Tag: travel

Re: Sun, Weasels, Blue Jaguars, & the FBI

Posted on by Kathy Waller in Uncategorized

This morning, I woke, as I often do, with a song in my head. Today’s selection: “His Eye is on the Sparrow.” Every few minutes, I break out into song: “I sing because I’m happyyyy . . .”

The hymn is infinitely more beneficial to my mental health, and, I’m sure, to David’s, than the recent “Pop Goes the Weasel.” Not only can those lyrics grow tiresome, but recently, decades after learning the song, I realized it might not have a happy ending.

The verse I learned:

All around the mulberry bush
The monkey chased the weasel.
The monkey thought t’was all in fun.
Pop! goes the weasel.

As a child, I sang mindlessly. It’s occurred to me, however, that the word weasel has some negative connotations. One definition is, “a sneaky, untrustworthy, or insincere person.” In The Wind in the Willows, weasels were villains. In the Greek culture, the weasel is believed to be a sign of bad luck, even evil.

If the song’s weasel is untrustworthy, and has led the monkey to believe the chase is all in fun, but then turns and goes Pop!  . . . that sounds like bad luck for the monkey.

Wikipedia, which contains a long and comprehensive entry about the song, mentions nothing of the kind, so perhaps my interpretation derives from either my maladjusted mind or my propensity for reading and writing crime fiction. (One critique partner, after reading my latest story, which came to me in a dream, said, “What do you think about at night?”)

Anyway, I’ve decided to forget about monkeys and weasels and sing because I’m happyyyyy.

I’m happy because even as I type, we’re headed north to view the solar eclipse directly in its path over Texas. Something about travel brings out the blogger in me; as soon as we hit the interstate, I’m moved to get out the laptop, fire up the hotspot, run down batteries, and write.

Not the appropriate response.

After spending the Covid years, followed by the knee and foot surgery years, cooped up in the house, I should be glorying in the beautiful Texas landscape rolling by my window. But on this stretch of interstate there’s not much to glory in. What used to be miles and miles of flat grassland is now miles and miles of city interspersed with Buccee’s and McDonald’s. I’d rather stare at a monitor.

We’re traveling early in hopes of missing bumper-to-bumper traffic. A million visitors are expected in Texas this weekend, and on a good day, at least 800,000 traverse this route. At the same time.

With millions more across the nation watching the eclipse, and many of them writing about it, my thousand words won’t add much.

Except –we’ve already experienced three singular events:

  1. Only a few miles from home, David swerved, without colliding with another car, into the left lane to avoid something big and flat lying directly in front of us. Our good fortune leads me to suspect that the Greeks were wrong: the weasel, which I’d been thinking of, but not singing about, all morning, is really a good omen.
  2. I connected the hotspot all by myself, without asking David, again, to remind me how. And I did that even though the process initially went wrong–something new, I swear–and clicking brought up a different screen. Faced with a list of every network in Central Texas except ours, I calmly started over and made it work. And–and here’s the third event–
  3. One of the networks on the list was labeled FBI Surveillance van. The most exciting thing that’s happened since the hogs ate my brother.* Maybe I shouldn’t mention the FBI online, but it might be the most exciting thing that happens this weekend. If you’re ever asked, please bear witness to my voluntary statement that I did not attempt to hack into that network. If they don’t believe that, I can only hope Leavenworth allows laptops.

I say the unexpected network might be the most exciting thing because, while astronomers predict a solar eclipse, meteorologists predict cloud cover, possibly rain. At least in our vicinity. At first, I felt pretty low at the prospect of driving 132 miles one way and not seeing the sun disappear. Last October, we drove about 100 miles to see cloud cover, and in 2017, we drove to Missouri to see the moon cover part of the sun and the light dim almost imperceptibly.**

Then I remembered I’m a native Texan, a certified old-timer, and that the unofficial State Motto is, “Sure Could Use Some Rain.”*** So I adjusted my attitude. Let it rain.

I promise not to complain about cloud cover either. The other State Motto is, “If You Don’t Like the Weather in Texas, Just Wait.” Things change.

I do worry about visitors from far away, however. Like the couple who live in Norway, in the Arctic Circle. They say they’ve never been to Texas and look forward to seeing it. If it rains, they’ll see Vermont instead. Well, maybe Houston; it sometimes rains there, too.

Okay, we’re here. Laptop and phone batteries in fine shape. Snacks in fine shape, from Tuna Creations to individually packaged microwavable soup to apples to Wheat Thins to pecans to popcorn. Plus paper towels, plasticware, reusable microwavable soup bowls (new addition). And, I’m sure, other things I don’t know about. David is always prepared.

My father said that no man should get married until he’d first lived as a bachelor for at least six months and learned to take care of himself. He lived with his widowed father for years before marrying and was an excellent cook and housekeeper.

David was a bachelor for a long time, too. He can do anything.****I lived alone for years and am a mess.*****

Enough about me and the solar eclipse.

1997 Jaguar XK8 Coupe Automatic 4.0 Front Taken in Charlecote Park by Vauxford, CC BY SA 4.0 via Wikimedia

We’ll see what happens. Probably what NASA predicts, but maybe not. Maybe we’ll see an omen of a future more terrible than the weasel ever thought of: possibly the release of an Eternal Bat and a Blue Jaguar that will destroy the stars and mankind; or Homeland Security hijacking the “biblical event” (how and why have not been explained).

But that is fodder for another post. Or not, depending on the Jaguar.

*

*My mother used to say that. I don’t have a brother. Neither did my mom. It’s Texas talk.
**We chose Blue Springs because I have family there. Seeing them made up for the eclipse.
***The official State Motto is “Friendship.” No comment.
****Except make pies. My father made a killer chocolate meringue pie.
*****I’m not being facetiously self-effacing. Everyone who knows me well will back me up.

*

That’s probably not the kind of jaguar that will be released, but it’s the only picture of a blue jaguar that I could find.

Image of weasel by trondmyhre4 via Pixabay

Image of solar eclipse by Jason Gillman via Pixabay

Image of raindrops by 준원 서 from Pixabay

Sulfur, Brimstone, and McDonald’s

Posted on by Kathy Waller in Uncategorized

We’re in Sulfur, Louisiana, for the Calcasieu Short Film Festival, where David’s video Alien Whisperer was screened.

Brimstone Cockatoo

Unfortunately, we didn’t make the screening. This morning, before the festival began, I fell in the McDonald’s restroom. And couldn’t get up. I managed to get myself and my walker to the door and call David, who I knew was waiting outside. Imagine his surprise when he saw me walking on my knees,  maneuvering the walker with my forearms.

A digression: Please don’t say you’re sorry. I’m sorry enough for all of us. But I try to take these events with a light heart and write jolly posts about them. As long as my bones stay put, I won’t complain. Much.

Two firemen kindly got me into the wheelchair–which resides in the trunk of the car for just such an eventuality, and which I’ve made my peace with–and the McDonald’s manager filled out an incident report. Then David rolled me to the car, where I poured water over my hands. At the hotel, I also divested myself of my clothes. Restroom floors are not known for being pristine, and this one left me feeling particularly grubby.

As I told everyone who passed (while I was sitting on the floor) and asked, I’m physically fine. Psychologically bruised–sitting on the floor at a fast food place, especially at my age, will do that to you. One knee does have a bruise, not from the fall, but because my knees are bony, and walking on them always leaves its mark. It also hurts like crazy while in progress.

Colossus of Rhodes. 

I fell because my feet were too close together and I overbalanced.  A therapist once told me to walk like John Wayne and to stand like the Colossus of Rhodes, the opposite of what my mother told me to do, so I have trouble remembering to do it. I tried to stay vertical by grabbing the handle of the walker, and the brakes failed.

David said the brakes didn’t fail–he’d fixed a loose one yesterday, and he demonstrated that they’re fine–and said it requires more weight than I placed on it. He said it’s a basic law of physics. It’s like trying to stop with bald tires: the brakes work, but the tires slide.

I told him I should have enough weight to stop anything. And my tires aren’t bald.

Anyway, by the time I finished with the fire department and the incident report, the film was over.

Sulfur. By Ivar Leidus, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons

David went into the Brimstone Museum, where the festival was held, and told the director that we’d been held up by his wife’s medical issue. He was kind enough not to say I’d fallen all over the place.

I was disappointed, of course, and felt bad for David. He said he wasn’t disappointed because it’s not his best video and he wasn’t looking forward to seeing it. He also doesn’t like being called up onto the stage to answer questions.

I was also disappointed at not touring the Brimstone Museum. I wanted to see what was on display. The Brimstone Museum in Sulfur, Louisiana, sounds so John Miltonish. David, however, said there wasn’t much on display because they’re remodeling.

Although the trip didn’t meet our expectations, it was less of a disappointment than the time we went to a festival in Houston and learned that the email saying his video had been selected didn’t mean it would be shown. So we went to Galveston.

When I get home, I shall insist my doctor refer me for physical therapy so I can regain strength enough to walk without that brake-challenged walker and to stop falling, or at least to stop having to call the fire department for aid and comfort. When I finished chemo, I was ambulatory, bopping merrily into radiation twice a week so the techs could admire my cute socks, bopping out to the grocery store. During the pandemic, I bopped nowhere. That’s taken a toll.

The whole trip hasn’t been a disappointment, though. In our first real getaway in four years, we drove to Knoxville, then looped back to Sulfur. That was fun. But it’s a story for another post.

***

I’ll add that yesterday we checked into a very nice hotel and then learned there would be no hot water for three days. Showers were bracing. Today we moved.

***

Image of brimstone cockatoo by Karsten Paulick from Pixabay

Sulfur. (2023, May 16). In Wikipedia.

Image of Colossus at Rhodes via Wikimedia Commons. Public domain.

William, the Road Home

Posted on by Kathy Waller in Uncategorized

Heading home

Cocoon, Day 3: less artfully constructed than on Day 1
Blocked from getting in floor; plowing through to front seat; blocked again
Intrepid explorer; access to front seat still blocked
Cruising again
Tired, bored, or resigned to being blocked; snoozing on the interstate
Preparing for touchdown
The last leg of the journey

 

The Star of Christmas

Posted on by Kathy Waller in Uncategorized

The star of Christmas shines for all,
No matter great, no matter small,
No matter spotted, brown or white,
It bids us all to share the light.
                        ~ Unknown

Two Rabbits (Kobi). By Kobi (active 19th century) (http://www.hwwilson.com/Databases/artmuseum.htm) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
Two Rabbits (Kobi) (Photo credit: Wikipedia). By Kobi (active 19th century) (http://www.hwwilson.com/Databases/artmuseum.htm) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

*****

In an Atlanta gift shop, on the last road trip my mother and I took together, I bought a packet of Christmas cards designed by a local artist. In the background on the front, there was a star; in the foreground, there were three rabbits–brown, white, and black-and-white. The verse above appeared inside. The design was simple, unsentimental, and touching.

I used all but one of the cards, and kept that one thinking I might be able to find more. But I couldn’t, and sometime over the past twenty-eight years, the last card disappeared. I hope I’ve quoted the verse exactly. The image above doesn’t duplicate the charm of the original, but perhaps it’s close.

I’ve searched the web for the name of the artist-poet but have found nothing. If anyone reading this knows the artist or has seen the card I’ve described, please leave a comment. I would like to give proper attribution. If possible I will contact the author to ask permission to use it; if he wishes, I’ll remove the post. (Note: A friend pointed me to the website of Michael Podesta. I suspect the card might be one of his.)

I don’t usually post anything without getting permission and crediting the author, but I love the card and it seems a shame not to share.

I Kid You Not

Posted on by Kathy Waller in Uncategorized

On a quick trip to Missouri, staying in the boonies past the outskirts of Kansas City,

in a possibly no-star hotel, adequate except for its lack of

  1. elevator, and
  2. proximity to restaurants without golden arches.

Checked online under Dining.

First thing I saw was the ad at the top of the page: What’s the best cure for toe fungus?

Checked under Bars and Grills.
First establishment listed: Q & R Pest Control.
I kid you not.

Decided the golden arches would do.

*****

Names have been changed or omitted for obvious reasons.

The Star of Christmas

Posted on by Kathy Waller in Uncategorized

The star of Christmas shines for all,
No matter great, no matter small,
No matter spotted, brown or white,
It bids us all to share the light.
                        ~ Unknown

*****

In an Atlanta gift shop, on the last road trip my mother and I took together, I bought a packet of Christmas cards designed by a local artist. In the background on the front, there was a star; in the foreground, there were three rabbits–brown, white, and black-and-white. The verse above appeared inside. The design was simple, unsentimental, but touching.

I sent all of the cards but one, and I kept that thinking I might be able to locate more. But I didn’t find any, and sometime over the past twenty-seven years, the card I saved disappeared. I don’t remember the artist’s name, but I do remember the verse. The drawing above doesn’t duplicate the charm of the original, but perhaps it’s close enough.

I’ve searched the web trying to find the name of the artist-poet but have found nothing. If anyone reading this knows the author, or has seen the card I’ve described, please leave a comment. I would like to give proper attribution.

I don’t normally post anything without giving credit, but I love the card and it seemed a shame not to share the verse just because I can’t locate the source.

Paris, Day 1: Getting There

Posted on by Kathy Waller in Uncategorized
Satellite view of the English Channel
“English Channel” via Wikipedia.  NASA. Public domain.

When David and I land at Gatwick in July of 2002, we come armed with goals and objectives: spend two nights in London; pick up a car at Waterloo Station; head north for Oban, Scotland; ferry over to Duarte Castle on the Isle of Mull; drive south to Exeter for a look at Robbers’ Bridge in Lorna Doone country; spend another night in London; return the car to the rental agency; and board the train for Paris.

To ensure we return the car timely, David maps a route that allows us to drive the thirty miles from our bed-and-breakfast in East Grinstead to Waterloo Station without ever turning right. When you’ve spent ten days driving on the wrong side of the road, you learn to think ahead.

Our plan for Paris, however, is not to plan. Paris is for spontaneity. We step off the train carrying luggage, the name and address of our hotel, and the assurance that everything will be fine

Mostly, it is.

#

Hotel Opera Cadet sits on a narrow street only one block long. The exterior is elegant but so understated that we walk back and forth in front of it several times before realizing we’ve reached our destination. We go inside and present our voucher to the concierge.

Standing at the reception desk in the soft light of the oak-paneled lobby, I release my grip on David’s shirttail.

I’ve been latched onto the hem of that blue windbreaker ever since stepping off the Eurostar and going into culture shock. All the signage is in French. I know people in France speak French, but I’ve never considered they also write it. Crossing the English Channel has rendered me functionally illiterate.

Although the station is enormous and we have no idea how to get from here to the hotel, David isn’t concerned. He knows some French, but he’s been told that the natives resent hearing foreigners mangle their language. Many of them, however, will speak Spanish. Since David speaks Spanish fluently, there will be no barrier.

But first we see what we can do on our own.

He picks up his suitcase and strikes off through the crowd. I grasp the handle of my rolling bag and follow him like a barge trailing a tugboat.

#

After completing several laps without finding an information desk, David breaks out the Spanish. With me still attached, he approaches a young woman wearing khaki slacks and a navy blazer.

“¿Habla usted espanol?

I first think of the woman as African-American, but when she tells David she speaks neither Spanish nor English, I once again remember where I am.

David takes a breath and resorts to mangling French. The woman mangles some English. They wave their hands in the air. I stand by, detached, congratulating myself on my decision to wear khakis. I’ve heard the French consider Americans in bluejeans gauche. I don’t want to be gauche.

After five minutes of intense effort, the woman gestures for us to follow, leads us to the bureau d’information, explains to the man behind the desk what we want, and smiles. “Au revoir.”

I risk mangling a heartfelt “Merci.”

#

Our second-floor room is small but comfortable. I flop onto the bed. David opens the refrigerator. He’s impressed by our choices: almonds, chocolate bars, and bottled water. He doesn’t intend to eat or drink any—the prices are exorbitant—but he’s impressed.

I’m comforted by the knowledge that in case of emergency, real French chocolate is within reach

From the window I see the shops across the street. “Boulanger Patisserie,” “Atelier 13,” names so much more sophisticated than “Dillards'” and “HEB.” Even “meat market” reads better in French.

In front of a grocery, a fruit stand juts into the street—oranges, cherries, cantaloupes, grapes, peaches, plums, too many fruits to name heaped fat and fresh in cardboard flats. Tomorrow, when I aim for a photo of David flanked by produce, the shopkeeper runs out, waving his arms.

I’m appalled. Have I offended him? Is it gauche to want a picture of apricots?

I’m about to apologize when he takes David’s arm, pulls him behind the stand, then runs back into the street, grinning and gesturing for me to snap the picture. The wide-angle photo shows a young man wearing a short-sleeved gray shirt, dark slacks, and sandals, grinning beside a slice of watermelon. David lurks in shadow under the awning, recognizable only to me.

#

The first afternoon and evening, we concentrate on getting our bearings. We leave the hotel, walk a few blocks, look around. I remember reading that London is a city of gray and scarlet. I see Paris as a city of stone and lace; every building seems to be scalloped and edged with grillwork.

When the effect of our full English breakfast wears off, we order sandwiches at a small café. We’re the only customers. A waiter watches the Tour de France on a wall-mounted television near the back of the room. As we slide into a booth, he turns down the volume. We smile our thanks. He doesn’t seem to object to David’s jeans and red tee-shirt with the black Lab on the front.

The sandwiches appear. They’re made with baguettes. I’m delighted to be eating an authentic French sandwich and wonder whether the diners at the McDonald’s up the street are as pleased with their sesame seed buns.

Leaving the café, we take another stroll, return to the hotel to rest, go out again, come back for our street map, walk some more, return for something else we’ve left upstairs…Our act is not yet together. Each time we leave, we pass our key across the desk to the concierge. Each time we return, he passes it back. By the fifth or sixth exchange, his smile hints at both bemusement and fatigue.

In all our trekking back and forth, we’ve seen no one else in the lobby. David and I might be the only thing standing between the concierge and a quiet evening with a good book. I hope he doesn’t think we’re Ugly Americans. Judging from his smile, I suspect Crazy Americans is more likely.

#

To be continued: Starving, Gaping, More Starving

#

Image [Satellite view of the English Channel] file created by NASA.

Going Over the Fiscal Cliff: Denim or Silk?

Posted on by Kathy Waller in Current Events, Humor, Politics, Uncategorized
Diane Sawyer
Diane Sawyer (Photo credit: asterix611)

Since early November, when the media shifted focus from the presidential election to the next crisis, David’s favorite television show has been the evening news. To him, it’s comedy. Every time Diane Sawyer says “fiscal cliff,” he roars with laughter.

I haven’t laughed. The prospect of going over a cliff is scary. At first, the mere mention of John Boehner’s name gave me the fantods. But after being bombarded–fiscal cliff, fiscal cliff, fiscal cliff— over and over, on local news, network news, PBS News Hour, day after day for nearly two months, I became jaded. While David sat in the living room and guffawed, I muttered, Que sera, sera, and kept on chopping onions.

But two days ago, while rummaging through purpleborough’s blog, I stumbled upon this sentence: Nevertheless, I must decide what I am going to wear going over the fiscal cliff.

And I realized my error. The fiscal cliff isn’t something to dismiss with a chuckle. There’s a lot to be done before midnight. I haven’t decided what I’ll wear either.

At the top of the list is whether I can go with just the clothes on my back, or whether I’ll need a suitcase. What about toiletries? Cosmetics? I will take a lipstick–I always take a lipstick, because I think other people feel better when I wear it–but what about eye shadow? Will I be able to find my manicurist after we’ve gone over? Because he’s all booked up today.

I’ll have to take shampoo, conditioner, brush, dryer, curling iron. Millions of people will be going over that cliff. I’ll take several bars of deodorant soap. I hope everybody does.

Packing would be easier if I knew what’s at the bottom of the fiscal cliff. If a river’s down there, I would wear my bathing suit, but for anything else, denim is more serviceable. My jeans have gotten a little scruffy, so if there’s mud, they’ll do fine. It would be a shame for my good black slacks to get dirty. I want to wear them to dinner later with my with my new red cowl-necked sweater. I hope there’s mud. For that matter, I hope there’s dinner.

What will Diane Sawyer wear going over the fiscal cliff?

The probability of a hard landing means I’ll have to take the travel first-aid kit I picked up at Target last year. Gauze and antibacterial ointment can come in awfully handy. Plus mosquito repellent. Anti-itch cream. Aspirin, ibuprofen. Cough drops. A couple of Ace bandages for wrapping sprained ankles. Ichthyol for mesquite thorns. Moleskin for blisters (I assume we will not be met by a string of limos). Sunscreen, hat.

Books. I don’t go anywhere without books.

Laptop, notebook, pens, index cards. I assume there will be WiFi somewhere in the vicinity of the landing site. Mouse. Camera and USB cable. Flash drive. Printer and paper? I might be able to print at a library. Are there libraries over the fiscal cliff?

Cats. I can’t go without the cats. I won’t go without the cats. Neither will David. But he’ll have to deal with them. They’re so heavy that every time I pick up one of the carriers, I throw my back out.

Insurance cards, passport, driver’s license, birth certificate. Purpleborough thinks we won’t need any form of ID, but I’m going to take what I have. If we get down there and they change their minds, we’ll probably need ID to get back up.

It’s obvious I’m going at this haphazardly. There’s so much to do and so little time in which to do it. If you see anything I’ve missed, please leave a comment. If you’ll do the same thing for Purpleborough, I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.

I have to go now and do a load of laundry. I was going to make peanut butter sandwiches to carry along, but I’ve decided against it. The one thing I’m sure of is this: even at the bottom of the fiscal cliff, we’re bound to find a McDonald’s.

Before I go, let me be clear: I’m not complaining about going over the fiscal cliff–I want to do my part, just like everyone else–but if we go over and then they tell us to turn around and come back, I expect transportation to be provided. It doesn’t have to be fancy. Mules will do. I just don’t think I should have to scale the fiscal cliff under my own steam. There’s too much stuff to carry.

Related Articles

Paris, Day 1: Getting There

Posted on by Kathy Waller in Uncategorized
Satellite view of the English Channel
Image via Wikipedia

When David and I land at Gatwick in July of 2002, we come armed with goals and objectives: spend two nights in London; pick up a car at Waterloo Station; head north for Oban, Scotland; ferry over to Duarte Castle on the Isle of Mull; drive south to Exeter for a look at Robbers’ Bridge in Lorna Doone country; spend another night in London; return the car to the rental agency; and board the train for Paris.

To ensure we return the car timely, David maps a route that allows us to drive the thirty miles from our bed-and-breakfast in East Grinstead to Waterloo Station without ever turning right. When you’ve spent ten days driving on the wrong side of the road, you learn to think ahead.

Our plan for Paris, however, is not to plan. Paris is for spontaneity. We step off the train carrying luggage, the name and address of our hotel, and the assurance that everything will be fine

Mostly, it is.

#

Hotel Opera Cadet sits on a narrow street only one block long. The exterior is elegant but so understated that we walk back and forth in front of it several times before realizing we’ve reached our destination. We go inside and present our voucher to the concierge.

Standing at the reception desk in the soft light of the oak-paneled lobby, I release my grip on David’s shirttail.

I’ve been latched onto the hem of that blue windbreaker ever since stepping off the Eurostar and going into culture shock. All the signage is in French. I know people in France speak French, but I’ve never considered they also write it. Crossing the English Channel has rendered me functionally illiterate.

Although the station is enormous and we have no idea how to get from here to the hotel, David isn’t concerned. He knows some French, but he’s been told that the natives resent hearing foreigners mangle their language. Many of them, however, will speak Spanish. Since David speaks Spanish fluently, there will be no barrier.

But first we see what we can do on our own.

He picks up his suitcase and strikes off through the crowd. I grasp the handle of my rolling bag and follow him like a barge trailing a tugboat.

#

After completing several laps without finding an information desk, David breaks out the Spanish. With me still attached, he approaches a young woman wearing khaki slacks and a navy blazer.

“¿Habla Usted espanol?

I first think of the woman as African-American, but when she tells David she speaks neither Spanish nor English, I once again remember where I am.

David takes a breath and resorts to mangling French. The woman mangles some English. They wave their hands in the air. I stand by, detached, congratulating myself on my decision to wear khakis. I’ve heard the French consider Americans in bluejeans gauche. I don’t want to be gauche.

After five minutes of intense effort, the woman gestures for us to follow, leads us to the bureau d’information, explains to the man behind the desk what we want, and smiles. “Au revoir.”

I risk mangling a heartfelt “Merci.”

#

Our second-floor room is small but comfortable. I flop onto the bed. David opens the refrigerator. He’s impressed by our choices: almonds, chocolate bars, and bottled water. He doesn’t intend to eat or drink any—the prices are exorbitant—but he’s impressed.

I’m comforted by the knowledge that in case of emergency, real French chocolate is within reach

From the window I see the shops across the street. “Boulanger Patisserie,” “Atelier 13,” names so much more sophisticated than “Dillards'” and “HEB.” Even “meat market” reads better in French.

In front of a grocery, a fruit stand juts into the street—oranges, cherries, cantaloupes, grapes, peaches, plums, too many fruits to name heaped fat and fresh in cardboard flats. Tomorrow, when I aim for a photo of David flanked by produce, the shopkeeper runs out, waving his arms.

I’m appalled. Have I offended him? Is it gauche to want a picture of apricots?

I’m about to apologize when he takes David’s arm, pulls him behind the stand, then runs back into the street, grinning and gesturing for me to snap the picture. The wide-angle photo shows a young man wearing a short-sleeved gray shirt, dark slacks, and sandals, grinning beside a slice of watermelon. David lurks in shadow under the awning, recognizable only to me.

#

The first afternoon and evening, we concentrate on getting our bearings. We leave the hotel, walk a few blocks, look around. I remember reading that London is a city of gray and scarlet. I see Paris as a city of stone and lace; every building seems to be scalloped and edged with grillwork.

When the effect of our full English breakfast wears off, we order sandwiches at a small café. We’re the only customers. A waiter watches the Tour de France on a wall-mounted television near the back of the room. As we slide into a booth, he turns down the volume. We smile our thanks. He doesn’t seem to object to David’s jeans and red tee-shirt with the black Lab on the front.

The sandwiches appear. They’re made with baguettes. I’m delighted to be eating an authentic French sandwich and wonder whether the diners at the McDonald’s up the street are as pleased with their sesame seed buns.

Leaving the café, we take another stroll, return to the hotel to rest, go out again, come back for our street map, walk some more, return for something else we’ve left upstairs…Our act is not yet together. Each time we leave, we pass our key across the desk to the concierge. Each time we return, he passes it back. By the fifth or sixth exchange, his smile hints at both bemusement and fatigue.

In all our trekking back and forth, we’ve seen no one else in the lobby. David and I might be the only thing standing between the concierge and a quiet evening with a good book. I hope he doesn’t think we’re Ugly Americans. Judging from his smile, I suspect Crazy Americans is more likely.

#

To be continued: Starving, Gaping, More Starving

#

Image [Satellite view of the English Channel] file is in the public domain because it was created by NASA. NASA copyright policy states that “NASA material is not protected by copyright unless noted.”