I was just sitting here reading old blog posts from a couple of my favorite (not old) bloggers, when I heard the intermittent crack-pop-cracking of rain in the courtyard just outside my door...the same sound that kept me company as I settled into the first few days of this adventure. With all I've seen, experienced, learned and not learned about France, these past two weeks seem like months, but I am in no way ready to go home.
Please, God, make it April 2nd again.
Today was a gloriously true-spring day with Paris' whiter-than-white clouds floating in bright, hot sunshine, and who knew the rain would return? Not the online weather forecaster, that's for sure. Oh well, as they say in my neighborhood, c'est la vie. At least I'm in for the night and not out walking. Some sidewalks are so narrow that it's hard enough to pass one another -- worse when two lonely umbrellas try to mate.
Traveling is hard work, there's no doubt about it. That isn't a complaint -- it's a statement of fact. I've tried three times to see the cathedral at Laon and thus far have failed. The first time I changed both my mind and train to visit Amiens instead. The second time I overslept, missed one train and (DUH!) didn't think to check for a later one. My third attempt today became a scene from a Woody Allen movie --or someone equally deranged (but in a good way).
I left the apartment with plenty of time to walk 15 minutes to the bus stop for good old Number 38, which would take me to the train station. In fact, I left with so much time to spare I dawdled at a sidewalk vendor and bought a new travel handbag. While switching "stuff" from one bag to the other, I discovered I had left my railpass -- that magic ticket that takes me anywhere in France for seven days -- in the apartment.
I had just enough time to return, get the railpass and still make No. 38 and my train. Except, when I got back I couldn't FIND the damn thing. St. Anthony, who never lets me down in finding everything I ever lose (which is a big job), came through again -- it was under the quilt, on top of the sheet of the bed I had hastily made. Of course it was -- where else would it be?
I checked the online train schedules and decided I could make the next train and still be home for lights out. Back to the bus stop -- no dawdling -- but No. 38 had vanished. Numbers 27, 21, 85 and 86 seemed to show up every couple of minutes -- but No. 38 was MIA. After a 30-minute wait (checking my watch every 2 minutes and popping up and down from the bench so often it probably looked like I was doing some manic exercise program,) I see No. 38 -- but wait -- it's displaying the wrong destination name - a faux 38?
I run to the front door and shout over the crowd the name of the train station "Gare du Nord! Gare du Nord!" but Monsieur le bus driver just shakes his head "no" then tilts it back, indicating the bus behind Faux 38 -- the real No. 38 with Gare du Nord displayed. I spin around and head toward that articulated whale, only to see No. 38 swallow up the last passenger in its mouth and sail out into the street. Without me.
I gave up. Another more ardent traveler, with qualities of persistence and determination I don't seem to have, would have chased down No. 38 and demanded it stop (people do that here, and buses obey the desperate,) or headed for the nearest Metro or taxi stand. I just caved and quit trying.
After exploring an area I'd not been to on this trip but had enjoyed before, I gave the bus system one last chance and toured the parts of the City I viewed from the boat on Sunday, ending up at La Tour Eiffel with every tourist in Paris. Another bus ride through the Rue Cler area (home away from home for most of Rick Steves' fans) then to the flower market near Notre Dame.
Not the day I had planned, and I was about ready to say I'm weary of walking around Paris -- but I'm not. There is always the unexpected, the beautiful, the stylish, the cosmopolitan, the uniquely Parisian just around the next corner or down the next twisting cobblestone street.
Once, as an act of charity so they wouldn't feel bad when they discovered they'd missed my birthday, I sent out notices to friends a week before my big day, which I've always felt should be a national holiday. Today I'm announcing to the whole freaking internet that tomorrow, April 16th (in case there's confusion about the time differential) is my birthday.
Let your conscience be your guide.
