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| Paris' subway system |
TUESDAY,
DAY 20 – THE LONG TRIP HOME
By
the time we turned in the night before, everything but the bare minimum had
been stowed in suitcases. As we
searched the room for any forgotten item, I had my third brilliant idea of the
trip. There was an extra single
bed against the far wall that we had used to set our suitcases. On a hunch, I pulled it away from the
wall to see if anything might have slipped behind it and found the bag of socks
Ron thought he’d left in Amsterdam.
Also, the thin, nylon bag I’d packed, just in case we couldn’t fit
everything in on the way back came in very handy, holding my new coat, Ron’s
new red shoes and his Harrod’s toy.
We could do this.
Making
our way to the Metro, rolling suitcases behind us, Doug’s strong, young back
came to the rescue, helping to get everything quickly down the steep stairs to
the train and out of the way of the people behind us. As we rolled past Paris
suburbs on the way to the airport, a weak winter sun favored us on our last
view of this feisty little country.
As if on cue, the doors of our car opened, and two young men entered,
enthusiastically wishing everyone “bonjour”
as they set up a boom box and proceeded to launch into a loud French rap
performance. Had they made eye
contact, they would have noticed that they were being unanimously and
studiously ignored. I covered my
ears, but they didn’t seem to get the hint. When their song was done, they nervously passed a plastic
cup around for money with no success, so they quickly moved to the next car and
we enjoyed the last bit of France passing by with just the rhythmic sound of the train.
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| Au revoir! |
Since
we had come through Iceland, our first class tickets required us to return
through Iceland. It was a bit
longer that way, but worth it. It
was lovely to be able to wait in the first class lounge again, snacking on the
buffet and catching up on emails and news from home. I remembered to take my Nausi-calm and we settled into our
seats for the next delicious airplane meal and the first uneventful leg of our
trip home. As we approached Iceland, the bright sunny skies turned gray and we descended in a big
snow cloud, gently sprinkling the runway with delicate flakes that scattered as
we landed. Switching flights, Doug received bear hugs and boarded a plane to
take him back home to D.C. for his first time in five weeks. And our flight, conveniently at the
next gate, would return us to Boston.
As I’d hoped the medicine
not only kept my stomach comfortable, but made it easy to drowse the flight
away until I felt the jolt of tires on the runway in Boston. We're almost HOME!
But, there
was still the matter of being admitted back into the country, and then getting back
to Cape Cod. One thing at a
time. Three weeks of constant walking and climbing had taken a toll on what I refer to as my “geezer knee”, and it took this moment deplaning to tell me it
had had enough, causing me to limp, which put an added burden on my
“geezer hip”. Holding on to Ron’s arm, we
made it down the covered tunnel that connected the plane to the terminal, and
then moved out of everyone’s way. I
noticed several wheelchairs parked against the wall, and thinking they were
there for people like me, we grabbed one and rolled to the luggage pickup. It got really
tricky as Ron pushed the wheelchair with one
hand while pulling his suitcase behind him with the other.
I rolled my suitcase out to the side. We were an exhausted rolling sideshow and thrilled that we
could skip the big line and go straight to the first class check-in, which only
had a couple people ahead of us.
But, it got trickier still when we were asked what we were doing
with a wheelchair when Ron clearly wasn’t a wheelchair aide with a neon orange
vest. We were also asked to provide a declaration form that we would have been given on the plane if we'd called ahead for a wheelchair
to meet us. I explained that I wasn’t expecting to have to enter Logan Airport on wheels. [If you’re not in a wheelchair, the form isn’t required at all, but that
logic still escapes me.] It also
didn’t help that the picture on Ron’s passport was taken before he had chemo,
so instead of straight blonde hair, he now has curly gray hair, which according
to this hulk of a security guard, now made him look like the dad on the Brady
Bunch instead of Rod Stewart.
We didn’t feel like arguing with him, we just wanted to catch our bus to
Barnstable and GO HOME! Twenty
minutes later, after finally finding someone to come up with one of the forms
and returning through the line, we were allowed to pass. Looking for an elevator to wheel into,
a woman in uniform approached and asked us suspiciously where we’d gotten the
wheelchair. My exhaustion made me
bold. I said, Look, we’ve already been chastised about using it without calling ahead
first, but right now, my hip won’t support me, so if you really want it back,
I’ll get up and hop to the bus until my other hip gives out.” Obviously a woman who knows how to pick her battles, she motioned to us to go ahead with the chair.
We caught a bit of luck when the Plymouth & Brockton bus to Barnstable
was running late. It would have been another hour’s wait otherwise. Leaving the wheelchair on the sidewalk,
I hobbled up into a seat and dozed right across the Cape Cod Canal. At Ginny’s suggestion, we'd put a
shovel in our car, just in case there was snow while we were gone and we needed
to dig out. Ginny's has a lot of brilliant ideas, too. Ironically, after the
two blizzards we missed, there had been a big rainstorm that day on the Cape,
and there wasn’t a bit of snow left. We arrived home about 9:30 p.m. after waking up in
France and briefly setting foot in Iceland. Home never looked so good, and our cats remarkably welcomed us home despite our rude abandonment of them.
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| Patrolling the Eiffel Tower |
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The French Consulate in London under guard
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Patrolling the streets of Montmartre
This
is the part where after summarizing our
travelogue and editing thousands of pictures, the more subtle memories and impressions begin to filter through. I’ve
already sufficiently patted myself on the back for reluctantly facing six
consecutive flights. But, terrorism has now become a common component of the fear of travel. It’s one thing to ideally want to “show
no fear” to the attackers [like my feisty husband], and another to actually do
it when you don’t have to. He’s
often said, and I do find it to be true, that when one has traveled in another
country and befriended its citizens, even on a short trip, one takes an attack
more personally. This was not the
same Europe we visited in 2012. Everywhere
we looked, there were very no-nonsense groups of armed soldiers scanning the
crowd and patrolling their sectors.
Opening one’s jacket and
having bags searched is now commonplace.
And yet, life did go on, as it must, and should, and it felt the
way any visit to a large city feels – busy and full of that life. I can’t tell you not to be afraid. I will probably be afraid again. There will probably even be countries I avoid. But, it probably won’t stop me
from going again.
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Friends
always ask, which country did you like the best? It’s an impossible question, as each one has a personality
all its own. I might give Iceland
a little edge this time, simply because it was a first-time experience and this
was a second trip for the other countries, but each country provides specific
reasons to be chosen. Iceland’s culture
is welcoming and their people have a certain open sweetness about them. Their “big city”, Reykjavik is like a
small, but cosmopolitan town. The
“suburbs” are horse and sheep-filled fields full of natural wonders like
geysers, and waterfalls, and geothermal lagoons. I
know there’s much more to see in Great Britain than London, but their theatre
district is what drew us back this time.
Because art is still government-supported, their stage productions are
top-notch and affordable. And,
there were still plenty if other attractions we hadn’t seen.
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| Reykjavik |
Amsterdam
is steeped in tradition, but very laid back at the same time. Live and let live; whatever floats your
houseboat. It’s easy to imagine what
it was like centuries ago, walking past the old–world architecture along the
canals, but watch your step because the modern trams and bicycle lanes will
bring you conveniently back to the present. Great museums, the flower market, the red light
district nightlife, all make it distinctive in its own right.
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| Meow"-na Lisa at de Poezenboot in Amsterdam |
Once
again, I know there’s much more to France than Paris, but there is oh, so much
to see in this city. Besides the
many museums, every utilitarian thing is an excuse for art. Be it lampposts, bridge rails, even
lowly trash cans, everything displays pride in its creation and great care is
taken to keep it spotless and in good condition. They are proud of their culture and even adapted a Starbucks
coffee shop to a Starbucks “Reserve”, adding wine to their menu. Even the Seine is not content to flow
lazily along its banks. It roils under each elegantly sculpted and gilded
bridge with an energy that mirrors the creative forces of this lively
city.
It’s
like asking me “which flower do you like best”.
Being
a traveler makes one a better host.
In our eighth year as innkeepers, we were due for a refresher course on
what it’s like traveling in a foreign country. First, there’s the language. Even in London, many colloquial things require a bit of
explanation for the first-timer.
Icelanders are taught English at an early age, but some still struggle
with it as a second language. The same
holds true in Amsterdam and Paris, although fewer are as willing and able to
speak English in Paris. The best-formed
and pronounced high school French question usually results in a rush of French,
for which this tourist is not prepared. And, you will find in all of these countries that some
of those who struggle with English are really immigrants who are learning
English, French, Dutch and Icelandic as additional ones to their native languages.
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| I just want some money. |
Then,
there’s the money. Whether it’s
Kronas, Pounds or Euros, it’s all confusing and you’ll find more than once
that, throwing caution to the wind, you’ll resort to holding out a fist full of
bills and coins to let a clerk pick the right amount. We’re not proud of that, but let’s be honest. The Iceland Kronas are, by far, the
prettiest coins, each sporting different kinds of fish. Furthermore, when it comes to money, if
you don’t tell your credit card company that you’re going on a trip, you’re
likely to find that your cards suddenly don’t work anymore as they “protect you
from the unusual activity”, and you’ll have to figure out how to contact them
from a different country to fix it.
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| Another car alternative-pedal power |
London
is not the only city in Europe which makes being a pedestrian an extra
challenge, although the fact that they drive on the left side of the road does
ramp it up a bit. Europeans are big public transportation
and bike riders. Gasoline has
always been more expensive there, and many of the roads are too small to
accommodate all the traffic. The
governments do an admirable job providing alternatives to cars. In Amsterdam, bicycle riders have their
own lanes next to the sidewalks, so it’s easy to forget when crossing the
street that you’re probably about to cause havoc standing in front of an
oncoming herd of honking bicycles.
But, pay attention because in the middle, past the bike and car lanes,
is the track for the trams. Paris
is just a free-for-all with cars, bikes, buses and motorcycles all vying for
passage, and walkers will be noisily reminded that they need to move. Now! At least their trains are underground like London's. If I could put just one thing on an improbable wish list, it
would be great if the long stairs going down to the trains had a ramp on the
side for suitcases to be rolled as one descended the stairs. I’m not holding my breath, but think
about it, Europe.
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| Surprise! |
Many
of these cities have passes one can buy in advance for discounts on museums and
popular attractions. They also
keep you from waiting in the long lines.
That was tempting, but for our style of travel, not as practical as it
seems. It’s a little akin to
buying the cable movie packages. Maybe all you want is HBO, but you’re forced
to buy a big package of channels you probably will never watch. We decided that for us, we’d pay the
extra and take our chances on lines, rather than feel pressured to get our
money’s worth out of a big, packaged deal. The surprises we always find leisurely strolling far
outweigh the big museum we missed, and with the lines comes the freedom of
choice to move on to another adventure.
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| "Life without art is stupid." - outside the Centre Pompidou in Paris |
It’s
difficult to espouse socialism in the U.S. without inviting disbelief and
criticism from people who don’t understand what it is. I first embraced it when I co-owned a
home healthcare franchise in the ’90’s and found firsthand that business and
medical care was a terrible combination.
It becomes evident when traveling in Europe that the care of their
people and their country comes first.
Socialized medicine rewards doctors for promoting the things that keep
their patients healthy, instead of the bottom-line medicine practiced by U.S.
insurance companies. [We actually
heard this from a retired British doctor, who stayed at our B&B.] Food is healthier. Infrastructure is in a constant state
of maintenance, providing many jobs, and the work is made as attractive as possible while it’s being
completed. The arts are supported
and language proficiency is valued.
When we heard that Bernie Sanders had won some primaries while we were
in Paris, we had a brief moment of hope that, even if he doesn’t win the
presidency this year, we are all the better off that he’s made his best attempt
to explain why socialism is not a dirty word. If you still think it is, it’s time to take a trip or two
to see where and how it works.
And that’s as political as I get.
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| Some of the nicest moments come from helping a total stranger. |
And,
the jet lag? Totally real, but
totally worth it. By far, the best
takeaway from this trip has been to walk in the same shoes as the visitors who
come to our B&B from far away places.
It’s to gain a healthy dose of tolerance for the people who didn’t
follow the driving instructions I provided for them, or who are confused by our
rotaries and road signs, and clog up the grocery aisles trying to find food labeled in a foreign language to them. I had
detailed instructions about how to find our host in Iceland that I Ieft at
home in the confusion of packing. And, forget about those
Icelandic parking signs… When Doug was coming down with his chest cold, I had to ask a stranger for help in an Amsterdam market to pick out which can was chicken soup. I found out that sometimes, the reason tourists stay
in their rooms instead of going out to see all the sights in the brochures I
provided is because they’re enjoying just taking a break and relaxing in a
different, pleasant place with different decorating and views out of the
windows. I learned that traveling
with our son provides an opportunity to try things I might not have otherwise. I enjoyed comparing the places we
stayed with the places we offer our B&B guests, looking for inspiration,
and getting reassurance that our accommodations stack up to the ones we
liked. Finally, tourists are
willing to be totally out of their comfort zone and rely on the kindness of
strangers. We want to be those
kind strangers, who are strangers no more, and to feel great about the
experience when they leave us.
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| There's no place like home! |
