Travelling Beyond Closed Doors

Closed.

Everywhere you look, things are closed.

Doors to our homes are closed. Restaurants are closed. Libraries are closed. Countries are closed. Minds are closed.

We’ve closed ourselves in. We‘ve closed ourselves off. And in our closing, other scarier doors have opened to loneliness, isolation and suspicion.

Publishing a travel blog at a time when leaving your front door is practically forbidden might seem a bit odd. With the entire world in some level of lockdown, dreaming of traveling to distant places seems, well, distant!

But beyond closed doors, a whole world still awaits. A world that is good and beautiful. A world that invites us to wander in wonder.

You see, travel is the ultimate door opener. Sometimes it opens the physical door of someone’s home that looks nothing like the one you live in. Other times, it opens the doors of your eyes that, for far too long, have only seen things from one perspective. Inevitably, it breaks down the door to the questions of the soul. And always, if you let it, travel opens wide the doors of understanding.

So from behind your closed doors, come travel with me. Beyond.

Insensibilities

Photo by Jorge Gascón on Unsplash

PARIS Wednesday, November 24, 2004

In most things in life, I tend to be sensible, or at the very least, I like to think that I am. But on occasion, I have been known to do some very insensible things. This is usually owed to the fact that I get a harebrained idea and am insistent about doing it right then and there with little or no thought. Like the time I died my hair butter blonde, or ordered the "Make $2 million a week by stuffing envelopes" kit. What seems irrational to most people usually makes absolute sense to me.

Last night, after a delicious dinner of confit de canard (basically, duck cooked in its own fat), home fries (not freedom fries), and wine (of course), I felt the Eiffel Tower call to me. Never mind that it was 11 PM, that I have seen the Tower at least 37 times already (including twice this afternoon) and that I still have 5 more days in which to gaze at it during normal business hours. I had to see it, and I had to see it right then and there.

I cannot explain the pull and the force this enormous piece of metal has exerted on my soul. It has never failed to make me gasp, to smile, to dream.  I hoped it hadn't lost its luster, or worse yet, that I no longer found myself impressed by its imposing presence. In eager anticipation, I boarded the Metro – destination, Eiffel Tower. Quite a few others were boarding this train with me, most of whom didn't get the memo that Paris is one of the fashion meccas of the world. The guy in front of me wore a baggy periwinkle sweatsuit, with a pattern of black squares. He looked like a walking pastel chessboard.  And the girl next to him wore black stockings and red leg warmers (are these back in style now??) with red pumps. Oh, Louis Vitton, where are you when we need you?

I decided to give up my dreams of becoming a fashion critic and refocused again on the task at hand – finding the Eiffel Tower. You would think the Eiffel Tower would be impossible to miss given its size and the fact that it is lit up at night with more lights than Chevy Chase's family Christmas tree. But the French must have thought it would be funny to play a joke on all the tourists of the world, and indeed, their plan works day after day. For when you step out of the Metro, the Eiffel Tower is nowhere in sight. Befuddled tourists scratch their heads and crane their necks, trying to find the infamous landmark. Their confusion then turns to frustration as they mutter words their mothers told them never to say. Ah, but I was not to be fooled. For once in my directionally challenged life, I took the right turn, and there she stood before me, magnificent as I remembered her to be. I only had a few moments to admire her, for I did not wish to miss the last Metro and be forced to walk all the way home. Given my propensity for directions, I probably would have ended up in Germany! Before I worry my mother any further with stories of being lost in Paris, I must now say adieu.

Stay insensible!

Confessions of Weakness

PARIS - November 23, 2004

If it wasn't already glaringly clear to me before, the last few days have confirmed without a doubt that I have no sense of direction. In His great sense of humor, not only did God forget to give me the ability to play any sport that involves a ball, but He also failed to provide me with the essential brain lobe that allows one to find their way in the world, literally speaking. I go left when I should have gone right and right when I should have gone straight.  And even though I know it is not true, left is always west and right is always east, regardless of the sun's position in the sky.  (Not that the sun could have helped me here considering it still chooses to hibernate in the clouds).  

I can fake my way through most things in which I have little talent, but I simply cannot master the art of knowing where I am and where I should go. I have tried everything to remedy this weakness, all to no avail.  I scour maps with a vengeance; I write notes on my hands to remember the turns; I give myself pep talks and tell myself that that I am the master of directions and that I will not get lost this time; and more obviously, I attempt to memorize routes and landmarks. While this seems logical to most people, landmarks in fact become my greatest enemy, for at some point in time, I have wandered past every landmark in any given space, with little idea where it is in relation to where I need to be.  The only thing I can say with certainty is that I have seen the landmark before. And so I continue to wander. I figure a full 238 hours of my life have been spend wandering aimlessly. My life quote is from the mouth of Tolkien and says, "All who wander are not lost." While certainly true for me in a sort of metaphysical sense, Tolkien has no idea what he is talking about when it comes to the relation of space and time!

Take last night for instance. My train from Brittany pulled into Paris around 11:15 PM. From the train station to my friend's apartment, it should have taken me only 20 minutes. However, it wasn’t until 12:30 AM, that I finally found myself in my French home. What happened, you ask?

Well, somewhere between the metro station and the apartment, I got completely turned around and walked in exactly the opposite direction of where I needed to go. There are only 2 turns between the station and the apartment, so once I had turned 5 times, I knew something was wrong (yes, I catch on quickly!). I finally made it to the apartment complex and proceeded to use the elevator on the left. When I got to the 4th floor, nothing looked familiar, so I carefully and quietly began inserting my key in all of the doors on the floor, none of which yielded the longed-for click.  Rather, I am sure I gave some poor soul a heart attack in their bed as they heard someone attempting to "break in" after midnite. Nearly in tears, I retraced my steps and saw the other elevator, the right elevator and made it to my bed without further incident. I am happy to say that I only wasted 55 minutes of my life! I wish I could blame it on exhaustion, but those of you who know me well can probably recall a plethora of similar instances.

It is probably obvious from my ramblings that today held little excitement in the way of French exploration. I went to the market, rode the train, argued with the incompetent man at the "customer service" counter, and bought a Ukranian CD from some musicians in the Metro tunnel. I really don't know how the latter happened for Slavic tunes do not rank at the top of my preferred listening list. But the Slavic stars must have been aligned this afternoon, and as the music reached my ears, I felt myself following the sound like a child mesmerized by the Pied Piper's flute. Once my reverie broke, I found myself 20 euro poorer, a random CD in one hand, and…you guessed it! Completely lost in the middle of the Metro station. Some things never change!!

Elves in Brittany

Brittany, France - November 22, 2004

The sun does not rise or set here. Rather, the sky above me simply changes from hues of light gray to black, then back again. The night deliberately disrobes its black cloak, and like the incoming ocean tide which creeps up little by little on unsuspecting waders, so the grayish daylight slowly drowns the night. It’s as if Mother Nature has shrouded all of France in clouds and fog in an attempt to ward off those who search its beauty. The failure of her attempt is nowhere more evident than in Brittany where rugged coastlines, pristine white-sand beaches, and Hansel & Gretel cottages dot the landscape.

Here, legends of elves and dwarves and giants abound. In fact, it is in this very region that the legend of King Arthur began. It is said that gnomes inhabit the caves among the hills, and if you stop to listen, you can almost hear their voices and feel their mischievous eyes upon you.

The rolling green hills are deceptively tranquil as the hiking paths that snake their way across the land more often than not lead to the edge of precarious cliffs where the Atlantic's waves beat mercilessly against the rocks below. When not leading to crashing surf, the paths simply meander along – up and around, evidence of a less peaceful time when men built concrete bunkers, few of which remain fully intact. Instead, they find themselves neighbors of large craters where bombs met the earth.

I spent hours on these hills this morning feeling very much alive as the wind whipped through my hair and the waves broke below me. “I could not live here though," I said to myself as I descended to the seaside town below. It is too gray, too glum. I would die young and depressed for lack of sunshine. Besides, one more day of this frizzy hair atop my head would drive me to insanity!

At that very moment, as if to spite me, the sun which had not appeared in three days spread its rays across the skies. Walking along the wooden boardwalk, I saw the turquoise waters to my left begin to glisten as if pixies had just flown in and scattered gold dust atop. And so I entered the little town of CAMARET SUR MER, a lilt to my step and a smile on my lips. Sadly, the sunshine was gone as quickly as it had come, and after strolling through the entire town in less than 15 minutes, there was little left to do but watch the sailboats bob up and down in the port. This I did from the comfort of a cozy little bar while eating my ham and cheese crepe and drinking my cider. All other restaurants and shops appeared to be closed for their annual break which appears to last approximately 2 months.

Hmmmm…..maybe I COULD live here after all!

Train Exhaustion

Photo by Barthelemy de Mazenod on Unsplash

Paris, November 21, 2004

By some good fortune, I am on the silver bullet train, speeding away from Paris to visit my friend Benedicte in the little town of Crozon. Memories flood  back over me almost overwhelmingly as I recall countless previous journeys across France and Europe, running frantically through the train stations with obscene amounts of luggage, nearly missing my train, arriving to my seat sweaty and thoroughly discombobulated. Fortunately, only the latter is true this time.

I find that I have forgotten little things about life in France, little things that are very important. Luckily, they are coming back to me as I relearn my lines in this act, a different yet familiar scene in the play of my life.

I was mistaken for a French woman last night at the Paris airport, and I take this as a compliment of the highest regard considering it came from a true French man. The truth is, he may not have known any better and was probably just sleep deprived, but I'll take it as a compliment nonetheless!

I find that my tongue is not as thick as in previous occasions when speaking this language, but my vocabulary is noticeably lacking. Fortunately, my ears are still attuned to the flow of the French words – they roll languidly through my head, lighting the way to understanding.

It is so different from my first 3 months living in France when the words crashed simultaneously through my head, a horrific brain-splitting dissonance that more often than not left me with a headache worse than those that come after nights of too much red wine.

We are rolling west now. The somber gray buildings of the city have been left behind, the rails cutting a path through fields and small forests, their trees holding stubbornly to the yellow and brown leaves that should have given in long ago to Old Man Winter.

In my haste and the ticket counter's confusion over my internet-purchased train tickets, I have forgotten to get any money. Perhaps it is the sleep deprivation that is fogging my mind, convincing it that I'll get along just fine without any local currency. I have slept 5 hours in the last 2 days, 3 hours of which don't really count since they were winks stolen intermittently while curled up in something akin to the shape of an airplane seat cushion.

I had spent the evening at my friend's apartment in central Paris, her patio offering a glimpse of the top of the Eiffel Tower. Of all the emotions and thoughts on my mind, sleep was not one of them, and a restful slumber evaded me most of the night. To make matters worse, my bedroom door could not be opened from the inside, leaving me trapped
all night with a very full bladder! Fortunately, the computer was also in my room, so I surfed the Web for an agonizing 4 bladder-filled hours in the dark quiet of a Sunday morning in Paris.

My stomach grumbles, reminding me that I have not had breakfast…or whatever meal my time-zone warped body believes it should have. I crave a pain au chocolat and a petit café, but my wallet once again reminds me that my coins are not accepted here. Only 4 more hours until my train stops…hopefully I don't wither away before then!

Sheer exhaustion came upon me like a monster that suddenly jumps at you in a haunted house. You know it is there, and expect it at anytime, but it surprises you nonetheless.  Nothing, not even the continuous ear-shattering crying of the toddler in front of me could have kept my eyes open.

Until I awaken in Brittany…

A Letter From Paris

This first set of travel stories take place in Paris and London in November 2004. I was living in Phoenix, Arizona at the time, and meeting my grandfather in Europe.

November 20, 2004

Photo by Dimitry Anikin on Unsplash

As the plane lands and I open my eyes, I look around and see nothing but gray. The drab clouds cry quietly, their tears spreading a fine mist across the bleak airport landscape. The dreary puddles match the sky’s countenance and blend upwards so that everything before me becomes a thick soupy mess of cold and misery. Outside, the air shocks my Arizona body and sends a chill to my core. Yet my heart is anything but heavy for I have arrived in Paris! Ah, glorious Paris – a place of romance, history and deep rich memories. I am back at last!

I began my solo journey solo at Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport, and since I fly somewhat frequently within the US, I nearly went to the domestic gate instead of the international gate. It would have been rather interesting trying to get to Paris on an airline that goes no further east than Boston. Thankfully I discovered my mistake before going through the wrong x-ray, “take off all your clothes, and say hello to the nice doggy" security checkpoint. The international security checkpoint greeted me with the sounds of sexy British accents and a melange of other languages, confirming that I was indeed flying beyond Boston.

You'd think I could read airport instructions by now, but I always seem to screw at least one thing up…like packing my big Swiss Army Knife in my carryon bag twice in a row and being forced to mail it back to myself! It's not that I can't follow directions, it's simply that I love airports and find myself extremely distracted by all that is going on around me! I could go to an airport just to watch people and wonder where they are going to or coming from.

I watch the tearful reunions and goodbyes and make up stories in my head about the travellers’ lives. Like the big Texan cowboy kissing his petiteJapanese wife goodbye as he boards my flight to London… or the plain-looking British girl and her adorable baby girl. Perhaps their lives aren't nearly as exciting or strange as I imagine them to be. Maybe I'm the strange one and they are making up stories about me in their heads.

Regardless, I am in Paris and will be spending a few days here and in Brittany before being joined on Wednesday by my 84-year old grandfather and my 14-year old cousin who hasn't flown since he was a baby. Stay tuned as this could get very interesting. In the meantime, know that I am safe and happy, not to mention very full after eating a warm baguette, stinky feet cheese, chocolate mousse and washing it all down with delicious French wine.

So much for that diet!!