These messages are from a series of e-mails written after our vacation to Paris and Italy, in the summer of 2002. The events recounted in this internet diary occurred Saturday and Sunday, June 15 and 16.
--Jim McQueen
Our grand vacation began on Saturday, June 15, 2003. A blue shuttle van picked us up at 8:00 AM, for the 45 minute trip to LAX. Our flight was at noon, but I wanted to be extra early for the big flight. It was good that I was so conservative -- it took us three hours to check our bags and clear security.
(While we were in the first line, a woman nearer the front suddenly shrieked loudly enough to turn every head in the American Airlines lobby. From what I could tell, she'd been on her cell phone with the airline. I think she could see that the line was moving so slowly that she was in danger of missing her flight. An agent on the phone arranged to put her on a later plane, but then told the customer it'd cost hundreds of dollars extra to make the change on the day of the flight. I don't know what happened to the woman, but I do know that the only weapon against airport stress is extra time.)
We made our own flight OK. At 10:00 PM we had a short layover at Kennedy airport in New York, before the grueling red-eye -- seven hours across the Atlantic to Charle de Gaulle. We were already tired from flying across the US, but nobody got much sleep on this flight.
The boys read -- each had a separate copy of the 4th Harry Potter book. They'd both already read it enough to recite large portions, but it occupied their minds.
Landing in Paris was a little too ordinary. We cleared passport control, located our bags, breezed through customs, and found ourselves standing by the curb of a modern, anonymous airport. We had e-mailed weeks before to set up a shuttle ride into Paris. I bought a calling card, called the shuttle company, and after a few minutes we were in a blue van just like the one we'd left in California. The ride was pre-paid, and the driver already had our destination.
Scott looked as tired as the rest of us felt. We were sure ready to see our apartment (and bedrooms!)
In 1984, Nancy and I had driven a rental car through much of Europe. That year, I had driven in a dozen capitols without any problems, but Paris had been another story. The traffic had been frightening, and the parking impossible. We'd ditched our rental car within twelve hours of arriving.
In 2002 the traffic was no better, but I wasn't driving. I had the front passenger seat in the van, and more than once I shut my eyes, rather than know how the driver avoided calamity.
When we got into the area where our apartment was located, the driver began having problems navigating. Many of the streets were closed to cars -- pedestrians only. Of the streets that allowed cars, it seemed that they were all one-way, leading away from our destination. We circled all the way around our address once, then did it again on different streets. Finally, the driver decided we were only a block away, the wrong way on a one-way street. His solution was to turn around, put the van in reverse, and start backing up slowly against traffic.
When we arrived at our apartment, we were greeted by Regine Geraud, the assistant manager. She showed us up to the apartment, let us in, and helped me use the phone to call Mom. (She had flown separately from Florida, and arrived about three hours before we did.) I greeted Mom with "Bon jour!", and told her we'd walk over in a while. Regine also introduced us to the building's caretakers, a sweet-looking retired couple who kept a tiny apartment on the ground floor. I don't think they spoke a word of English, but they smiled cheerfully whenever we were coming or going.
Regine left, and we began settling in to our apartment. At different times some of us would nap, and I wondered what to do to fight the exhaustion and jet-lag. After a while I ventured out into the neighborhood to get lunch for the four of us. I located a small family market, and a medium supermarket, and generally made mental notes about places that would be useful in the coming week. When I found a sandwich shop named "Pain and Olives", I stopped and bought sandwiches made with cheese and huge mushrooms. I added a few cans of Coke and French beer, and returned to the family.
After lunch and a bit more rest, we all four ventured out to find Mom's apartment. It was a ten-minute walk, along a pretty direct path, and we found it without much trouble. Mom let us in, and we rested some more, and traded stories about our flights.
We finally decided to start being tourists. We headed down rue Sebastopol towards the Seine, about a half mile away. On the way, I located our nearest branch of "Easy Everything" a giant chain of internet cafés. We sent an e-mail home announcing our arrival, and continued on to the river.
As tired as we were, it was invigorating being on the Ile de la Cité. We meandered across with the other tourists to the Left Bank, and watched traffic on the river. We walked back to Notre Dame, and about dusk took our first photo with Granpa. Afterwards, walking back to Mom's apartment, we got dinner for the boys -- at Häagen-Dazs.
We got Mom safely home, and as we returned to our own apartment, we found that our neighborhood was full of pedestrians, shopping and eating at sidewalk cafés. The evening activity was alluring, but we'd walked a long way after a grueling day of travelling. In our apartment, we experimented with the TV, and I tried to make myself believe I was fitting in with our new time zone. When Nancy and I finally turned in, the boys were still wide awake, playing cards in front of a TV show nobody could understand.