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Luck Be A Lady

Saying goodbye to France wasn’t as hard as saying goodbye to my sister, Paige. She is my “rock,” and it is difficult because I won’t be seeing her again for quite some time and I was really getting used to being around her – we laughed quite a bit in Nice and told some good stories --- some new, and some old which were worth retelling. It was nice to be around someone who knows all of my stories -- and loves me anyway.

I really enjoyed my time in France, but never felt the same kinship and love towards the people here that I have felt in other countries – Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam, Indonesia, South Africa….I don’t know what this says about me but it is what it is.

But I did have such a special time in France with my family, and that’s what made the trip great more than anything else. And I do have to say that I met some really cool French people along the way – all of the people at the front desk of our hotel in Paris, our waiter at the Italian restaurant (although he was Russian!) and Etienne in Nice.  I think that if I learned the language I could definitely fall in love with France and the way of life here – the French people really seem to have an appreciation for style, grace and elegance that is unique. And the food – the food! My jeans fit a little bit tighter after ten days in France but it is well worth it.

We also got so incredibly lucky with the weather. It was raining the first day that we arrived in Paris but I think that might’ve been it (except maybe one brief shower one day). Paris in October – deeelightful.

Today, Paige accompanied me to get my haircut and go to the post office. While we were waiting for my haircut appointment, we had lunch at a place directly across the street from our hotel at a tiny, hole-in-the-wall café/restaurant.

“I feel like I have gone down the rabbit hole,” Paige said, as the place was full of characters. First off, we tried to order what we wanted but the waiter basically told us, “no,” when Paige said that she wanted the special of the day and I said I wanted a cappuccino. We listed off other things that we wanted, and after denying several of our orders he finally agreed to bring us sandwiches – I guess that he needs to approve everyone’s orders first?

Apparently, when Paige was picking out the table and I was scheduling my haircut, the waiter kept saying, “No! Not there! Reserved!” to each and every table she chose, until he finally agreed to let her sit at the last one she picked. And mind you, this was around 11:45 a.m., before the lunch rush. The entire restaurant was empty at that point.

As we ate, the place began to fill up. Everyone who walked in knew everyone else. So as each person entered, they would make the rounds doing the double kiss to everyone and then to the cook in the back, and then finally to “their” appointed seat. It seemed as if this happened every day, and we were intruders (at worse) or observers (at best).

There was a very French old matriarch with her dog who sat at “her” table behind us, a wrinkly old man with a dapper hat on his head at “his” table in the window, and then a skinny, 20-something hipster who sat over in the corner. It was quite the scene and there was definitely something going on there that we didn’t understand, but it was fun to watch.

After our interesting lunch, I finally got my haircut. That ended up being a great experience. My stylist was fashionably sleek and cute and had lived in London for five years so his English was great. I was worried that if the language was a problem I would come out looking like Sinead O’Connor. But he did me a solid and I think that it turned out quite nice. Funnily, both Angie and Paige said that my hair looked exactly the same as before and that’s usually what people say after I get my haircut. In some ways I embrace change, and in some ways I like things to stay exactly the same, I guess.

After a frustrating trip to the post office to mail postcards as well as a package to Made and Badung (I think that post offices are annoying, regardless of the country), we headed to the beach. Unfortunately, I only had about an hour of beach time before I had to leave, take a quick shower, and head to the airport to catch my flight. Surprisingly, the beach was full of people. I vacillated on whether or not I wanted to get in the water but finally decided to go for it.

Al Gore, if you’re reading this, please stop now. It’s probably not right that I was able to get into the Mediterranean in the middle of October but that’s exactly what I did and it was amazing. The water was pretty cold but the air was warm and it was great to be back in the water again. Each time I go swimming in the ocean, I think back to the last time I was in the water, and where. For me it was a goodbye snorkel in Amed with my friend, Putu, where I almost convinced him that I could hear the dolphins talking to each other when I put my head underwater. Seriously, I could.

I am such a fortunate person and that’s what I thought about as I floated in the water and contemplated the moment, and the days and weeks to come. There’s something about the water and the way it envelopes you into a different world – surrounds you, holds you up, knocks you down, and carries you on. It was comforting, and made me think of when I was in Calang and Martin swam far out beyond everyone else and all you could see was the top of his face and the tops of his toes as he floated alone, with the Indonesian sunset as a backdrop. I suspect that he had a similar feeling then as I did today – all is right with the world in that little moment.

I reluctantly got out of the water, ran back to the hotel, and high-tailed it back to the bus stop. Paige saw me off and I made it up to Paris to catch my flight to Madrid (where I am now) and ultimately, next, to my flight Moscow which should be boarding any minute. The woman at the check-in counter at Iberian Airlines was so funny and cute. She looked at my boarding passes, which cover Paris-Moscow, Shanghai-Tokyo, Tokyo-Bangkok, Bangkok-Perth, Perth-Singapore-Tokyo-Paris, and she started reading each city out to her co-workers, her voice getting more excited with each city that she read off.

“Never before have I seen anything like this!” she said.

“I know, I’m a lucky lady,” I said to her as she looked at me, in wonder.

All Play and No Work

On the way down to Nice yesterday, we all spoke about what we wanted to do when we arrived.

A visit to Monte Carlo, Monaco, a boat ride and some beach time were all discussed.

Paige and Angie woke early today and went on an all-day tour of the sights. I, unfortunately, had "business" to attend to: dirty laundry, pictures I needed to print off and send to Made and Badung to keep my karma clean (I told them I would do it), and a haircut were on my list. The great thing about traveling as I do is that every day is a new adventure, but of course every once in a while business must take precedent over pleasure. I was sad to not spend the day with Paige and Angie, but in the end I really needed to take care of a few things and I've actually traveled to Nice before and saw many of the sights then.

This brings up an interesting thing about travel. There are a few ways of doing things: one is to go gangbusters and see everything in the time you have alotted, and another is to sit in cafes, relax, and try to see the city or the place from the perspective of someone who lives there. I've done it both ways and both have their merits. In some ways, going to the laundromat and observing the people there says just as much, if not more, than hitting the "sights."

Anyway, I slept in until around 10, something I haven't done for quite some time and was much needed because I'm feeling a little bit sick at the moment. The last thing I want is to show up in Moscow under the weather.

I went to the front desk and inquired about the "Super Laundromat" on the bulletin board -- could they please point me in the right direction? The woman at the front desk very kindly explained the way to get there. I had packed all of my dirty clothes -- and some of Paige's -- into Backy. I was slightly embarrassed as I trekked through the stylish streets of Nice with my huge backpack. Both of us stuck out like a sore thumb, but at least we were there for each other.

The woman at the front desk instructed me to walk to the end of "Rue Liberte," and I would find the laundromat. Unfortunately, "Rue Liberte" ended with no landromat in sight. The frustrating thing about streets in France is that they suddenly change names with no warning. I had to walk back to the hotel -- again, ignoring the disapproving stares of the unattainably fabulous -- to angrily grab the card off of the bulletin board near the front desk. Why didn't she explain to me that the street would end suddenly and be called something else, and that's where I would find the laundromat? Sometimes, I feel as if every French person is trying to play a joke on me.

I finally found the laundromat. It's funny because I completely forget to factor in "decoding" into the picture. The laudromat was completely different than what I was used to. As I was attempting to understand the machinery, I realized that I hadn't actually cleaned my own clothes since I left for Aceh at the end of June.

There was a huge machine on the wall that was the equivalent of "the mothership." Instead of putting coins into the machine, everything was operated off of this single machine on the wall. One load was 4.60 euros, which is quite expensive when you think about the conversion. Basically, it was about $6.50 US a load, before drying. Oy. I haven't really blogged about it, but it's not a good time at all to be traveling in Europe on the US dollar. For instance, 4.60 euro would seem to be expensive, before you even consider the exchange rate....then it just seems downright exorbitant. All to do your laundry yourself!

After getting some instructions from some sweet Australians also doing their laundry there, I loaded everything up, got some coffee and a croissant, and went and sat in the park for a bit. I remembered sitting in that exact same park when I was here five years ago, backpacking. My, how time flies.

After finishing my laundry, I went to the Monoprix to print out the pictures. Again, I had a hard time figuring out the machinery. I finally was able to get the pictures printed, but got upset when I wasn't given change from the machine. To print out Made and Badung's pictures was 2.25 euro. I only had a 20 euro bill and I put that in but wasn't able to receive change. After much discussion with the people at the "information" desk, I came to the understanding that I was out of luck. Apparently it said that the machine was unable to give change -- somewhere. It was just frustrating because, with the conversion, I was out about $20 US. Oh, well.

These two tasks took me the majority of the day. I still hadn't even figured out the haircut. Oh, well. I'm going to try to do that tomorrow before I leave to catch my flight back up to Paris, and then Moscow. Paige, Angie and I had a really fun last-night dinner here in Nice. We sat next to a guy on his own, named Etienne, who ended up being really cool. He is an engineer here doing some quality control for his company, which operates pressure cookers! Tomorrow, he has to meet with a woman who was badly burned by one of his company's pressure cookers. It was nice to meet him, and I think that he enjoyed practicing his English on us.

Tomorrow, I'm going to attempt once again to get my hair cut, and then hopefully go for a swim in the ocean. Apparently, Paige and Angie saw lots of people in the Mediterrannean today on their tour.

No Ticket, No Nice!

10:39 a.m.: Paige and I left the hotel room this morning at a respectable time to catch the train at Gare du Nord, the train station where we would catch the train to Nice. We said goodbye, lovingly, to our cute little hotel. It’s funny how, because I’ve been traveling for so long now, I call wherever “home.” Regardless, the hotel was our home for a week and I was sad to leave. I realize it is probably the nicest place that I will stay on this entire trip…..le sigh.

10:46 a.m.: Alexis high fives herself for not being late as the cab speeds off down the street to the train station. Paige and Alexis begin discussing meeting up with her friend, Angie. She flew into Paris on Saturday and was staying at a different hotel and they made plans the night before to meet up at the train station to catch the train to Nice.

10:49: Alexis, full of bravado, states to Paige: “Why did we leave so early? Our train doesn’t leave until 11:50! We’ll be there in five minutes. We could’ve taken the metro! We could’ve left at 11:00!” Always looking for a few extra minutes of sleep. And anyway, I absolutely hate being early for anything. To me, it’s just wasted time. In the end, I envisioned us leisurely arriving, meeting her friend, having some croissants and coffee and strolling slowly to our train car without a care in the world.

Paige states: “Deal with it. We’re in the cab already. Angie is very particular about time. Chill.”

10:51: We cross the Seine and have a great view of Notre Dame.

“Bonjour, Notre Dame!” I say to the church. “Bonjour, Seine!” I sing to the river.

“Bonjour, Notre Dame! You were a good place to meet up!” Paige said to the church.

We drove on a bit in the taxi.

10:54: “So Paige, I heard that one of the reasons that people in France don’t want to speak English is also because they might think that we’re British…..”

“What? What did you say?” I hear from the front.

“Um……” I hadn’t anticipated this. The driver was eavesdropping on us. “So anyway, we’ve had some difficulty this week with the language…..” I said. I was truly surprised, as we were both so completely used to being ignored at that point. It was like that part of The Wizard of Oz when Dorothy realizes that the trees can talk.

The driver turned around.

“You know, we don’t have a problem with Americans, and we don’t have a problem with the British. Some people just don’t want to speak English! Or maybe they don’t know how. But it’s nothing against you. It’s just that when some people are in school, and it is time to learn English, they think to themselves, ‘I am going to live in France the rest of my life, I’m not going to learn English.’ But we understand….why should you learn French for a one-week trip here?”

Wow. Finally, a discussion about the issue. And in the most unlikeliest of places. I became embarrassed that we had been talking about it in front of him.

“We’ve been trying to speak French all week!” Paige said, in our defense. “It’s just that sometimes when we try, the French get frustrated and begin speaking English anyway. We just don’t know what to do anymore.”

I was now noticing that our cab driver was adorably French, and he was entertaining our ignorance, bemused.

“You see…the thing is….I like Americans! I like British people! I like that Americans are so friendly, even more so than French people. It is refreshing! We know that….the war in Iraq…it is just one man...there have been some problems because of Iraq…but we know that not all Americans are for the war. Anway, Americans….I like! I learn English from American movies…..the French love American movies. I also like Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at this one. Again, it is so funny to me – the things that make the jump beyond.

“Did you see Dr. Quinn in Wedding Crashers?” I asked him. “She showed her boobs!”

“What? Dr. Quinn? That is why I like the show! Dr. Quinn had great boobs!” he said. “I will have to see this film that you speak of.”

Just then, my phone rang. Although perplexing, I think that I have kind of figured the phone system out. In Indonesia it was so extremely easy. Put 50,000 rupia on the phone card and you were good to go for quite some time. Here, 5 euro lasts about one day. I had made some calls on my phone yesterday and so now my credit was out, but I was still able to receive incoming calls.

“Hello?!?!?” I asked. It was a French number coming through.

Hang up. This happened about three more times. We figured that it was probably Paige’s friend, Angie, who we were meeting up with. Finally, when I answered, she came through.

“Hello? This is Angie. I just figured out that the train is actually leaving from Gare Lyon, not Gare du Nord! We need to go to Gare Lyon,” she said.

“Okay…..” I said.

“Where are you guys now?” she asked.

“We are about one block away from Gare du Nord,” I replied.

After some discussion, we agreed that we would pick her up in the cab, as we were only a block away, and then we would all go together to Gare Lyon – and then the phone cut out. The thing is, she had Paige’s ticket so ultimately we had to meet up with her at some point.

We had to circle the block, and explain to the cab driver what had happened. We told him that we were picking our friend up at Gare du Nord and then we would need to go to Gare Lyon.

“Okay, no problem….as long as you don’t mind paying!” he said. “It’s only about ten minutes away from this station to Gare Lyon,” he explained. I looked at the clock.

11: 05 a.m. We pulled up at the main entrance of Gare du Nord. No sign of her friend. I jumped out at the side entrance, and Paige and the cab driver went around to the main entrance again to look for her.

“What does she look like?” I shouted as I jumped out of the car, realizing that I was looking for someone that I had never met before.

“She looks…..normal! With red, curly hair!” she shouted as I ran off.

I looked inside the station. I looked in the cab line, outside the station. I looked high. I looked low. About mid-search the ludicrousness of looking for someone whom I had never met struck me. At one point – much to the delight of pervvy Frenchmen everywhere -- I sprinted to the end of the entire train station, thinking that she might be at a separate exit only to realize that there wasn’t one, and had to run all the way back. The clock was ticking. The station was teeming with people.

I realized that I had just jumped out of the cab without making any sort of plan with Paige, or the cab driver. How would I even find them again if I needed to? Literally all I had was my phone but what good was that going to do me?

Luckily, as I left the main exit I spotted Paige standing out front, looking for Angie as well.

“What are you thinking!?!?!?” I screamed at her when I realized that she hadn’t met up with Angie either. “You left all of our stuff with a cab driver that we don’t even know!” Suddenly, the picture of the cab driver rifling through my bag of dirty clothes (need to go to the laundromat) and pawning my beloved laptop struck me.

Paige looked at me as if to say……oh, well. At this point – we obviously hadn’t spotted Angie, we were most likely going to miss our train to Nice, and all of our stuff could possibly be gone forever. Stupidly, I hadn’t even grabbed my purse as I jumped out of the cab on my quest for Angie. Paige had, understandably, adopted the attitude of: whatever. I know “whatever” well. I have perfected it.

“Okay, we must abandon ship!” I said to her as we looked around for the cab.

“It’s this way,” she said.

11:25: We jump in the cab, with everything thankfully completely intact. We have about 25 minutes to get to the other station, find Angie, and get on the train to Nice. I was gloating, just a little bit (maybe 20%) that it wasn’t my fault, and it wasn’t because I was running late as usual. I had been completely on time—my time to say, “This isn’t my fault!” is running out and so I’ll take every opportunity that I can to do it.

“We will be there in six minutes!” the cab driver yelled over his shoulder. “Do you want to use my phone to call your friend?” he asked.

“No, it’s okay,” Paige said, not wanting to explain that she had been calling from a pay phone and that there was no way to call her back. “I think that she must have just headed over to Garde Lyon on her own,” she said, assuming what I was thinking as well. Really, it was our only option.

“Why do you not trust?” he asked. “Use my phone! I try to help you!” he said. It was just then that I realized that we didn’t even know his name.

“What’s your name?” I asked him.

“Jamal,” he said.

“Jamal’s going to get us to the station! Jamal’s going to get us there on time!” I made up a song and began to sing it to him.

At this point, we had pretty much resigned ourselves to whatever happened. If we missed the train, we missed the train. But it was just at this point when Jamal began to get nervous.

“But what happens if you don’t find your friend?” he said nervously. “No ticket, no Nice!”

Very kindly, he was concerned for us. At that moment, probably more than we were.

“And anyway, it’s Au revoir Paris, not Bonjour,” he said, correcting my earlier attempt to say goodbye to the city as we crossed the bridge when we first got in the cab. “And if you make any money off that song, we split the profits,” he said, referring to my made-up song about making it to the station on time.

“Okay, so once I drop you off, you must find platform 19. It is inside the station, to your left. You will make it!” he said encouragingly. He was now invested in our plight.

11:39 a.m. Jamal drops us off at the station. Paige gives him a hefty tip for making it on time – about 15 euro. We quickly grab our bags, and I put Jamal’s phone number into my cell phone just in case I actually do need to split the profits with him if the song goes gold.

“Really?” Jamal asks us. “Why you give me so much money?” he asks.

At this point, we were already halfway gone.

“You saved us, Jamal! Thanks!” we shouted over our shoulders as we ran off, piled high with bags and the hope that we might actually make the train. Once inside the station, we realized once again that we might be in trouble. The platforms were lettered, not numbered. We were looking for platform 19, but all we could see were platforms A-M. And the station was huge. Oy!

“Maybe it is downstairs!” I shouted to Paige, drawing upon my knowledge of Grand Central Station. She began to go down the escalator. Once we were both downstairs, we realized that we had made a mistake when we were surrounded by shops and no platforms.

“I said MAYBE!” I screamed at her as we went back upstairs. We asked a French person. “Five?” he asked us as we said, “Nineteen!” He pointed, confused, off to our right. We followed, taking a gamble.

I looked at the clock.

11:42. We had eight minutes to figure this thing out. I asked a train station worker, only to be looked at again the same blank-stare manner that we have grown so accustomed to.

“This way!” Paige screamed. Up ahead, we saw numbers. Hallelujah!

Number 19 was, appropriately enough for the course of events over the morning, hidden behind a big sign but there it was. We saw Angie standing half-on, half-on the first car of the train. She did look quite normal, however she had strawberry blonde hair instead of red. Regardless, we jumped on.

11: 49. We made it! Au revoir Paris!

Skyrockets in Flight

Children in the streets rejoice in song.

An old man dances a jig.

Alexis breathes a deep sigh of relief as she bites into a mouth-watering croissant while she pets a dog.

Martin smiles as he dances the poco poco.

Cats and mice across the world declare a truce and share a piece of cheese.

Teachers in Aceh use media to illustrate their delight.

Jennifer and Angelina share recipe ideas over a cup of coffee.

The planets align.

All sins are forgiven.

Everything is right with the world.

The Gugus Revitalization Report is finished.

Over.

Done.

Coming soon, in downloadable form, to a blog near you.

Turn It Up, S'il Vous Plaît

As I was looking over some post cards at a souvenir shop near Notre Dame this week, I noticed one postcard of half of the Statue of Liberty, covered in scaffolding. For a moment I thought that it was some sort of photoshopped picture, like the ubiquitous picture of Albert Einstein sticking out his tongue.

But suddenly my 4th grade history lessons came back to me and I remembered that the landmark known around the world and located very near to where I live in New York City was actually a gift from France so long ago – actually in 1886. Because I have seen it so many times – on my commute to work in the morning, walking over the Brooklyn Bridge home at night, on postcards and t-shirts – I kind of forgot that it was even there, what it symbolized, and where it came from.

And then, it suddenly dawned on me: Where did the love go?

France has been lovely and is an amazing country to visit for numerous reasons. Maybe I’m sensitive after coming from a country that was so welcoming that at times it seemed as if people were arguing over who would get to take care of me (it happened!), but one thing more than anything else that has really made an impression on me is that Parisians are, perhaps, a little less excited about my presence.

In a way, I admire the French for so openly and adamantly rejecting all things foreign. After being in the country for less than one hour, I was yelled at by the man at the information desk about not speaking French. The thing is – I get it, I get it, I get it – but at the same time is everyone who comes to this country expected to speak the language fluently? The man at the desk could speak English, he was simply making a point. It doesn’t seem worth my time to master a new language that I will most likely not use again for some time, all for a 1-week trip here.

It struck me again when I was at the Louvre yesterday and the signs next to each piece of art were in only one language: French. Again, I get it – but wouldn’t it perhaps make sense to put the placards in other languages as well….like English…..for those who are visiting? In America, if I’m not mistaken, they are usually in a few different languages to cover all of the bases.

I do understand also that as an American and a native English speaker, the world is my oyster. I know how lucky I am to have the luxury of speaking and knowing a language that is, like it or not, universal. Another thing that threw me off when I first arrived in France was when I saw other Westerners; I automatically assumed that they would converse with me in English. That’s how it was in Indonesia – even if people weren’t native English speakers, that’s the language that everyone (non-Indonesian) used to converse. It was the lowest common denominator, I guess.

It’s not only the language itself that is a barrier – it’s also just our whole manner of speaking, and being – that is foreign. Neene and I were having breakfast on Wednesday morning, chatting and discussing the coming day. I caught the eye of the people sitting two tables down from us, who were looking at us in utter contempt. As Neene talked, I realized that we were both being rather loud. As I looked around at people eating breakfast, I realized that we were kind of creating quite a ruckus.

“Shhhhh!” I said to her, embarrassed for the both of us. But the more I thought about it…..I wondered: Why? Why should we be quiet? We’re two sisters who haven’t seen each other in a long time and might not see each other again for some time. We’re excited to be here and if that is reflected in our voices – so be it.

Yes, at times we are brash and loud and boisterous and conspicuous and downright embarrassing. Perhaps it is the wide open spaces of our home country – miles upon miles of open road and vast land – which beckon us to fill up the void. In Indonesia, Friska said that it was one of her favorite things about me: that I laughed when I wanted to, and loudly.

Everyone here seems to be so quietly hip, so utterly stylish….again, maybe I’m just noticing because the compare-and-contrast between the last country I was in and this one are just so starkly different. It seems as if the entire city of Parisians are -- deliberately nonchalantly, mind you -- members of an extremely exclusive and discriminating club devoted to cool. With a secret knock that you will never know, silly American!

Regardless, here we are in all of our loudness -- in so many ways. It’s been a fantastic week. Neene and my Mom leave to go back to the good old U-S-of-A tomorrow morning and Paige and I will leave for Nice on Monday. We have definitely covered some major sightseeing ground this week and I think that all of us are pretty exhausted. We went on the big Farris wheel located at the base of Champs-Elysees today and as I looked around I recognized all of the major sites and realized that we had trekked to each and every last one of them.

One of the most fun things that we did was yesterday, when Neene and I rented bicycles and rode to the Louvre and went inside to visit the Mona Lisa, among other works. On the way there, we were almost arrested on our bikes! Although Paris has this amazing system where people can rent city bicycles for only one euro a day, we weren’t able to enjoy this program because our credit cards don’t have this special security chip which I guess they now use in Europe. We went to kiosk after kiosk only to have our credit cards rejected at each one. So instead, since we had our hearts set on it, we found a shop that rented bicycles for $25 euro for a 24-hour period.

Full of excitement and hope, we jumped on the bicycles and rode around Notre Dame for a bit. Then we hit the open road, to ride down to the Louvre. I realized right away that we were riding against traffic and so I tried to veer up to the sidewalk when I heard someone screaming at me. I looked over and two cops were jumping out of an extremely small cop car (the cars are so much smaller here, golf claps for the French for conserving gas) like clowns at the circus doing that trick to see how many people can fit in one miniature space.

I looked over at Neene with that, “Oh no!” look on my face as I was screamed at in French. From what I could gather, we were not supposed to be riding against traffic and now we were going to get a fine. The woman cop kept screaming the one English word that she knew: MONEY! and rubbing her fingers together in the universal sign for "Give it to me!" I was trying so hard to understand what they were saying but couldn’t really respond. The way they were screaming at us, you’d think that we had just murdered a mime. Ultimately, one of the cops took pity on us and away we rode, relieved and without a fine.

We turned around and realized that we were going to have to back track and then take another one-way road parallel to the road where we almost got arrested, down to the Louvre. Neene was up ahead of me and I was following closely behind. The bike lane and the bus lane are one and the same, and suddenly I saw a huge bus ride up so close to Neene that my stomach just dropped. I thought for sure that my little sister was a goner as the huge city bus brushed up next to her shoulder. I decided to jump ship and ride my bike up on the sidewalk – cops be damned – and as I pulled up next to Neene I noticed that she was laughing uncontrollably and so I started up as well. Neither of us could stop and it took us a while to calm down.

So in the space of about ten minutes we had almost been arrested and killed! Not bad. Once we got the hang of the bikes and the system, it ended up being so much fun. I hadn’t been on a bike since my morning goodbye ride in Aceh and as we rode around the huge glass pyramid that is the entrance to the Louvre I felt really excited and lucky to be here with the people I love, three women that I realized this week are pretty cool chicks in ways I didn’t know before. It will be hard to say goodbye tomorrow.

Who Wants Cake?

It’s funny how you spend most of your life trying to be different than your parents, only to finally come to the realization one day – like a light shining down from the heavens to the exact spot that you’re standing on the pavement in Paris – that you are more like your parents than you think you are.

We left the hotel for Versailles pretty early this morning, around 8:30 a.m. We had to take the train out there, and the concierge had given my Mom directions the night before about where to catch the train, etc. Because I’m kind of in “let someone else handle it while I have the luxury” mode, I didn’t pay attention.

So as we walked block after block, it finally dawned on me that I had no idea where we were going.

“Mom, where are we going?” I asked her.

“Well, the concierge said that it was down by the river.”

“The River” is the Seine. Which basically runs right through the middle of Paris – for miles and miles. “Down by the river” really isn’t any indication of anything. I kind of lost my patience.

“Mom! You need to get better directions than that! It’s kind of like ‘walk down the street until you smell the croissants’!!!” I shouted.

“Alexis, relax!” Neene said. She was right. I was losing my cool. But I would never do this sort of thing! Never!

But then, I remembered about a year ago when Rusel and I had big plans to go upstate for our anniversary. Because I really love to plan trips, he let me take care of all of the arrangements. Rusel always drives, though, because our lives are precious and no sense in dying before our time. So, as we got in the car, Rusel turned to me.

“So…..where are we going?” he asked. Rusel’s not big on the details when it comes to trips and frankly, I like it that way.

“Upstate.” I answered. I’d made reservations at a cute B&B in Hudson.

“How do we get there?” he asked.

“Um….it’s up near Christy and Craig’s.” I said.

“We need better directions than ‘up near Christy and Craig’s,’” he said.

I scoffed at him. How dare he question my travel-planning abilities.

“Just drive north!” I yelled at him.

Well, about three hours later, in the middle of a very scary part of Connecticut, I realized that Hudson, NY and Norwalk, Connecticut are basically in totally different directions. We had veered so far to the right that we were in no-man’s land and obviously nowhere near Hudson, NY – or Christy and Craig’s, for that matter. Sweet Rusel had the perfect opportunity to scream, “I told you so!” and if I remember correctly, he actually did.

This reminds me of one fall when I returned to college and an acquaintance of mine who was also in journalism school with me at the University of Nebraska had been an intern at the York News-Times, which is the local newspaper in my hometown. I’d been in Colorado for the summer so I hadn’t seen him and was curious to hear what he’d thought of my hometown. He said he had a great summer.

“One time, I was on my way to go interview someone and I asked for directions before leaving the newspaper. The person who gave me directions said, ‘Go straight until you pass where the old water tower used to be, and then take a left at Dr. Thomas’ house.” I laughed until I realized that that’s probably how I would’ve explained it as well.

In the end, I guess I’m a bit more like my Mom than I like to admit. And that’s ok. On this trip I’ve come to realize and really appreciate what a funny, kooky, generous and good-hearted individual my Mom really is….and if someday, somebody says that about me, I’d be just fine with that.

We had a fun day at Versailles. The highlight for me was Marie-Antoinette’s private “escape” from Versailles. It’s more of a country home about a half an hour’s walk from the main palace – or a short drive on the golf carts that you can rent, which we did because my Mom’s hip was starting to bother her. I liked this separate estate because it was more homey, less grand, and I could really imagine Marie-Antoinette relaxing in the gardens there and running through the flowers. Who know if that’s what she did, but that’s what I felt like doing.

It was fun for me because it was the first thing that we did as a group that I hadn’t done before. I can’t remember why I didn’t go to Versailles the last time I was here but I didn’t, so it was fun to go today. It was exhausting, though – Versailles is huge and imposing and we walked our feet off. We were so tired by the time we got back to Paris that Paige and Mom went back to the hotel and Neene and I did some shopping on our own. We then went to the grocery store, Monoprix, and bought some picnic food and we all ate a picnic in our hotel room for a late dinner, spread out on our two twin beds.

It was so much fun for me to go to the grocery store, as I absolutely love grocery stores and feel as if I haven’t really been to a fully-stocked grocery store since New York. The cheese section alone made me want to cry from happiness. It was actually the best meal I’ve had in Paris so far, and it was a great end to a really good day.

Lipstick Beret

High Point of the Day: Watching a group of nuns file into Sacré-Cœur solemnly, even their swishing black and white robes consumed with holiness.
Low Point of the Day: Asking an interesting-looking French guy if I could take his picture, only to discover that he was crazy as he tried to poke my eyes out.
Funniest Thing of the Day: When I was sitting on top of the double decker bus and it suddenly hit me that I was in Paris! With my family! My mosquito bites still itch and I feel as if I still have black sand from the beaches of Amed in my shoes and yet here I am, in one of the most beautiful cities in the world, in October in all of it’s orange and red glory, with three people that I know and love more than anyone else on the planet. Life is strange.

Today was fun – very touristy, but very fun. It’s actually been a really nice treat for me to just sit back and relax and enjoy the ride, and let other people figure out where we’re going and what we’re going to do next. Well, let me correct that statement. I do my best, but sometimes my “I’m the world’s best traveler” attitude takes over and I find myself insisting that this is how it’s done, not that way. I try my best to keep it all in check but it’s difficult at times. I realize now that I definitely have my own traveling style and – big shocker – I want to do it all my way. But as I noted above, it’s really nice to not have to plan everything or worry about what’s going to happen next – we are a little team.

And I’m definitely doing my research now for the Great American novel that I will one day write. I love my family, and over the years I have come to (better) understand our unique family dynamics. Like any family, we fight, scream, hug, make up, laugh, cry, and do it all over again. Usually, because we all live so far apart from each other now, these events are a little bit spaced out, timing-wise. But I think that each of us did all of these things in the course of one day today (in some cases, maybe even an hour). At the end of the day, all you can do is keep on keeping on but sometimes it’s a bit intense. The cool thing about our little tribe is that we all have extremely strong personalities, but inevitably of course fireworks ensue on occasion.

The highlight of the day was Montmarte. We spent a good part of the day hanging out there, eating lunch, people watching, shopping, observing the artists, drinking wine, and telling stories. Although it’s very touristy now and at times I felt as if I was at “Euro Disney,” it was still a good ride. The last time that I was in Paris was about five years ago on my first solo backpacking trip. I remember staying at a horrible hostel close to where we were today. I shared the 4-person room with a German who had smelly feet and snored all night in the bunk above me. The hostel had a bar downstairs which never seemed to close and our room was located right next to the filthy toilet. I arrived in Paris from London completely sick and spent the first few days lying in bed, crying, wondering what had possessed me to want to travel on my -- all while inhaling the fumes of the feet of my upstairs bunkmate.

I finally recovered enough to go to the Louvre. It was the middle of summer but I trekked out in rainy, cold weather, which only dampened my mood even more. There, I met two really nice American guys and we ended up hanging out. They came by my hostel one night to pick me up, and the neighborhood I was staying in (near Montmarte, close to the red light district) was so bad that as we were walking to the metro, a guy with a knife approached us and asked us for our money. The two American guys decided that they would be heroes and one of them tried to wrestle the knife out of the guy’s hand. A nearby restaurant owner saw the entire thing and called the police.

How different a place can be depending on your mood, your financial situation, or the people you are with at the time. Paris seems to be a completely different city this time around – the sun is shining and life is beautiful. Being at Montmarte again today made me realize how lucky I am to have had the chance to see it all again – sharing a lovely little room with my little sister instead of two rancid stranger’s feet.

Cooks In The Kitchen

Today started out quite comically, foreshadowing events to come.

We all met up in the lobby of the hotel, where my Mom told us that she had just ran into another woman staying at the hotel with her mother, and she told her about the “best croissants in France,” right down the street!

Because we had wandered aimlessly, lost, for about an hour yesterday afternoon in our neighborhood, we asked Mom if she knew exactly where the croissants place was. Our neighborhood is charming but unlike New York City, which mostly operates on a grid system in Manhattan, here all of the streets haphazardly (and, in my opinion, charmingly) twist and turn and diagonal over each other like the paths of drunken ants.

“I already walked there and back! I know exactly where it is!” she exclaimed.

Paige objected, but she was overruled by a majority of three and so we followed Mom down one street, then down another. She said that it was right near the brasserie where we’d had drinks yesterday, when we were lost before. We backtracked and found the cute brasserie, but when we all looked to Mom for our next move and she turned around, with a lost look on her face, I knew that we wouldn’t be eating delicious croissants anytime soon.

“I thought that you said that you knew exactly where it was!??” I asked her, knowing by the look on her face that she had no idea. All three sisters looked at each other with a knowing look, and we all started laughing.

“Let’s just walk back to where we were yesterday for lunch,” one of us suggested. There had been many cafes there and we could easily find breakfast at any one of them.

My Mom wasn’t ready yet to give up. The woman (a complete stranger) at the hotel had told her these were the best croissants in Paris! And it was just down a diagonal street! And she was here with her mother!

“Everyone try to smell them! If we can smell them, we will find them!” she pleaded as we all walked on, ahead of her, already realizing that it was a lost cause.

In the end, we found a cute café with great croissants and coffee and great people-watching vantage points. I love how all of the wicker chairs at the restaurants and cafes point out, and people sit in their seats on the streets next to each other as if they are at the movies, and the city of Paris is the blockbuster film. It was fun to sit there and watch the city go by, complete with storylines from my imagination: that stylish girl was on her way to class; this artist at the table next to us, drawing in his sketch book of passersby, was just fired from his job and that's why he looked so surly; the handsome couple sitting behind us and chain smoking cigarettes just celebrated their 30-year anniversary.

After breakfast, we bought a two-day pass to jump on and off the double-decker tourist buses, much like they have in New York City. I was slightly conflicted about doing this tour, feeling a little bit “too cool for school,” about it, but in the end I set aside my street cred and jumped on. It was a fun way to see the city and we were able to get on and off all day. It's funny because whenever I am walking down the street in NYC and see one of these sightseeing buses, I always imagine people on the buses looking down at me and thinking, "Now there's a native New Yorker, in her natural habitat!" as if I am an animal at the zoo. Now here I was, doing the same thing, in a foreign city.

It’s definitely interesting to put four women together who are all masters of their own universes and see what transpires. The croissant story was just one of many small debates that happened throughout the day regarding where we were going next, how we were going to get there, and how many pictures would be taken once we arrived.

“You’ve been traveling alone too long, Alexis!” Paige screamed at me when we were outside Notre Dame and I insisted that I knew exactly how to find the cute café nearby that we had seen on the bus. She is probably right.

However, Cheryl is naturally used to being in charge, as the Mom of all of us and just a headstrong individual in general. Whitney is a mom herself now, of two little boys, and what she says usually goes in her household. Paige has a very successful job at the Red Cross in Colorado that calls her to make very authoritative decisions regarding really important issues affecting the lives of many people. I, of course, have been traveling alone the last month and doing only what my little heart desires most of the time. Put it all together, and basically you have four very determined women all pointing in different directions at any given time. Some lessons in diplomacy and compromise were definitely learned by all.

We did have a great day, though. In the late afternoon we went to the top of the Eiffel Tower (or the Knife-el Tower, as Thomas in Kansas City calls it) and then jumped back on the bus to head back to the hotel. The bus ended up stopping close to our hotel but not exactly where we got on, so we jumped off the bus and wandered a bit and found a cute French place for dinner. We ended the night with a delicious meal, some rousing conversation about Hillary, Obama, socialized medicine, family politics, high points of the day, low points of the day, and a listing of the funniest moments of the day. Hands down, the phantom croissant shop was the winner for that one.

The Thomas Family Returns To Paris

Leaving Indonesia was a hard thing for me to do. It was such a happy, productive and all-around fulfilling chapter in my life in so many ways. The day before I left, I ended up walking around doing some last-minute shopping and found tears welling up in my eyes whenever a Balinese person would ask me, “Where are you from? Is this your first time to Bali? How long are you staying?”

After finally breaking down in tears, I decided to go to this holistic health center I had noticed when I first arrived and ask them if they knew of a psychic. They recommended someone, and after my massage I jumped in a taxi and was taken to Ketut Liyer. As I walked in and saw “Eat, Pray, Love” on a table next to him, I realize it was THE Ketut from the book.

He told me some very interesting things about my future, and made some surprisingly accurate pronouncements about my past. He knew that I was a writer, and asked me if I was a teacher and said that he saw something regarding teaching in my past. I was there for about an hour and felt much better about everything. I arrived at the wine tasting for the writer’s workshop an hour late but it was worth it. I sat next to an Indian woman about my age and I automatically clicked with her and we ended up hanging out the entire night together, complete with dancing at Jazz Café and then back to Casa Luna for nightcaps and more dancing. It was the perfect night and a good way to say goodbye to Bali -- and I made a new friend.

Made and Badung picked me up the next day, armed with gifts that they had made me. Both of them are woodcarvers and they gave me the most beautiful gifts that they had made themselves. Again, waterworks.

The trip to Paris was a long one, and even worse because I was feeling down about leaving Bali. But so many amazing things await and I realized that I needed to snap out of it. My sisters and my Mom arrived on a plane about an hour after I did and I was waiting for them outside the arrivals gate. By that time, I had already been treated extremely rudely by the person at the airport information desk (why is it that people in customer service jobs are always the rudest people ever?) and so I felt as if I had been initiated – you know you’re in France when someone is extremely rude to you about not speaking the language. Of course, I thought of some choice words for him….about 20 minutes later. It was just so shocking to be treated rudely, after the happy smiles and warm welcomes in Indonesia. Sigh.

It was great to see everyone, though. We jumped in a cab and again, I got a little bit down when I saw the gray, rainy weather of Paris. My spirits were lifted a bit, though, by my Mom’s enthusiastic response to everything: “Look, girls! There’s a French bakery! Look over there, it’s the metro!”

Our hotel is very nice and clean, albeit “cozy.” Paige gets her own room because she earned the nickname “Marching Band,” a few Christmases ago due to her snoring issues, and Cheryl gets her own room because she earned the name “Crackers” that same Christmas because of her fondness for eating crackers in bed in the middle of the night. So that put Whitney (a.k.a. Neene) and I in the same room.

I was a little worried about sharing a room with Neene. Our differences have been well documented in the annals of Thomas history. As we unpacked, we laughed about growing up in the same bedroom in Nebraska. We used to put tape down the middle of the room to divide one side from the other, and the person who went over to the other person’s side was punished severely. I finally moved out when I was about 13 and had talked my Mom and Dad into letting me turn my Dad’s study in the basement into my bedroom. That was one of the happiest days of my young life. I remember Melissa Welch and I listened to my Bon Jovi and Beatles tapes on my peach-colored boom box as we moved the stuff down into my new bedroom. It was dark and damp and horrible -- all of my dreams come true.

Anyway, surprisingly Neene and I are getting along great. After unpacking, we all met up in the lobby and went out to grab lunch at a typically cute French café. My Mom gave us the coolest gifts ever—she went through old photo albums and even old slides of pictures of my family members over the years and their visits to Paris and made us each albums of all of the pictures. My Mom and Dad lived in Germany when my Dad was stationed there as a doctor for the Air Force and they came to Paris a few times. In all of the pictures, my Mom has on the most fabulous 70’s outfits and hairdos and my Dad looks really young, trim, and happy. Then, my grandparents came and visited them a few times in Germany and they all came to Paris together. Again, my Grandma Thomas had the most amazing beehive hairdo I’ve ever seen, complete with amazingly stylish outfits.

My Mom’s father was stationed in Europe during World War II and my Grandma came to visit him, and they met up in Paris and those pictures were probably my favorite in the album my Mom gave us. My grandpa looked so dashing in his uniform, and my Grandma so young, happy, and beautiful in the black and white shots. Then, there were pictures of my Mom from when she came to Paris to meet up with her Bitburg friends for a bike trip about a year after my Dad died. It was a little bit sad to look through these pictures and realize how many people in them are no longer around, and made me realize – as cheesy as it sounds – how lucky I am to be here with my family right now, and to enjoy every minute of it.

We spent the remainder of the day exploring our little neighborhood around the hotel. Just as we were finishing lunch, the sun came out and suddenly everything looked different. The smell of fall is in the air and the leaves are turning different hues of gold. I remembered with some surprise that fall is my favorite season. We had a great afternoon just wandering and it was fun to soak up the rythm of a new place. Although not nearly as laid back as Bali, Paris is definitely more chilled and has a different pace than New York. People here don't seem to be in as big of a rush, and we walked through a park and even though it was mid-day there were many Parisians enjoying the sun and relaxing in the park. At mid-day in NYC the only people in the park are tourists and bums.

Now, I’m back in our tiny little hotel room and ready for bed, although it’s only 8:00 Paris time. I'm pooped. I think it’s going to be a good week.