Last Tango

I sadly realized immediately upon waking to my alarm at 7 a.m. that it was my final full day in Paris. (Sigh.) You can imagine that my itinerary was stuffed from beginning to end. In addition to the previously-scheduled group activities, I still had one final task on my personal Paris bucket list to complete. 

But first I dressed and strolled down to breakfast at 8 a.m., where I joined Lisa, Jim, Madelyn (an 80-year-old retired schoolteacher who valiantly attempted - and occasionally failed - to maintain the tour's steady pace), and Edna, for perhaps the last time. (Sigh.)

The day's first event was a 9 a.m. Metro ride to the Musee de l'Orangerie, a small, relatively peaceful museum (much more accessible than the Louvre and d'Orsay) that is home to works by Picasso, Renoir, Matisse, Cezanne, and most famously, Monet's Water Lilies. 

It was a quick visit (approximately 90 minutes), but I saw what I wanted to see (I dare say, most everything) and then we were off to Montmarte, a packed tourist hub containing souvenir shops and cafes, Moulin Rouge, and Sacre Coeur. Thankfully we rode the funicular (an enclosed lift) up the hill, saving precious time and energy, both of which were desperately needed, and made a beeline for a restaurant, where I ordered a chicken salad and cafe creme. 

After lunch, I left my tour mates and hightailed it outside to snap exterior photos of the adjacent Sacre Coeur, hastily navigating my way downhill to the Metro, where I rode several stops to Pere Lachaise, Paris's largest and most touristy cemetery. (I figured spending my final afternoon in a Paris cemetery was a fitting farewell to the city.) Once off the Metro, I wandered around (as I'm prone to doing) and finally Google Mapped my way to a cemetery entrance. Then I continued wandering (which is too easy to do there, even if you're not directionally-challenged, as I am) while attempting to locate Jim Morrison's grave (the primary reason for my visit). Google Maps directed me outside the cemetery, which wasn't terribly helpful. 

 
In short, there was significant aimless wandering, boundless frustration, and profuse sweating (the temperature was 80 degrees and sunny) before I finally got serious and downloaded a cemetery map onto my phone that was easy to follow. Finally, at least 45 minutes into my search, I found what I believe was Jim Morrison's burial site. (I'll admit I almost expected neon flashing signs, which, of course, weren't there.) It is fenced in due to decades of naughty tourists, so I wasn't close enough to be sure, but I joined a throng of tourists, snapped a few photos, and decided to call it a visit. I would have liked to stay longer and visit the other famous residents - Edith Piaf, Oscar Wilde, Chopin - but I needed ample time to find the Metro and wander back to the hotel to freshen up after I collapsed. 

Fortunately, my return was much less problematic, and I briefly rested before retaking the Metro across the city to Les Capucines Cafe, yet another swanky Parisian restaurant that was much nicer than I would have chosen, where I sat with Lisa, Anne, Dave, Mary, and Jim at one of three long tables. After feasting on an incredible French onion soup appetizer (with approximately 1 lb of melted shredded cheese adorning the top), Louis walked by and asked if I would eat beef. Though I don't usually eat red meat, and would have preferred something else, I was willing to eat whatever I was served (when in Paris, right?!), so I told him that was fine. "Are you sure?" he asked twice, as if he didn't believe me, and I said yes.

And then, confusion. The waiter brought out fish and beef entrees and asked me to choose (or so I thought...). He offered me fish, and I said that was fine. (I would eat whatever he gave me.) And then, chaos. Lisa asked me if I'd ordered fish. I didn't, of course. (I hadn't ordered anything.) "That's someone's fish," she told me. And then, disaster. Alerted to the situation, and assuming that I was refusing to eat the beef he'd apparently ordered for me, Louis started yelling - "I ASKED YOU!!! - and wildly gesturing at me. Then two waiters appeared next to me, conversing frantically in French, each one grabbing one side of the plate (in a ridiculous tug-of-war) and asking (I assume) if they should take or leave it. And there I was, in the middle of it all, utterly confused, embarrassed, and chastised. 

It might have been a humorous scene from a sitcom (a real French farce), but I wasn't laughing. Eventually, after what seemed an eternity, the troublesome fish was redistributed to its rightful owner, and I was in tears, sniffling, wiping my eyes, and excusing myself to the ladies room to cry it out before reluctantly pulling myself together and returning to my beef dinner.

I didn't want to cry in front of anyone, but the rest of the evening was spoiled. Unfortunately, no one wanted to leave me alone with my misery. Anne (the finicky tour mate whose special demands were partly to blame for the whole unpleasant affair) offered me a bite of her fish and a now-calm, contrite, apologetic Louis made several attempts to speak with me before he disappeared and returned with a mea culpa Eiffel Tower keychain from a souvenir stand down the street, which made me cry all over again. All I wanted was to return to my room, but additional obligatory group activities - photos, goodbyes, a farewell speech from Louis, and drinks at a bar - prolonged an unbearable evening. Rather than excusing myself (not wanting to create another scene), I silently, sullenly endured it all. 

Finally, much later than I would have liked, I walked back to my room and promptly fell apart. All of my emotion - the excitement, stress, embarrassment, anxiety, and melancholy that I felt - poured out that evening. Paris hadn't always been the fantasy I'd imagined - especially at that moment - but I dreaded leaving it for the mundane reality of my regular everyday life at home.

D'Orsay & Rodin

I slept late (for me), got up at 7 a.m., painfully limped around my room, did a quick batch of sink laundry, and shared a morning meal with Jim, Mary, Nanette, and Joyce, who entertained me with gossip about her celebrity neighbor, travel guru Rick Steves (who apparently is not as geeky and conservative as he appears onscreen...).

After breakfast my group set off on the Metro for a scenic stroll through the Tuileries Garden before venturing into Musee d'Orsay to visit Monet, Renoir, and Degas with our expert tour guide, Malcolm. The d'Orsay, a converted railway station, was much more accessible (less artwork, less crowded) than the previous day's Louvre, but I sat down (having learned earlier in the trip to pace myself for jam-packed tour days) and snuck bites of a granola bar and sips of water when I could.  

Outside the d'Orsay, Louis - ultra-cool, slightly-intimidating, quintessential Frenchman Louis - gave me an unexpected compliment. He said I was doing Paris well and right. Even though I was much younger than my tour mates, I'd managed to fit in while still maintaining my independence. He applauded me for being a fast learner, and though I didn't say much, I was absorbing everything and adapting as needed. I thanked him sincerely, and told him I loved Paris and felt more alive during my week there that I had in several previous years at home.

After d'Orsay we trekked on foot to the nearby Musee Rodin, where the group thinned, leaving only me, Edna, Lisa, Nanette, Anne, and Dave. We started with lunch in the outdoor cafe, where I savored an exceptional meal - truly one of the best among many in Paris - of a vegetarian quiche, salad, cafe creme, and an incredible raspberry tart, all served a la carte from a cafeteria-type establishment (removing any remaining doubt that Parisians take their food - all of their food - seriously). Having been satisfactorily nourished, I took in the peaceful, uncrowded outdoor sculpture garden (which has insightful artist information posted on intermittent trees) and found the Kiss and the Thinker inside the extravagant  indoor museum, a former hotel. 

 

We left shortly after 3 p.m. for a shopping expedition in the Marais. I was on the lookout for an inexpensive piece of souvenir jewelry, and I knew this might be my best - and last - opportunity to find one. I lucked out in Monoprix, a French department store similar to a Macy's or Kohl's, where I found a wide silver ring for seven euros. My debit card was puzzlingly and embarrasingly declined at checkout, though I - thankfully - had ten euros stashed away to cover the cost. (Fortunately that didn't happen again in Paris or anywhere else.)

I returned to the hotel exhausted after shopping and collapsed on my bed. As is often the case, I didn't realize how exhausted I was (and how sore my feet were) until I stopped moving. I was just about to call Lisa about dinner when she texted me that she and Nanette were off to a jazz club for dinner. I understood, of course, but I was disappointed not to be invited.

I proceeded instead with my plans for an authentic Parisian crepe, setting off down the street to Le Paradis, a tiny hole-in-the-wall shop where I walked to the counter and somehow managed to order a poulet fromage panini and chocolate (no caramel) crepe. The young male employee helped me by speaking some English. (His middle-aged female coworker, however, spoke none.) My efforts were rewarded with a delicious meal - a huge, sub-sized sandwich and a succulent crepe - but I suspect I annoyed the woman by paying with a large (fifty-euro) bill after she refused to run my debit card. 

On my way back to the hotel, I nearly stumbled (literally) over Edna, Mary, and Jim, who were dining outside at the restaurant next door. They graciously invited me to join them, and I hesitated for only a moment before I accepted and ordered a glass of rose. Truthfully, I was feeling a bit lonesome after dining alone, so I welcomed their company. We talked and laughed for two hours about Edna's daughters and Jim and Mary's travel adventures until I was ready to fall over from exhaustion (and that glass of wine).

Looking back now, this day was probably my best in Paris, with the Musee Rodin (and that raspberry tart) standing out as my favorite Parisian locale.

Museum Day #1

I set my alarm for a 6:30 wake-up and nearly fell over when I attempted to climb out of bed on wobbly legs (feeling the effects of the previous day's Versailles visit), which was reason enough for me to skip a planned workout. I figured I'd have an arduous one later that afternoon...courtesy of the Louvre!

I got dressed and ate breakfast with Jim, Joyce, and Lisa, after which we had a 9 a.m. Louvre warm-up lecture from our British historian, Malcolm, followed by a 10 a.m. departure for the Palais Royal area, where we walked around the shops, rested in a pretty nearby garden, and lunched at the Normandy Hotel. (I had a desperately-needed cafe creme and a huge chicken Caesar salad with bacon.) 

Both provided a second wind for the Louvre, though our entrance was delayed until Malcolm, our Louvre tour guide, joined us at 2:30. After that bit of hurry-up-and-wait (endemic with my travels), we entered the hot, stuffy, crowded, frankly overwhelming museum - the world's largest - featuring 35,000 pieces of artwork. Our tour mercifully focused on the "three dames": Mona Lisa, Venus de Milo, and Winged Victory (all of which I managed to photograph despite the crush of fellow tourists). We didn't see much else, and truthfully I lacked the stamina for more. I didn't feel well, so I sat on well-placed (and well-used) benches when I could, and sipped water throughout the tour. Based on my tour mates' sweaty, tired appearances, I guessed we were all ready to leave before our scheduled 5 p.m. meetup. 

  
Despite my fatigue, I had a second adventure in mind. As a direct result of the previous day's successful train ride to Versailles, I now had the confidence to ride the Metro solo to the Memorial de la Shoah holocaust museum, only a few stops from the Louvre. Louis gave me directions, but even with those (and Google Maps assistance), I wandered a bit when I arrived in the Marais until I found a street sign that pointed me there. I made it inside but struggled embarrassingly to pass the security checkpoint (having to remove my bag and audio tour device) before I was free to explore its contents. 

By then I was hot, sweaty, stressed, and wiped out, but determined to have the full experience. Gradually I pulled myself together, peeled myself off a bench (the story of my day, really), and walked through a wall of names, an exhibition of holocaust comics, which I carefully read at leisure, and a crypt punctuated by a lit Star of David. 

This memorial site was the polar opposite of the Louvre: quiet, uncrowded, and subdued. I spent a peaceful hour there, then struggled to find my way back to the St. Paul Metro station through the winding maze streets. While walking, I was surprised by a phone call from Lisa inviting me join her, Nanette, Edna, and a bottle of wine in our hotel courtyard. I told her I'd love to, but I was wandering in the Marais and - quite literally - wasn't sure when I'd find my way back. 

Finally, after at least 30 minutes of examining street signs and Google mapping, I saw the carousel that I'd passed upon my arrival and gratefully rode back to my home station. I was ready to collapse, but I knew I needed something to eat before I did, so I limped down the street to the Carrefour City Market (basically a Parisian Wegmans) and wandered back to the hotel with a falafel microwave meal and fresh apricots. On my way to my room, I found half my tour group in the courtyard but opted to keep it moving. I would have undoubtedly enjoyed their company, but I needed to tear off my shoes, eat, and get off my feet ASAP (in that order) or die.

Versailles

I woke up several times ahead of my 5:30 a.m. alarm on the morning of my grand Palace of Versailles expedition (in lieu of a Marais open-air market visit and wine-tasting excursion with the rest of the group). 

I reluctantly - realizing sleep would remain elusive - got up at 5 a.m., worked out, got dressed, and inhaled breakfast (eggs, croissants, and yogurt) before Louis appeared (as he does) and whisked Edna and me down the street and to the Metro, where he graciously guided us onto our connections and eventually to the RER C before leaving us to journey the rest of the way. From there it was an easy ride (maybe an hour total), but a big deal for me, who was still more-than-a-little afraid of the big bad Metro. I clutched my map tightly and mentally checked off each stop along the way (too anxious to do anything else) until we reached our Versailles stop and left the station, crossing the street and taking in (as much as one can) our first glimpse of the palace as we waited in line outside the golden gate. 

 

 

Inside was crowded! Claustrophobia and fear of trampling kept me hustling, a bit faster than I would have liked, through the history gallery, the Hall of Mirrors, and the Hall of Battles, where Edna and I reunited (thanks to our cellphones) after being separated in the throng. By 11:30 I was ready for a meal break. We walked outside to the gardens, leaving most of the crowd behind, and took some photos until Edna announced she was ready to leave. I'll admit I was disappointed (I wanted to eat and then go another round, exploring Marie Antoinette's hamlet), but that's the inevitable downside of traveling with someone: you gain a co-navigator - for which I was grateful - but lose your autonomy.

So we walked around the corner to a Starbucks cafe (they really are everywhere), grabbed food and drinks to go, and walked to the nearby train station, catching the 12:25 back to Paris, and easily making the connections like pros (which we definitely were not). It was a quick visit - much quicker than I would have liked - but undoubtedly worthwhile. I saw Versailles (knowing I might not have another opportunity to do so) and gained confidence to use the Metro on my own (which I never would have considered prior to that trip).

As if going to Versailles wasn't enough excitement for one day (wait, there's more!), I rejoined the tour group in the hotel lobby at 5:30 p.m. for dinner at the ultra-classy La Fermette Marbouf for dinner, followed by a Seine River cruise. The evening's events played out painfully slowly, however, so I had more than enough time to prepare myself. 

First we took a long Metro ride to the Pont de l'Alma/Champs Elysees area (near the scene of Princess Diana's fatal car accident) and then waited - approximately forever (I was hungry) - outside the restaurant for our reserved time. And then, finally, got inside and waited even longer (more pleasantly, though, with white wine and bread) for dinner to be served. Dinner was a mystery meal filled with new taste sensations. It began with foie gras on toasted bread, which I was happy to try but didn't enjoy eating, continued with lamb shoulder and vegetables and concluded with a classic souffle. Overall, it was an impressive meal in a beautiful setting, much nicer than I would have chosen. (Cafes were more my style and price range. Fortunately I didn't have to pick up this check...)

After dinner, it was time for our cruise, except once again we waited, first to enter the boat and then for the boat to fill (mostly with Chinese tourists) before we departed. The cruise was mostly unimpressive and uncomfortably chilly until the Eiffel Tower lit up at 10 p.m. - the halfway mark - providing beautiful photos that made the long wait and discomfort worthwhile. 

 

I was exhausted by the time we returned to the hotel, but too wound up to wind down. It was past midnight when I finally dozed off from this day of spectacular sights.

Settling In

I woke up to torrential rain outside my hotel room at 6:30 a.m. on my second full day in Paris. 

No matter. That thrilling realization - I was in freaking Paris (!) - greeted me anew every morning as consistently as my alarm clock's beeps and never waned. I got up and followed the pattern of attempting to complete a light cardio workout in my cramped room (without bumping into a table, chair, or bed), checking the weather forecast, and making myself as presentable as possible without an operable heat-styling device, after which I ate breakfast with Joyce and Jim (my usual breakfast companions) and attended Malcolm's scattered but enthusiastic 9 a.m. lecture.

At 10 a.m. we were off by public bus to Saint-Germain-des-Pres with Malcolm as our guide for a walking tour by the Sorbonne, St. Genevieve Cathedral, St. Etienne du Mont (where Owen Wilson's character is picked up and transported back to the 1920s in Woody Allen's Midnight in Paris, a popular photo spot for my tour mates) and inside the Pantheon and its eerie basement crypt containing the remains of famous French citizens such as Victor Hugo and Emile Zola.

The Sorbonne

 

The Pantheon

As we left the Pantheon, the rain stopped on cue and I joined Lisa, Nanette, Edna, Becky, Ron, Jim, and Malcolm for lunch at a nearby cafe, where I made a safe choice - Salade Italienne (mozzarella and tomato salad) and a cappuccino. 

Then we all - minus Malcolm - trooped across the street to the phenomenal Luxembourg Gardens (Paris's Central Park), where the rain held off long enough for photos and a walk by the dazzling fountain.

We were on our own for the rest of the day. I didn't have any plans, and frankly I was afraid to wander off on my own (the memory of the airport incident still fresh in my mind) and unsure if I could find my way back to the hotel, so I happily followed Lisa, Nanette, and Edna to a bus stop and on to Le Bon Marche, Paris's grand department store (where even the lamps are works of art). I was struck there, not for the first time, by the graciousness of Paris's service industry personnel (unfairly and inaccurately maligned - in my opinion - as snobbish) when a lovely young woman described - in fluent English - her section's merchandise to a group of American tourists in response to a question about what looked like a fancy glass paperweight. 

I was grateful for the company, but I enjoyed recharging alone in my room after we shared a taxi (in which my tour mates boisterously sang along with the driver's Otis Redding music...oy!) back to the hotel. I was lying on my bed, flipping through that day's photos when I was surprised by an "Are you OK?" message from one of my coworkers. Of course I'm OK, I thought. Why wouldn't I be? For a moment, I thought maybe I hadn't updated my Facebook page soon enough for her liking. And then I checked CNN and read about the attempted - and thankfully thwarted - terrorist attack on a police officer outside Notre Dame, exactly one day after my group had toured it. Wow.

I freshened up later and met Lisa, Nanette, Edna, Becky, Ron, and Jim at Les Barjots, the scene of our exceptional welcome dinner two nights earlier. My meal was very similar to what I'd previously ordered - poulet (chicken) with buttery vegetables in a mushroom sauce - minus the wine and dessert. And the company was equally enjoyable. We swapped stories about our most memorable concert experiences and travels and laughed a lot.

I returned to my room after and called my Mom to tell her about my adventures and assure her I was safe (despite inevitable terrorist efforts). Her first question - then and always - "When are you coming home?" (Ugh. Really, Mom?). Afterward I set my alarm for an early rising and attempted to wind down as I went to sleep dreaming of the next day's adventure: Versailles!

Bonjour, Paris

I woke up feeling rested but reluctant to leave my cozy little room. (Seriously, it was cramped. Working out in there - which I managed to do that morning - was a challenge.) I slept like the dead (the kind that rest in peace) for the first night in ages (catching up on the rest I didn't get during my overnight flight), so I was well-prepared to start my first full day in Paris.

But it wasn't without its hiccups. While attempting to make myself presentable, I discovered that my flat iron (which my hair so desperately needed) didn't work (despite my conversion adapter) and charging my cell phone was also a struggle.

Breakfast, however, was delicious and problem-free. The hotel's buffet became a highly-anticipated start to each day, not only for its plentiful food (scrambled eggs, sausages, cereal, pastries, fresh fruit, bread (always bread) yogurt, cheese, coffee, and juice) but for its opportunity to connect with my tour mates and chat about their past and future adventures. 

The first item on that day's itinerary was a group lecture - led by our British instructor Malcolm - on Paris's tumultuous history, which I found scattered and somewhat dull. But Malcolm's unceasing enthusiasm, encyclopedic knowledge, and love for all Parisian things were infectious, and I enjoyed hearing him - with his British accent - prattle on, regardless of topic.

At 10 a.m. we set off on a huge motorcoach for a panoramic city tour, my first opportunity to see anything other than the airport and hotel. I plastered myself against a window and shot photo after photo of the Arc de Triomphe, the Latin Quarter, the Seine, and the indisputable highlight - the Tour Eiffel. 

We stopped and disembarked at a spot overlooking the Eiffel Tower (the closest I'd come to it) and one of my new travel pals snapped a serviceable photo of me in front of it. Mostly I just stood there and gaped while crowds of fellow tourists took selfies and persistent street vendors hawked their Eiffel figurines around me. That's when it hit me, really for the first time: I was undeniably there in Paris, a fabled place I'd only seen on TV and read about in books (and only fantasized about visiting). Looking back now, post-trip, that was unquestionably one of its greatest moments.

Following the bus tour, we stopped at a nearby cafe, where I dined with three of my tour mates and ordered a lovely "Indian salade" with sliced apples, fried onions, fried potatoes, grilled eggplant, and chicken (an unlikely combination of foods that unexpectedly worked) and a cafe creme (coffee with milk). 

After lunch, my dining companions and I walked down the street to Shakespeare and Company, Paris's historical equivalent to San Francisco's City Lights, a wonderful old building haphazardly stuffed with books in every nook, most of which were surprisingly in English.  

Our tour continued with a guided visit to Notre Dame and Sainte-Chapelle, whose stained glass windows and architecture are unmatched. I'll confess, though, despite my reverence, I was cathedraled out by the time we toured Sainte-Chapelle due to the day's heat (73 degrees and sunny), the stuffy buildings, and the throngs of people (potential pickpocketers) around me. It didn't help that I'd unwisely worn ankle boots (in an attempt to be Paris chic) rather than my more practical sneakers, not anticipating all the walking we'd do that day. 

(It could have been much worse, though. To put events in perspective, the following afternoon after my tour group visited Notre Dame, a terrorist attempted to attack a police officer with a hammer outside the cathedral and was fortunately thwarted before harming anyone. But, as a result, all visitors were locked down inside Notre Dame until the crisis was averted. If we'd visited just one day later, that could have been us, having more adventure than anticipated or desired.)

We returned to the hotel afterward and I gratefully peeled off my boots and collapsed on my bed, though I didn't allow myself to doze off (determined to stay on French time). I was on my own for dinner, and I longed for room service or a hotel restaurant. Unfortunately, neither was an option, but there were plenty of cafes and restaurants within walking distance, so I redid my hair and makeup, eased on my boots, and limped down the street, stepping into a nearby cafe. What followed was one of the most embarrassing episodes of the entire trip, one that made me reluctant to ever dine alone again while in Paris. 

I walked in and was greeted in French by a young male server. I attempted - in my limited French - to request a table for one with water to drink (as one does upon entering an American restaurant, right?). My server, however, did not understand what I was saying (I froze and forgot how to pronounce l'eau), and I didn't understand what he was saying. Thankfully he switched to English and we managed to muddle through the rest of the ordering process. He handed me a iPad with an English menu, from which I carefully selected tagatelle with foie gras (?) and mushrooms. The server politely informed me that option wasn't available. So I restudied the menu and ordered cod with vegetables, which turned out to be an excellent choice. 

The entire meal was painfully awkward, however. I was mortified by my inability to speak basic conversational French (which I'd studied for months prior to the trip) and wanted to slide under the table (especially when I heard the server laughing with another server about the "Americain." (Any chance that wasn't me? Sigh.) The agony was the slow, torturous kind. My l'eau didn't arrive until halfway through the meal. (I wasn't about to ask for it.) Then, after finishing, I lingered, awkwardly waiting for the bill (l'addition). What I learned - eventually - is that you have to ask for it. If you order so much as un cafe, a restaurant table is yours as long as you want it. So, after probably 30 minutes of desperation to flee the scene, I walked up to the register and managed to ask for l'addition without further catastrophe.

So my first full day in Paris was a mixed bag. It had excitement (that first view of the Eiffel Tower), enjoyment (the company of friendly travel mates), exhaustion (stuffy cathedral tours in inappropriate footwear), and embarrassment (the cafe incident). In my fantasies, I'd cut a stylish (sneakerless) figure through the streets of Paris, long hair flowing in the breeze (not happening without my flat iron), speaking fluent French like a sophisticated woman of the world (snort). The reality was different, but no less rewarding,

Au Revoir, NY

I woke at 1:00 a.m. on Saturday, June 3, the morning I left for Paris. But I didn't need to get up until several hours later (my first flight was at 11:45 a.m.), so I watched some TV and eventually dozed off and woke again 5 1/2 hours later, more excited than nervous for that day's adventure. I finished packing, left for the airport at 8:00 a.m., and was on my way.

It was smooth flying until I reached NYC's (insane) JFK. I had a couple hours before my connecting flight to Dublin, which I needed just to navigate from the Delta terminal to Aer Lingus's terminal 5, which required multiple escalators, a large shuttle bus, an air train (that took approximately forever to locate), a visit to the check-in counter to pick up my boarding pass, and a panic-inducing walk through security, during which my carry-on roller bag was confiscated and searched - first by hand (a burly male TSA agent literally pawed through my panties), then by stick - before my bag and I were deemed fit to travel.

My second flight - to Dublin - was lengthy but otherwise good. It wasn't as long as expected (that time zone change always throws me off), but I (foolishly) didn't realize when booking the flight that I wouldn't be flying overnight (by NY time). I slept for maybe 90 minutes total during the six-hour flight (spending most of the flight reading and listening to music - Tori Amos, Sara Bareilles, The Script, and Jeff Buckley) and arrived exhausted in Dublin at 5 a.m. (11 p.m. NY time), where my first task was to set my phone up with an international travel plan.

My third flight - Dublin to Paris - was a quick, uneventful 90 minutes. I arrived in Paris, which is precisely when my problems began. I'd gate-checked my roller bag, which required a 30-minute wait at baggage claim for its appearance. By then, the extra time that I'd planned to spend eating and leisurely strolling Charles de Gaulle had evaporated, along with my calm. My shuttle - which I'd reserved and paid for online - was scheduled for a 1:30 p.m. pickup, but I still hadn't eaten or found my way to a restroom. I had meeting-spot instructions on my confirmation sheet, but how to get there? 

CDG - scene of multiple panic attacks

CDG, despite its extensive bilingual signs, is a nightmare to navigate. I worked up a sweaty panic trying to locate the proper exit/sortie. Finally, I found something resembling it (I got out of the airport, anyway) and called a number on my voucher. The driver answered in English, which was wonderful...until he started yelling at me (I might have preferred French then) for not being where I was supposed to be (at that point, I had no idea where I was - departure or arrival sortie number) and said, "I can't help you." What?!

At approximately that point, I gave up on the shuttle (or he gave up on me) and resigned myself to being stranded at CDG. I bought a salad at McDonald's (I managed that much at least), plopped down at a table, and wept in despair. I allowed myself a few minutes of miserable self-pity before I pulled myself together (forcibly) and plotted my next move for exiting the airport. My surest bet for ever reaching my hotel was a taxi, which I decided was worth the expense, so I walked outside (following the helpful "Taxis" sign) and handed my hotel address to a French-speaking driver. (I felt like an Amazing Race contestant, hoping my driver knew where to go and would take me there despite our communication barrier. Thankfully he did, at a cost of 50 euros (plus the 30 I'd lost on the no-show shuttle). 

All I wanted was to collapse in my room and never leave again. For that moment, I didn't even care that I was in Paris. (Part of me, I'll sadly confess, wished I was home.) But I pushed myself to unpack before I collapsed on my new bed and stole 30 minutes of desperate sleep before my alarm roused me to wake for a 5:30 p.m. orientation with my tour group. Downstairs in the hotel lobby, I was delighted to find a small group of 14 friendly fellow Americans plus one lovely British gent and a hunky French guide. (I was, by now, following that afternoon's traumatic airport escapade, exceedingly grateful to have expert assistance for the rest of my Parisian stay.)

 

 

 

 

After receiving our updated program guides and schedules, we strolled down the street to our 7 p.m. welcome dinner at Les Barjots, where I feasted on an extravagant three-course meal (the first of many), plus bountiful bread and wine. Just as enjoyable was the company of my tourmates: the British instructor/guide and Nanette, Lisa, and Edna. We ate, talked, laughed, ate more, and thanked the universe that we were in Paris that night.

Paris Prep

 

After a year's planning, I'll be departing for Paris, France, in precisely 8 days, 22 hours, and 26 minutes. (Yes, I did, in fact, download the Countdown app on my phone).  

As you can probably decipher, I'm ecstatically excited for my first-ever European adventure. This is a fantasy vacation, one I never though would become reality...until I took a second, seasonal job last summer at a local amusement park and decided to make it happen by earning the cost of a one-week guided tour. It wasn't without effort. It was approximately 20 weekends of long, hot, sweaty work, often until 1 a.m. or after, followed by zombielike exhaustion the next day(s). 

But it was worth the sacrifice. Although I hadn't calculated how many hours I'd need to work to earn the total cost (math isn't my favorite), I netted exactly enough (a sure sign I was meant to go). I spent the subsequent months researching various tours and comparing flight costs before I pulled the trigger in October after finding inexpensive flights from NYC to Paris that I couldn't risk forfeiting and an affordable tour that included everything (French-speaking guide, hotel, meals, metro and museum passes) - except a visit to Versailles (which I'll attempt solo) - I was seeking. 

So I booked my flights and tour and thought I was set. Until one February afternoon when I received a voicemail from my tour company stating that the tour dates I'd chosen (intentionally to coincide with my birthday) had been cancelled due to "low enrollment." The company would reschedule my tour at no expense, but it was back to the drawing board for booking my flights. The next few days were stressful ones in the midst of an already busy week. I realized I had basically two choices (since cancelling my trip altogether was never an option): the week before or the week after. The tour company recommended the week after because it already had a sufficient enrollment and was guaranteed to run. (No guarantee for the earlier dates.) I couldn't risk another cancellation (and additional rebooking fees), so I went with the safe bet. (And was rewarded with a generous refund to offset my airlines' rebooking fees.)

And I've no doubt it was the right decision. It's funny now, looking back to last summer when I could only dream of being where I am now, starting to pack and making final preparations for this hard-earned vacation that will undoubtedly change my life. A year ago - even a few months ago - it seemed impossibly far away. 

Then last weekend, realizing I was leaving in two weeks, I started to panic, unsure if I was as prepared as I'd thought, and started packing. I'm determined to avoid my previous vacations' mistakes: most notably, not checking the weather forecast before I selected my vacation attire, resulting in a suitcase full of capris and T-shirts for 50- and 60-degree Arizona weather (in which I immediately froze) and last year's procrastinated packing for California, which led to a full-blown panic attack the afternoon before I left. 

I'll use this upcoming (extra) week wisely, celebrating my birthday at home with family and friends (having my cake and eating it too, if you will...), gradually packing my suitcase, catching my breath, and savoring the anticipation - an essential precursor to any journey - of what lies ahead.

Humbled

My workday started with a literal bang. 

I sat in my car stunned (partly due to being punched in the mouth by an airbag) as airbag dust floated around me and motor fluids leaked out onto the ground. I momentarily realized the horrifying facts: that I'd been blinded by sun glare and missed a turn into the parking lot, instead hitting - and actually driving my front wheels onto - a concrete island recently, inconveniently constructed between lot entrances. 

Once the immediate fog lifted, my first thought, naturally, was to flee. I tried to back up, to undo the damage I'd done, but I couldn't. This is bad, I thought, amidst a slew of obscenities. My poor 13-year-old rusted, dented, embarrassing, paint-corroded (but paid off!) Cavalier was undoubtedly dead. I'd driven it long past family members' pleas (and taunts) to trade it in for a newer model until the wheels almost literally came off in spectacular fashion. Now I no longer had a choice.

A construction worker came over and asked if I was OK, followed soon after by a college student who generously offered me a ride home in his pickup truck. I was thankful for their kindness but simultaneously mortified as a fleet of other motorists - students, faculty, staff, some of them my colleagues - drove around me and my wrecked vehicle, gawking at the crash scene. I tried to tune it out and focus on what I needed to do: call the police. Unfortunately the wait lasted interminably (though actually more like 30 minutes) before a sheriff's officer and tow truck driver arrived to clean up my mess. 

The adrenaline wore off after I walked into my office. My whole body started shaking as I set about whittling down my immediate to-do list. In addition to my regular work tasks, I had to report the accident to my insurance company and rent a vehicle until I could purchase a replacement. (Thankfully I'd started car browsing a few weeks earlier, though my target purchase date was more like summer or fall rather than immediately, so I wasn't entirely unprepared.) 

A friendly coworker graciously offered me a ride to Enterprise after work to pick up my rental, where I was caught off-guard when asked for two utility bills plus a pay stub. (Was I renting or buying this vehicle?!) After several minutes of fumbling, I managed to pull up the requested information on my smartphone and was on my tentative way. One of the worst aftereffects of a car accident, regardless of circumstances, is that you're afraid to drive again. It doesn't matter if you're to blame or not, you no longer trust yourself not to break the car.

Not surprisingly, I didn't sleep well that night. The next day, I continued browsing cars online and found exactly what I was looking for, right down to the color, mileage, and price: a gently-used Toyota RAV4 approximately 30 miles from my workplace. After sadly cleaning out my car (resting peacefully in a nearby gated auto graveyard) and collecting its license plates, I drove out to the dealership and test drove my dream car, which looked even nicer in person than in the web photos. I cautiously drove it off the lot (still afraid to drive), about a mile and a half up and back down the busy road, and knew when I brought it back I was buying it. 

But first, financing. Turns out I had a "zero" credit score, partly because I'd driven my Cavalier eight years after paying off its loan and hadn't used a credit card (despite my mom's occasional prompts) in a solid decade. (I thought I was being fiscally responsible by using only my debit card and living below my financial means. Unfortunately my local bank and other lending organizations didn't share my opinion.) So I faced an ominous choice: either take a loan with an astronomically-high interest rate, or ask my mom to cosign (which, when you're a financially-independent thirty-something is literally the last thing you would ever want to do). Thankfully she offered her assistance (and impressive credit score) - after I explained my dilemma - and we were off to the dealership a few days later to pick up my prize. 

Several weeks later, I'm in love with my new vehicle...but I don't regret waiting so long to find it. Life without a car payment was financially liberating. It allowed me to slowly climb out of debt and travel to Arizona and California (and plan this summer's Paris voyage). In hindsight, I suppose I probably needed a freak accident that literally destroyed my tired old car to force me to take the frightening - and thoroughly humbling - plunge of buying another. (Which I'm not eager to repeat.)

Columbia (Operation Stevie Nicks Concert: Attempt #2)

I returned home from Houston exhausted and disappointed following my failed attempt to see Stevie Nicks and the Pretenders in concert. By the time I woke up the next morning - Halloween - however, I was ready to begin scheming and dreaming my next adventure: Stevie's Columbia, SC, concert now fewer than two weeks away. 

I got to work browsing flights, hotels, and available concert seats. Somehow I lucked out on all the above, snagging affordable flights, a nice but inexpensive hotel room, and miracle of miracles, a VIP seventh-row center seat priced at only $150 (the same price I'd paid for a presale "best available" 24th row seat in Houston) while neighboring seats sold for $500. It all seemed meant to be, with none of the second-thought anxiety I'd had with Houston. I felt like the universe was rewarding me for enduring - and even finding humor in - the entire Houston ordeal. 

I had no doubts I'd made the right decision in rebooking my trip, especially after the emotional low of the concert week's presidential election and its shocking, unfathomable result. I needed something good to anticipate after the previous weeks' trials. Proving I'd learned from my first trip's gaffes, I selected the earliest departing (6:00 a.m.) and arriving flights (11:30 a.m.), not caring that it meant leaving for the airport at 3:00 a.m. All of my flights this time around were on time and problem-free, which reminded me that I actually (still) love traveling. 

The only hitches this time around, ironically, involved non-airplane travel. My Columbia hotel offered free shuttle service, one of its biggest draws, but I was apparently a bit confused about how it worked. I called the hotel after arriving at the airport and was told to walk outside and wait at the taxi stand. After that I wasn't sure what was supposed to happen. Then I was approached by T, a taxi driver who nearly pushed me into his cab after I explained that I was waiting (?) for a shuttle to my hotel. "No, no, I'll take you," he insisted. Which was fine, at first, until, just a few miles from the hotel, I got a call from a hotel employee saying she had arrived at the airport and was waiting to pick me up. Oops. I apologetically explained that I was in a taxi on my way to the hotel, at which point she hung up on me, clearly pissed, which extended to the front desk where, upon my subsequent arrival, I was harshly scolded for taking a taxi (though the front desk clerk reluctantly paid the driver) and told that check-in was not until 3 p.m., so I should "take a seat and have a cup of coffee." Gulp.

I was sniffling back tears when a mercifully-kind desk clerk found an available room and checked me in early. I collapsed on my bed and tried to nap (since I'd be out way past my bedtime and I'd already had a long, full day), but I was too wound up. So I did the next best thing, hitting the gym and running on the treadmill to relieve some of my pent-up excitement before showering and dressing for the big night ahead. At 5:20 p.m. I called Uber and arrived at Colonial Life Arena promptly at 6 p.m., joining a long line of concertgoers snaking down the sidewalk. I was initially concerned about missing part of the show, but the line moved quickly and efficiently into the building and I was wanded and cleared by security within 30 seconds, with ample time to grab water and a wrap and find my seventh-row seat. (I couldn't believe how close to the stage I was! Heck, I couldn't believe I was there at all.) 

My incredible view of the stage.

At 7:30 p.m. the lights dimmed and Chrissie Hynde strutted out on stage to an instant standing ovation. A woman behind me cried out in ecstasy, "Oh my God, she's gorgeous!" (In front of her, I silently, fan-girlingly agreed.) True enough, she's a poster woman for clean vegan living, incredibly fit and still rocking like a badass at 65 (with amazing voice - one of rock's best, in my humble opinion, - completely intact) in a short white fitted blazer over a sleeveless black Elvis T-shirt, jeans, and high-heeled black boots. The band tore through some lesser-known songs before hurtling into "Back on the Chain Gang," during which she cracked a smile (to the crowd's delight) for the first time and seemed to have a blast for the rest of the high-energy show, which included "Stop Sobbing," an a cappella "Hymn to Her,""Middle of the Road," "Don't Get Me Wrong," (Yes!), "My City Was Gone," "I'll Stand By You," and ended with the requisite "Brass in Pocket."

The Pretenders

There was a 30-minute intermission after, which gave my feet a break. Then at nearly 9 p.m., at long last, the goddess Stevie appeared in a long black dress with a tambourine draped through her arm and opened with "Gold and Braid" (an unexpected choice). She announced after this song that she would not sing the Fleetwood Mac songs we'd heard "a million times" because this was her show and she was doing what she wanted. (Right on!) 

As promised, she reached far into her musical vault and pulled out some rarities, including "If Anyone Falls," "Wild Heart" (for the first time in concert), "Crying in the Night" (from Buckingham Nicks), "New Orleans," "Outside the Rain," "Enchanted," Bella Donna," Starshine," "Belle Fleur," "If You Were My Love," an emotional "Moonlight," "Gold Dust Woman," "Dreams," "Edge of Seventeen" (with a Prince tribute on the projection screen behind her), "Stop Draggin' My Heart Around (duetted with Chrissie Hynde!), and for an encore, "Rhiannon" and "Leather and Lace."  

Stevie!

It was an incredibly "enchanted" evening, like none I've ever experienced. I've never been a concert person, but after this one I just might be. My second hitch of the day was trying to catch my Uber ride after the concert. My driver knew the area but had to repeatedly circle the arena in an attempt to drive through police-cordoned streets and other chaotic concert traffic. It was after midnight, over an hour later, that my persistent driver finally reached me and dropped me off at my hotel. I slept maybe 90 minutes before getting up to head back to the airport for another 6:00 a.m. flight. 

But it was OK. Two cities, two hotels, eight flights, and (finally) one concert later, it was all worthwhile.