Goodbye, France; hello, ENGLAND!

After 18 topsy-turvy days in France, I have finally made it "home" to England. If I could attach video here, you'd see me doing a Happy Dance!

The week with my cousin, Little Margaret Harris, and our friend Susan Hollister was lovely, and we made some extraordinary memories that will last a lifetime. Despite some significant challenges with the house in which we stayed -- the house I had arranged through a home exchange -- we managed with good humor and American grit. The accommodations may have left something to be desired, but as they said in Casablanca, "We'll always have Paris."

The capstone of the week was the celebration of Little Margaret's 60th birthday Monday (Sept. 27). How many people from Denton, NC, can say they had their birthday dinner on the Champs Elysees?

The next day, when we all left to go our separate ways, was a tedious day of many moving parts. I doubt whether military campaigns have been carried out with as much precision and effort. Suffice it to say that thanks to planes, trains and automobiles, we all made our connections and by the end of the long, tiring day we were all where we were supposed to be! My own particular journey involved a ride through the Chunnel between Calais and Folkstone on the Eurotrain, a fascinating conveyance in which you're whisked between the two countries underneath the sea with no sense of motion whatsoever. You drive your own vehicle into this boxcar-type container on the French side and sit in it while being conveyed along the way. Then they open up the container and voila! You're in England!

My English exchange partners had volunteered to pick me up in suburban Paris and drive me home with them, which was an extraordinary gesture that saved me untold amounts of energy and effort. I was certainly content to let them "drive Miss Daisy" from France to their home in Newbury in Berkshire. To those of you who don't know your English geography all that well, Newbury is one hour west of London, halfway toward Bath, and is in the same county where Windsor Castle is located. Oxford is only about 30 minutes north of here. Great location!

I've spent these last couple of days lazing about the house, getting my bearings and being domestic. No need to rush into anything. The down comforter on my bed feels much too good to rush out of it.

The house, I'm relieved to report, is wonderful. It's a 1902 Victorian residence, typical of its day, but with very spacious rooms. It's spotlessly clean and all the appliances, including the furnace, work! My host couple, who leave for Charlotte Monday, are absolutely delightful and couldn't be more gracious and kind. I struck gold with these folks.

This posting, as you can tell, is pretty low-key. Guess I needed to slow down and catch my breath after the challenges of Paris. But fret not: My adventures will resume shortly. There's a compact car in the driveway waiting to be conquered. Yes, it has manual transmission. But I'm not afraid; it's not a Daewoo.

In the first picture, that's Margaret, Susan and me thinking warm thoughts in front of Notre Dame Cathedral. In the other one, we're enjoying a much sunnier day in a park in Paris before visiting an exhibition of Impressionist art at the nearby Marmottan Museum.

Versailles ain't for wusses

Versailles is France’s – perhaps the planet’s – most popular tourist attraction. It is not for wusses.

Yesterday, the day Little Margaret, Susan and I decided to go to Versailles, approximately half of Europe and the equivalent of the population of Kentucky had turned out to ogle at the splendid palace of King Louie the Someteenth and his queen, Marie Antoinette.

I knew as we trudged up the hill from the parking lot I was going to be in trouble. I’m in terrible physical shape, but this was absurd. The cobblestones had apparently been laid to deter the riff-raff from ever coming to call. Here 250 years later they’re still performing their duty well. Every step was torture.

The ticket line snaked back and forth outdoors for days. No, we hadn’t been clever enough to purchase ours in advance, so into the queue we went. It was about this same moment that winter arrived. But we had come this far, and everybody else seemed to grin and bear the Arctic temperature, so we went with the flow. I’m sure it was the Swedes in line who were actually peeling off layers of clothes at this point.

Once inside, naturally I had to find a loo. My bladder imperatives are famous among the people with whom I travel. Basically I flit from toilet to toilet most places I go, and Versailles, of course, was to be no exception. Except it seems that King Louie, for all his money and power, never got around to putting in facilities, at least for the size of the crowds he’s attracting these days. By my calculation, there is about one toilet seat per 81,015 visitors on the property, which is spread out on territory the size of West Virginia. Let me explain for those of you who don’t have the bladder the size of a lentil, this is not a favorable ratio.

Because of the huge crowds, we decided to tackle the royal family’s smaller dwellings first. To get there we had to ride a tram that made me yearn and pine for the Daewoo Deathtrap I recently ditched. Daewoo was a model of comfort compared to the tram. To get to the tram required a Battan-like march. By now the Arctic wind had picked up and the temperature had dropped even further. By the time we entered Marie Antoinette’s Petite Trianon (little cottage) we could no longer feel our ears or fingers.

And of course, my bad back was already speaking loudly: “Sit down, sit down now! Pain, pain, pain!”

Back at the Big House, I knew my back was on its last legs and that I would be unable to see everything. Little Margaret and Susan, both in great physical condition for women their age, went on ahead with my blessing. It pleased me that Margaret, in particular, was enjoying this day so much. I was cold and miserable and didn’t really give a flying fig about French history, but as a serious student of history, Margaret was in her element. She had indulged me the day before at Monet’s garden; it was now her turn.

I decided to make one last attempt to get into the whole Louie thing by gunning for the Hall of Mirrors on the second floor. Unfortunately, the Versailles people had brought in some stupid exhibit by a contemporary Japanese artist – and I use the word artist very loosely. His installation was a series of plastic cartoon characters in garish colors that would look outrageous in a playground at your local McDonald’s. In Versailles??? Ridiculous! These tacky figures give new meaning to the word UGLY.A pile of cow patties would be a step up on the artistic scale.

So instead of seeing the luxurious furnishings of the kings and queens of France, one had to look at plastic Japanese excrement in the same space. It rather ruined the effect, quite frankly. And it didn’t help that my feet and legs were screaming in agony.

As I pressed on through a sea of humanity, many of whom seemed like irritable Oriental people by this point, I was getting more and more frustrated, uncomfortable and annoyed. The chilly outdoor air would have been welcome; the temp inside those ornate chambers was at least 100 degrees. Leavened with the body odors of thousands of fellow culture pilgrims, the air seemed to take on an evil life of its own.

By now I was experiencing what can only be described as a rogue hot flash. My blood pressure was through the roof, and there was not a cell in my body that was performing to standard. I had walked at least five miles and had seen not one thing I’d write home about. Every instinct was saying to me, “Flee! Flee now!” I found a couple of guards and said, “I’ve got to get out of here!”

My lack of French, for once, was not a problem. Apparently the look on my face was communication enough. The staff couldn’t have been nicer. They even took me into a “secret” room of the king’s and opened a window and let me cool off and rest my aching body. By now everything from my nose down was in pain. My distress must have showed. One of the guards even offered a massage. I declined, with a sincere merci beaucoup.

My dear attendants led me out through several rooms not open to the public. I swear I was so relieved to see the exit that if one of them had said, “Follow that corridor; George Clooney is waiting for you in Marie Antoinette’s secret boudoir,” I would have said, “Nah. Let him eat cake.”

Impressions from France, now that the three Guilford College amigas -- Susan, Margaret and I – are together:

Despite the reputation that the French people are haughty and rude, we have found them to be absolutely charming – except when they get behind the wheel of a car. Then Dr. Jekyll (or is it Mr. Hyde?) emerges. On the road, they are some real pieces of work. I attribute their vile behavior to the fact that they’re exhausted and bitter from having to change gears every 15 feet in those tiny deathtraps they call automobiles. Otherwise, from the guy who sells fresh eggs at the open-air market to the elderly lady at the “informations” desk in the concert hall, they’ve been uniformly helpful and kind – even openly friendly. Our taxi driver the other day, in particular was yummy. Baby blue eyes and the manners of a Southern gentleman. We would've happily let him drive us to Chile. The French, we have concluded, have gotten a bum rap over the years.

Wednesday we went to an off-the-beaten-path museum in Paris, the Marmottan, known for its fine collection of Impressionist paintings. A stroll afterward to the taxi stand took us through a beautiful park and to a sidewalk café for coffee and pastries. There we lingered for two hours in absolute relaxation as we watched the world go by. It felt very French, and we congratulated ourselves for having fallen discovered this ritual -- so much, in fact, that we have continued to follow this ritual daily.

Being inspired by the Marmottan, yesterday we drove to Giverny, Claude Monet’s village and the inspiration for many of his best-known paintings. His cottage garden, in particular, was still simply breathtaking despite the late date in the flower-growing season. We were surprised at how vivid the colors were; the dahlias and sunflowers, in particular, just amazed us. The garden remained in full bloom, with surprises such as pink and purple autumn crocuses and scarlet sage and morning glories and nasturtiums.

Of course the star of the show at Giverny is Monet’s water lily garden, which is like stepping into an Impressionist painting. Susan and I had been there before, but it was a first for Margaret. We all ooohed and aaahed at every turn. Of course, because this attraction is so popular there were lots of tourists, including a full complement of Americans – the only ones we’ve had to put up with so far on the trip. Despite that blight, we thoroughly enjoyed the day.

Today we attended a free choral concert at La Madeleine, a church that has been converted into a stunning concert venue in the center of Paris. The choir we heard was from the Netherlands, and is part of a national choral organization that boasts 1,000 voices from all over Holland. Its choirs tour all over the world. The 125 singers in today’s concert were often in tune and occasionally were on the same passage as the organist, who used the occasion to perform a solo recital. Balance must have been of only passing concern to the group – of the 125, only 18 were men – but they sang with heart and conviction, and we enjoyed their effort very much.

I was also jealous at their turnout: On a rainy Friday afternoon they managed to draw a crowd about twice as large as my Festival Singers manage in an entire season.

The day ended with prayers to the Commuter Gods that we don’t have to ride a train every day from Paris to one of the hundreds of little bedroom communities (like La Frette). Jostling our way onto the train in rush hour with a seething mass of French humanity is NOT the way we’d like to spend any more of our lives, let alone a holiday. As we found out the hard way, the friendly-French thing goes only so far, and certainly does not prevail when train seats are at a premium. The only gentleman who took pity on three tired oldish ladies and offered us a seat turned out to be a woman!

Got a new, sweet ride -- but where do I park it?

Bits and bobs today…The headline event is that my playmates arrived! My cousin, Little Margaret Harris of Denton, and our mutual good friend, Susan Hollister of Durham, flew in this morning. Our rendezvous, however, nearly didn’t happen.

Note to Self: Learn the French words for “car park” BEFORE arriving at one of the world’s busiest airports.

Had a good plan to start with: Get up at Dawn’s Hairy Crack to go pick them up. No problem. Find the bloody airport. Check. Find the correct terminal. Gotcha. NOW WHAT?! Where do I park the car??? If there were signs with directions to the parking garage, I have no idea where they were or, more to the point, what they said. Some symbols would have helped. But at 6:30 a.m. in a steady stream of impatient French drivers it was too early – or too late, depending on your point of view – to whip out a French- English dictionary.

Happily, I had built enough extra time into my journey to accommodate doing several loop-de-loops around Charles de Gaulle and several provinces of northern France until I managed to find the entrance to a parking deck. By then, paying 8 euros for the privilege seemed like quite a bargain.

I’m absolutely delighted my Guilford College buds here, and as usual, we’re having a splendid time. The weather continues to be stunningly beautiful. All is well.

Which brings me to Item #2: The Daewoo Deathtrap has been retired. Previous readers may recall my…er, difficulties with the car that came with my exchange house. Under the best of circumstances I’m not fond of gear-changing. Most European cars have manual transmission and I have managed OK in the past, but there is simply more of me than there was of this tiny vehicle. At the end of every journey I was fit for nothing except some Advil and a heating pad.

So I did the only sensible thing any 60-something, comfort-addicted, creaky-boned, amply-proportioned American lady would do: I rented myself a bigger car with automatic transmission. Because of a mix-up at the rental counter, I got an upgrade: A full-sized Citroèn sedan. What a sweet ride! That sucker cradles my frame like a Sleep Number bed and glides down the highway purring like a kitten. Voilà! I’m back in serious travel mode.

My last observation for today has to do with French children, or probably more to the point, child-rearing. The French don’t seem very big into correcting their children or quieting them down in public places. Cases in point: Yesterday in the grocery store, there were literally dozens of screaming, unruly, out-of-control children. And nary a parental nudge to any of them that their loud, obnoxious behavior might be inappropriate in public. Are these mamas deaf??

And Sunday at the village flea market here in La Frette, there were squads of squealing children who ran wild undeterred by a mother’s knot-jerking. If it had been an American scene, I have little doubt that some little bottoms would have been smarting by the end of the afternoon.

This observation brings me to this advice to the French military: If it ever appears that Germany has the annexation of France on its mind again, simply deploy a battalion of French pre-schoolers to the border. Having to listen to those little chil’ren for a day or so will be all the deterrence needed to stave off a prolonged conflict. Bless their bratty little hearts.

Lazy in La Frette

The weather in Paris continues to be absolutely gorgeous and I have slowed down to nearly a crawl…Can’t wait for Susan and Little Margaret to get here Tuesday morning. I need some playmates.

In the meantime my days have been punctuated by routine chores like laundry and grocery shopping. Here I am within a stone’s throw of Paris and I can’t seem to generate a head of steam to go do anything there. For one thing, I couldn’t find anything online this weekend that appealed to me. Of the 93 cinemas claiming to play English-language movies, not one title was worth spit. One would think I could’ve found a nice choral concert, or maybe a chamber ensemble. Non.

The harder I looked online for something to do, the more appealing the lounge chair in the solarium became. A lovely view of the garden, a cool beverage, a classical station wafting from my new radio...Very enticing. Who says I have to go and do anything? Can't I just be content just to "be"? Can this attitude be a product of age? Am I, god forbid, turning into my mother, gripped by inertia and content to "set" all the time??

Going into Paris would also entail driving that blasted Daewoo to the train station. I’d rather lance my own boils. So I am contenting myself with a lazy Sunday, soaking up La Frette's atmosphere and stunning sunshine.

I already subjected myself to the Daewoo torture once today to go back to the super-duper Carrefour grocery store. I found it Friday and it knocked my socks off. I was in such a sensory stupor I could barely buy a couple of pastries before limping back to the car. Today, newly regrouped and armed with a list, I was better prepared. Naturally, the store was closed. I admit to uttering a string of unladylike oaths in the parking lot.

Carrefour is a Super WalMart on steroids. I kid you not. This particular establishment, located five miles and 637 speed bumps from my house, occupies at least the same acreage as your biggest WalMart. It’s a grocery-pharmacy combo. That’s all: no clothes, no toys, no automotives. Imagine a WalMart with liquor, foods from 100 different countries, and an amped-up French bakery. The vastness and the calibre of the selections are overwhelming. I was in overload by the time I got to the oranges (imported from South Africa) on Aisle 2.

My other remarkable shopping experience occurred Friday, as well, at the farmer’s market in the next village, Herblay. It featured only local growers and producers, with some imported goodies thrown in. Homemade sausages from the hog farmer who raised the hogs they came from. Cheese made right here in France. And fresh pastries from the local baker. Yum!

So even though I’m not racing around at 120 km an hour, I’m eating well. And my reading material ain’t bad, either. I’m reading one of Mark Twain’s earliest books, Roughing It, about his adventures in the American West during the 1860s. His little travel anecdotes and observations are wry and funny and just marvellous. Who knew? Mark Twain was a blogger!

The picture shows me liberating a freshly-baked baguette from the bakeress at the Herblay market.

All quiet on the Western Front? No way!

No one has ever accused me of being particularly flexible. I’m seldom mistaken for one of those go-with-the-flow individuals; it’s one of the many less attractive traits I got from Mama, rest her rigid little soul. But when I’m overseas I do try to adapt as much as possible – you know, to get the most from my travel experience.

There are a few things, however, that I find hard to compromise. One of them is the need for music. I’m hard-wired to need music around me, especially when I’m alone, as I have been most of this week. My French exchange house has a TV, but the only English-speaking channel, the BBC’s equivalent to CNN, has such a buzz in the reception that I can’t make out much of they’re saying. Did John McCain call for us to bomb Portugal this week? I couldn’t swear to that report…

There’s a radio in the sitting room but it’s not hooked up to speakers. Operation of the CD player requires an engineering degree, and the small radio in the kitchen, which may have been new when the Everly Brothers were rocking the airwaves, went mute the instant I touched it. I have that effect on electronics.

The three – count ‘em, three – online music services to which I subscribe back home are unavailable over here. Those crafty foxes know I’m trying to access them from a foreign computer and have blocked me from downloading a single tune. And did I mention the tiny car’s radio had been removed, and of course I couldn’t figure out how to get it back in? I was so desperate I’d have listened to ghetto rap.

And so I soldiered in silence for several days, becoming more morose by the hour. I cursed myself for never having gotten up to speed on technology such as iPods and MP3 players. They’re probably obsolete now, anyway. Lord, when did I blink and become a fossil?

Then it occurred to me: I am only a 20-minute train ride from Paris! SURELY I could find an electronics store there, flash an obscene number of euros, and buy myself something that would make some music-like noise.

Confidently I set out yesterday, calling on my guardian angels as I boarded the train. At the Paris station, the third person I stopped knew enough English (“electronics?”) to give me directions to the FNAC store, apparently the French equivalent to Radio Shack, which was literally across the street! The place was mobbed, but within 10 minutes (and the requisite obscene number of euros) I had myself a sweet little portable Sony radio – about the same low-tech model I so proudly owned when the Everly Brothers rocked the airwaves.

Boy, did the rest of the day perk up! After poking around the Sacre-Coeur Basilica and the Montmartre Museum in Paris, I swanned back to the house in La Frette (think Brooklyn in relationship to Manhattan) and spent a lovely evening with a book and Ravel, Mozart, Schubert and Harry Connick, Jr. Great company, n’est pas?

P.S. The photo up there was taken of the River Seine in the public park in La Frette, just at the bottom of my street, the day after I arrived. The weather has continued to be just that gorgeous all week.

Jumbo me takes to the road

Well, I’m finally here in France and somewhat settled…As usual, I’m struck by the smaller scale of things – cars, roads, rooms, drinking glasses…We Americans are so accustomed to JUMBO and conspicuous consumption, and the Europeans manage with less, and in a way that’s kinder to the planet and their heritage, I think.

Anyway, today I had my first solo outing with the car, a Daewoo built to be driven by an anorexic troll. Think of a mini-sausage casing, say, the size of a dainty cocktail weenie: that would be the car. Now think of about 74 lbs. of prime sausage meat to be stuffed inside that sucker. NOT a pretty picture. Especially when gear-shifting is involved. Yikes! On my best day I despise gear-shifting, but this Daewoo was simply not designed for a person of my womanly proportions. In some countries, I could get arrested during my execution of second gear. Fortunately, the French are quite relaxed about those matters.

Anyway, my objective today was the Chateau d’Auvers, a castle about 35 miles north of Paris that has been renovated and turned into the site of a multi-media tribute to the Impressionist painters. The presentation is sort of Disney-esque but it’s quite tasteful and well worth the drive – after I was able to find the highway.

Between the total lack of signage and the é+§&@$£# gears in that car, I was just about to give up and call it a day. I’ll admit to many unchristian utterances during my fruitless ponderings of the map and wrong turns. Even worse than the Brits, the French eschew the use of north/south, etc., and require you to know which town you’re heading toward. I needed to head EAST to find Auvers, but from the sun I knew I was obviously driving south. So I did a loop-de-loop (downshifting into second gear as seldom as possible), eventually finding the right road (no thanks to the Ministry of Signage, the scoundrels) and the homage to the Impressionists.

Maybe I wasn’t the only tourist having trouble finding her way: I was only one of four visitors today at the Chateau. So I had Van Gogh (who’s buried there), Renoir, Serat and them pretty much to myself. But you’d think that for all the trouble the Auvers castle folks went to to simulcast their commentary in eight languages, including English (bless ‘em) they’d provide better signs.

For her part, the sausage is just glad to be out of her casing for the rest of the evening. I’m heading to some yummy goose pate that the French are so justly famous for, and a beverage -- jumbo-sized, of course.