Ornate and beautiful and extravagant in every sense of the word, and there was a nice walk to be enjoyed on our way there and back.
Although the rail strike was in many, many ways a huge and expensive (for us, with car rentals and cab fares, where a train ticket and some time on the Metro would have worked out wonderfully), it did allow us to gain a familiarity with Paris that we may not have otherwise necessarily had, because we did walk just about everywhere, until our feet gave out. We met up with the guys again at Place de la Concorde and headed back to our little neighborhood for dinner. After a lovely dinner with some dishes that had Mrs. C and I declaring that we had to figure out how to recreate them at home, we retired to our respective hotels to pack up and get ready to leave the next morning.
As a final “screw you” from the rail strike, we had planned to get some breakfast from the bakery around the corner from our hotel to share with the C’s on our way to the airport. But because of the strike, almost everything was opening late and closing early. Including the farking bakery, which was opening just a few minutes too late. Samanabastich. 
To say that we were displeased would be an understatement. However, we realized that there was nothing to be done, and clambered aboard our airport shuttle. We took a bizarrely circuitous route through Paris because of the other people who needed to be picked up on their way to the airport, the only benefit of which was that we saw areas that had been too far afield for us to reasonably get to, including Montmartre and Sacre Coeur, and the Moulin Rouge (quite underwhelming, by the by…). But we arrived in plenty of time for our problem-free check-in (and at least this guy knew what terminal we were supposed to come out of – although by that point, we did, too). We boarded our flight and set off for home, glad to be coming back home but sad to be leaving our vacation from reality behind.
Of course, in the interests of extending that vacation from reality, we’re considering going in on a winery/B&B somewhere in Canada or Europe. But considering that even the Canadian dollar is giving the U.S. dollar a spanking these days, that will have to remain a pipe dream, unless one of us strikes it rich.
All in all, a very challenging and very rewarding trip. And now that it’s taken me more than a month to write about it…well, at least I got it done! (Not that anyone was hanging on my every word and checking in to say “when oh when is she going to write about this trip??? At least, I hope not. But I started it, and wished to finish it.)
In any case, since it’s now New Year’s Eve, I’d like to start 2008 off with fewer albatrosses around my neck, so I’m off to work on a project that has been dragging on since 2006. Yay!
