On my European travels, thanks to my awesome job as an international wide body captain, I came into some habits for the layovers that were different from others on my crews. I love seeing the sights and I love eating the food. I don’t like drinking a lot, nor do I prefer fancy, expensive fine dining. I’d much rather get my food on the fly from street vendors, bakeries, and delis, then pressing on to enjoy the sights and absorb the culture and history of the venue. I like to be outside, and I only like to be outside during daylight hours. The odd hours of our work shaped a habit by many of my crew mates that causes them to sleep away the daylight hours, then prowl at night. For security, they naturally do this in groups. I don’t care for wandering a new city in groups, especially at night, especially when, aside from working with them for a day, I don’t know anyone in that group well. I backed away from the normal customs of my coworkers, and nothing against their methods of entertainment and enjoyment while on layovers, I’m much happier on my own.
On my outings to see the sights, shopping usually happens also, but usually not on purpose. I’ll be walking along a street on my way to Buckingham Palace or the Louvre or what have you, and suddenly something will reach out and call to me to come look closer. I always answer that call. I do that because it’s fun. It’s fun to find a treasure you didn’t know you were looking for and it’s fun to wear or display the item later, and be able to say, “Oh this? I got this in Paris.”
One day, such a call happened when I spotted a shirt in very beautiful fabric. It was white with a light blue floral pattern and the fabric was flowy and feminine. It turned me on a dime, my mission to Notre Dame momentarily postponed.
A closer look revealed it was a beautiful top that I couldn’t resist. It was a plain white knit fabric tank top with this beautiful shear fabric sewn on so it was fluttery and flowy and gorgeous. I took it from the rack to examine it closer. Most of the French girls are much smaller than I am. As a rule, I am disappointed looking at French clothes because even the largest size simply won’t do.
The knit top under this shirt seemed almost right. There was no size label that I could see, and my French stinks so it’s unlikely I could have deciphered it anyway. I could read the price tag though and it was reasonable and did not put me off. The store was quite tiny and I could not see anywhere that I could try this on. I was busy taking it off the hanger a holding it up to myself to assess.
The man that worked in the store came around his counter and began speaking to me in rapid French. The truth is, I don’t do well with slow French either, but sometimes I can catch a word and guess meaning by context and accompanying sign language. Pointing, smiling, nodding, and a shake of the head are understood everywhere.
I smiled at him and said, “I’m sorry. Do you speak English?” Many do.
He said jovially, “Oui! A leetle beet,” holding up his fingers to indicate a small amount.
I smiled and said slowly, “Oh good. My French stinks,” to which he laughed merrily. I said, “Could I try this on?” holding up the beautiful blouse.
He said in that beautiful accent, “But of course!”
He took the item from my hands, bunched it up and proceeded to put it over my head. I panicked slightly. I had a purse and a couple other parcels that I didn’t want to let go of. I was embarrassed and uncomfortable at the closeness of this man I didn’t know. I tried to duck away from him.
I said, “Do you have a dressing room?”
He didn’t really understand that, I don’t think, but he said, “It fit! You try.”
I managed to put my parcels in between my feet and left my purse with its cross-body strap in place. I put the thing over my head again, and my helpful salesman assisted me finding the sleeves, which was awkward for me from a gentleman I didn’t know, but it slipped on over my blouse and sweater with room to spare.
He said, “Voila! See? Eet feets!” with a very happy smile. It did fit. Like it was made for me. I bought it, of course. That blouse is a beloved treasure in my wardrobe and I have nearly worn it out. After that, I proceeded on my mission to the sights I’d picked for the day, stopping to eat whenever I got in the mood.
One day I decided on a crepe from a street vendor. He had a little cart and inside he had two crepe griddles. Aside from the crepe batter, the area inside was full of toppings, sweet or savory, fruits, cheeses, vegetables, whatever you might think of. You could have any sort of crepe you could dream up. I wanted cheese. This would be just the thing, because I really like cheese, and any more toppings would make it messy. I wanted to continue my walk, so I needed this French version of a grilled cheese sandwich to keep me going without causing me to have to stop or having it spill down my front.
I practiced a moment to place my order. My French stinks, but I do know the word for cheese – fromage. I could see by the menu board how much, so I was prepared to work this transaction.
When it was my turn to order, I said, “Crepe fromage,” then hesitated. I wanted to say, “please,” but I couldn’t think of how to say it in French! I thought, por favor! No, goofy! That’s Spanish! Merci? No, that means thanks. I was a total blank as this all rushed through my head. The chef (complete with a chef’s hat), looked at me expectantly, since it appeared I wanted to say something else, and I finally blurted out, “Crepe fromage, please.”
He smiled and began my order. How embarrassing. I wished I was better at languages, but was soon absorbed in watching the operation of the crepe maker.
He ladled the batter onto the griddle and spread it to the edge of the round hot plate just so. Fascinating.
As it cooked a few seconds, he put on the cheese. Yummy. My mouth was starting to water. He spoke to me then, in French, naturally, and I didn’t understand a thing he said.
I said, “I’m sorry. I don’t speak French. Do you speak English?”
He shook his head in the negative and tried again speaking to me in French only slower. I stared at him uncomprehending. Finally, he started pantomiming chopping different things around the cart and pretending to sprinkle them on my crepe.
Oh! He wants to know if I want any other toppings. I smiled in understanding but shook my head and said, “No thank you. Just cheese. Only fromage.” He seemed to understand and continued watching the progress of my crepe.
Another man came up and placed his order. The second griddle was put to work, and the chef attended the two orders with close attention. The other customer was pointing and speaking and as he did so, the chef was adding toppings to his crepe. His was going to be a deluxe! I watched curiously.
They got in a conversation then as to my lonely looking (next to his) cheese crepe. The chef shook his head and seemed to be explaining to the man that I only wanted cheese. I hadn’t changed my mind. Just cheese, please.
The other customer began speaking to me, and I smiled uncomprehending to him, and said, “I’m sorry I don’t speak French. Do you speak English?”
He made an expression of frustration, and spoke more to the chef. He seemed quite concerned for me that I was getting lesser of a crepe than I could have.
I tried saying a couple more times, just cheese, only cheese, trying “Solamente fromage,” mixing my all but useless high school Spanish with one of the few French words I knew, which made both of their eyes spin around, but they seemed to get it. I got the sense that the chef was explaining that he’d already asked me this and I only wanted cheese.
I thought, well I’m glad that’s settled, amused at the whole thing, and still quite interested in the art of this type of cooking.
I watched both orders as they cooked away.
Suddenly the other customer turned to me, and in an unmistakable Charles Boyer voice said slowly and carefully, “Don’t you speak any French at all?”
I said, “No. I’m sorry. My French stinks.” Usually that confession makes them laugh, and the chef did laugh, but the other customer was scowling and deep in thought. I got the sense he was trying to speak to me about something using English but had to think about the translation. His English might have been tentative and not quickly delivered, but it was better than my French by miles. Por favor! Really? I really should work on that one of these days.
The man looked down in deep concentration and I knew not to try to interrupt him. We had a large communication gap, obviously, and he had something he wanted to tell me. The chef was busily working our crepes, but watching us both at the same time.
Finally, the man turned to face me and said slowly and very clearly in that loud, gravelly voice, “All of the toppings are free.”
Oh! Bless his heart. He was pointing out that I could have more food added to my crepe if I wanted and it wouldn’t cost me more. I was touched at how sweet and helpful this was.
I said, “Thank you so much. I only want cheese.”
The chef was wrapping things up. I paid and received my delicious crepe. As I nodded and smiled to the two gentlemen, the customer said, “If it’s free, you should get toppings.”
He wasn’t letting it go. I said, “How did you know I was an airline pilot?” a silly joke on the notorious cheapness of airline pilots. This, not surprisingly, went over both their heads and they stared at me in bemusement. I had tickled myself though, and couldn’t stop giggling. As I walked away, they stared after me shaking their heads. For the record, my crepe fromage was to die for, and not one drop dropped on my shirt.
One of my trips to Paris was going to be a short layover opportunity. We landed early in the afternoon and that time of year (autumn) it got dark there early. I would only have about three hours to do any sightseeing, shopping, and eating.
When I was in high school, I read “A Tale of Two Cities.” Amazing, and left a deep impact on me. When my daughter was in high school, I had fun rereading all the old classics they still make high school kids plow through. When her turn came up for “A Tale of Two Cities,” I happily opened it up again to greet an old friend. It was quite a different experience thirty years later! There were a lot of bits and nuances I missed or simply didn’t get as one so young. What a wonderful story. I cried so hard at the end, I scared my daughter. She got up her nerve and cried and loved it all at once as well. The “Two Cities” (London and Paris) were featuring largely in my European travels for awhile. I went to both a bunch of times each, I lost count. Each trip though, I’d pick a sight or two or five that I either hadn’t seen yet, or that I wanted to revisit.
One time, I got thinking of that old Dickens novel and decided I wanted to see where the Bastille used to be. The Bastille was the prison in Paris where they sent law breakers as well as political rivals. Your care there depended on how much money you or your family had. It was a terrible place of pestilence and horror, court schedules being the whim of the aristocracy. Once you were in the Bastille, it was rare to come back out, for even the smallest infraction.
When the French Revolution happened, the peasants took over and killed nearly every aristocrat in the country, and even started killing themselves. Napoleon came along and order in France was somewhat restored by taking over and proclaiming himself Emperor. Things in France during those days in the late 1700’s to the early 1800’s were not right.
During the peasant uprising of the French Revolution, they stormed the Bastille on July 14, 1789. There were only a few prisoners in there at the time, but it was a symbolically hated place from the unfair and unequal treatment people received there. The peasants tore the entire building down. No brick, timber, or stone remains. The place does have small markers though, even as much as the peasants tried to make it disappear.
In my self-guided walking tours of Paris, I’d often been reminded of “The Tale of Two Cities.” For this short layover I decided to go where the Bastille used to be. I’d found out generally where it had been and understood there were a few markers. It also seemed that the name “Bastille” had been adopted by several commercial venues in the areas: a bistro, an opera house, a street name, and so on. I was fascinated that such a vile place and sore spot in French history could be reworked to palatability. It took a couple hundred years, but I guess from my literary tastes, the name gives me the willies.
I decided that on my short layover time (short due to land time in front of darkness), I would walk to the spot from my hotel, naturally participating in my normal, by this time, habits of shopping and eating as the mood struck.
As soon as we got to the hotel, my crew made their appointments with each other for the drinking and dining to begin after they had some sleep. I launched out to go see where the Bastille used to be.
I was within a short distance of where the Bastille used to be (the peasants left nary a brick of the hated place). It was raining lightly – my new raincoat that folds into a tiny pouch for packing, was awesome! There were people out, but not as many as usual due to the chilly, rainy weather. It wasn’t a soaking rain. It was a mist to light drizzle to very light rain and alternated back and forth to those light intensities. The weather did not deter me from my mission.
On the way, I found a demitasse cup for my Mom’s collection I simply had to have. I passed a deli/bakery that looked enticing and loaded up on various and sundry treats in anticipation of my middle of the night wake up.
I was strolling along happily, my treasures acquired to that point, tucked conveniently into my large purse with the cross-body strap. I was coming into Il Cite and in sight of Notre Dame, such an amazing sight that you can never get tired of. The beauty of the architecture, the history, and regardless of your religion, one must appreciate the building and what it stands for, and has stood for during many generations.
My destination, where the Bastille used to be, was a little bit past Notre Dame from my direction of travel. I was making good time, and feeling very good from my walk and the acquisition of a couple treasures.
In Paris, they have the Metro which is how they call their underground railway system. Up top, all along the sidewalks, are steel plates that are access to the trains. I knew what they were but had never paid much attention to them. They were flat and even with the pavement, so mostly you wouldn’t notice they were there.
I was nearly there, about two and a half miles from the hotel. I had about a tenth of a mile to go. I was studying the map on my phone to assess my progress when I walked on one of those steel plates. Suddenly I was airborne. This is never a good thing unless an airplane is involved. I remember seeing both my feet in front of me as I plummeted to earth.
I landed on my tailbone, hurt my right wrist, and scraped my left palm. I’d been carrying my phone in my left hand to check my map. Miraculously I held onto the phone and it was undamaged. Me though? Oh my Goodness.
I could not sit up at all. I wiggled around helplessly, like a turtle on its back. I managed to roll over on my stomach, and push to my elbows and knees. I was having trouble getting further than that as my right wrist ballooned crazily before my eyes. It hurt! I checked my left hand that was still gripping my phone, and while the heel of that hand was badly scraped and seeping blood, the fall did not hurt my phone! I was mesmerized by this, thanking God, as I tried to figure out how to get to my hands and knees from my elbows and knees. Both hands were pretty useless, and I was beginning to despair that if I could get to my hands and knees, I would remain stuck because my tailbone was badly hurt. The pain was beginning to make me nauseated.
I was determined to try – what choice did I have? I went back and forth, hand to hand with no success at placing pressure or weight on either one. I kept trying.
Suddenly there were hands underneath my arms and gently lifting until I was on my feet. My tailbone was screaming at the weight of my body on my legs and my head spun for a second.
“Oh!” I said in surprise.
My saviors both asked, “Are you all right?” They weren’t French. They sounded like they were from Ohio, which is where I’m from originally. I was again mesmerized.
They held firmly to my upper arms and seemed not inclined to let go just yet, thank God.
My eyes re-caged and I looked at who was helping me. They were two people, a man and a woman, silvery gray hair, not much older than me, but maybe a little. They were fit and agile, and had a sure and firm grip on either side of me. I stopped everything to assess.
I said shakily to answer their question of whether I was all right, “I landed on my tailbone.”
“Oh,” the man said, “that happened to her once. You’re going to hurt for awhile.”
“Yes,” I nodded. “I’ve done that before, too.”
Slowly I was able stand, slightly hunched over, but erect. They gradually let go of me but didn’t leave.
The woman asked, “Where are you going?”
I looked ahead to where I was going, and decided it was going to take some time to walk two and a half miles back to the hotel, so where the Bastille used to be was going to have to wait. I tried to turn around to face the way I came, saying, “I was headed to where the Bastille used to be, but I think it may take some time to get back. I’m going to head back to the hotel.”
“Where are you staying?” she asked.
I told her and she looked at the man in surprise, then at me again and said, “You’re not walking!”
“Well,” I said, “that’s how I got here. I need to go back and rest.”
She said, “Why don’t you take the Metro? You need to take the Metro!”
I said, “My French stinks. I can’t read the signs, and I can’t understand the audio when they announce the stations.”
I tried moving my feet a little to assess walking. Oh my Goodness, it hurt. The couple attentively watched me so I didn’t fall. I’d moved a few inches and had to take a break. How in the sam hill was I going to get two and a half miles? Oh dear. This was going to be difficult. I stood still trying to gird myself for this walk. It was going to hurt!
The gentleman had a hand right underneath my elbow guarding in case I fell. The lady was rummaging in her bag. He muttered something to her and she muttered back as she dug into her large purse. I didn’t understand either one. I was distracted by almost blinding pain.
Suddenly, the lady brightened and came out of her bag with a small bit of paper, which she thrust into my hand.
“What’s this?” I asked trying to see what it was.
“A Metro ticket,” she said plainly. “You need to take the Metro. There is no way you can walk two and a half miles tonight.”
I stared at her. How did she know how far my hotel was from this spot?
She repeated, “You need to take the Metro.”
“I can’t,” I said. “I told you I don’t have any French.”
“The Metro is easy!” she asserted.
I shook my head no, and attempted a tentative step. “Thank you, though,” and tried to return the ticket she’d handed me.
She danced away and wouldn’t take the ticket. I stood there easily defeated.
She said, “Wait!” and began rummaging in her bag again. I obediently waited because it was very hard to move. In a moment she pulled out a Metro map in a “tada!” manner. She and the man smiled and nodded as if all was fixed.
She put the map in my hands and said, “The Metro is easy! Here’s a map.”
I turned it around and around and said sadly, “I don’t even know where I am on here.” I was starting to feel sad and bad, hated how bad I hurt, and was dreading the walk back to the hotel. I hoped it wouldn’t be full dark by the time I got back. What I really didn’t need was to trip over some unseen crack and fall again. Not today. I was in trouble. I just needed to get back. Time to move. My beautiful helpers stayed right by me for about three steps until I needed a break.
The lady jumped around in front of me and took the map out of my hands and opened it up. After a moment, she showed me the map and said, “We’re here. Here is the closest station,” saying the unpronounceable (to me) name and pointed in the direction along the street. I looked that way and just didn’t see how I could possibly do it. I knew the way to the hotel walking. I didn’t know the way by Metro. She started telling me I’d have to change trains at such and so a station (again unpronounceable). I looked at her, lost.
The man said, “She needs a direct ride. Those steps will be painful.”
“Oh!” the lady said looking at me sadly and nodding. “Let me see this thing,” and she studied again. I was in no shape to run away so I just stood there feeling a bit hopeless.
Suddenly she said, “Ah ha!” with a beautiful smile. She turned the map to me and showed me another stop, not quite as close as the closest one, but had a direct line to the hotel stop. She got out a pen and circled the stops on the map.
“There,” she said, “it’s settled. Take this train from this station and get off at the stop for your hotel. The name of the stop is the same as the name of your hotel. Ok?”
I looked at the map and realized that her plan to walk to this stop and ride was way better than a two and a half mile walk. I knew the steps in and out of the underground would be painful but again, better than a two and a half mile walk. I nodded and accepted the advice.
I began rummaging in my bag to retrieve money to pay for the ticket.
She said, “What’s the matter?”
I said, “I need to pay you for the ticket.”
She put he hands over mine to stop my digging. The man put up his hands and waved me off. She said, “No! We have a book of them!”
I said, “But they’re not free!”
She said, “It’s like a dollar! Don’t be silly. Now go to the station and get on the train. It’s that way,” and she turned me in the direction and urged me a couple steps. I couldn’t fight them. I started in the direction they had indicated saying, “Well, thank you,” and moved ahead a few steps. My Angels turned and went the other way.
As I moved about four steps, I realized I could make it to the ride, I could make the walk to the hotel, I could make it to the room. The pain was dizzying and nauseating, but I could make it that far. Two and a half miles? I don’t think I could do it, and even if I could it would be full dark by the time I got there. I don’t like being out by myself after dark. Those sweet helpful people have saved me. I didn’t thank them very good. I need to let them know how grateful I am. I’ve only been at this half a minute. I need to turn around and call to them to thank them properly. I gingerly did an about face and was shocked to see a completely empty street. No one was there. I looked all around. They were gone.
Whoa. I became not so sure at all that those sweet “Ohioans” were really from Ohio. I was nearly overwhelmed and in tears by gratitude and prayed they knew how I felt. I had a clear feeling that they did. I turned back around and made my way to the station, onto the train, was able to hang on to the strap without incident, get up out of the station to the street, down the block to the hotel, up the elevator, and into the room. Whew. Thank God, and a couple of Angels. I was able to sleep it off and make it to work later the next morning fit to fly. I was sore for a week or two, but no permanent damage.
Lessons learned: 1) Watch the metal Metro covers on the sidewalks of Paris on a rainy day. They are slick! 2) You can’t have too much cheese, bread, or pastry in Paris. 3) Paris is a magical place.
