December 01, 2004
11-21-04My father picked up John and I from my apartment at 12:30 p.m. to take us to the airport. Because of our Chicago trip the day before, my mother was not in attendance but a big bag of freshly baked chocolate chips cookies took her place with a loving note attached which provoked a small round of tears from yours truly. I was extremely nervous, smoking cigarette after cigarette in my father's gold Ford Escape, watching the scenery of Milwaukee pass by.
We checked in at the airport, where John proudly proclaimed this to be my first trip out of the country, received our tickets and met my father upstairs by the departure/arrival monitors. He offered to buy us a beer and some lunch at the restaurant and we chugged down a few Amstels while watching football. At 2:30 p.m., we all headed down to Concourse E where tears immediately began to flood my eyes. I embraced my father as John began to pull on my arm insisting that we shove off. I handed the security guard my boarding pass along with my passport as he handed me a few tissues for my still flowing tears. I swept through security, reclaimed my baggage and watched on as John was pulled aside for a thorough security check. This simply provided more time for me to glance woefully at my father, cry harder and become the sole recipient of a box full of tissues from another empathetic security guard. I waved to my father one last time before turning around and heading to Gate 68, where John did his best to console my fearful heart. Other passengers looked on as I soaked one tissue and another, most likely wondering what the big deal could be in flying to Detroit...
The Detroit airport was beautiful with a large fountain and water show in the midst of all the chaotic travelers. It was the perfect sort of display which would calm the hearts of expectant persons such as myself. I wandered back and forth around the pool of water, preparing for my eight hours of sedentary travel, as the liquid streams passed over one another in dazzling, dancing form. We departed Detroit at 7:05 p.m. on a large 330 Northwest Airliner which seated 300 passengers and held rows in a 'two-four-two' arrangement. I was amazed at the size and space about the aisles, the small televisions placed on the back of every seat and the colorful variety of fellow passengers stowing their carry on luggage to the above compartments. Our only baggage for the trip was three carry on pieces which we placed accordingly, less the bag in which I carried my mother's chocolate chip cookies. We were not off the ground before finishing at least three a piece and offering our treasure to one of the flight attendants (to my relief, he passed).
John prepared me for the flight by instructing that I remove my shoes and thus I settled into my seat, selected a movie based on its location in Paris and New York and nervously contemplated this 4,000 mile journey. A detailed map on a large sized screen in the middle of the aircraft displayed our present location, our currenent altitude and I became increasingly worried as we traveled over the Atlantic ocean. I checked the red cord located at the bottom of my seat which is used as a floatation device and went through the often ignored card with instructions in case of an emergency. I watched John as he dozed on and off, commented on this and that and thoroughly enjoyed our large in flight meals. During our dinner, John and I indulged in a white wine before witnessing the full bellied passengers spend the next couple of hours in complete repose. John walked around the plane and yet, during the entire flight, I was staid in my seat. With so many people, it was a long wait to exit the plane and thus we began talking to the Marine seated behind us. He was connecting to another flight, heading to Iraq and labelled it as his "President Bush World Tour," to which we all, with a shot of apprehension, laughed.
11-22-04
At 9:00 a.m. local time, we arrived at Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam. We glided through customs, to my surprise, where I received my first stamp in my passport and we then immediately headed for the bathrooms in the town like airport where I brushed my teeth and washed my face. As I guarded the bags and waited for John to take his turn, I noticed the company around me drinking their little cups of Expresso with tiny silver spoons and smoking their Marlboro Reds while chattering in a variety of languages. Voices drifted toward me in English, French and what I perceived to be Dutch. Before I could inhale the magnitude of my surroundings, John swept me outside into 50 degree, mostly cloudy and windy weather where we indulged in our first cigarettes. My eyes widened at the professionally dressed men - all in suits covered by long, expensive coats and scarves, waiting patiently in a single filed, snaking line for the next available taxi. The line of persons extended yards and yards without an ounce of underlying chaos, such as one would surely see in the States.
We journeyed back into the mall like airport and John instructed me to make my first purchase of Dutch fries with a dollop of mayo. I found a five Euro piece in my pocket, ordered a small serving of fries with mayo and received a paper cone filled with my first European treat. We sat in the middle of a dozen little shops and watched security guards pass with machine guns strapped to their backs, women noisely tapping their high heels with echoes on the aisle and the plethora of cellphones attatched to a plethora of ears. We had a long wait until the arrival of our train to Paris at 1:15 p.m., but John dutifully employed my time with various activites of having me purchase this and that and conversation over every little thing easily formed. I inquired as to the location of our train and we rested as I became a bit dizzy before departing. John reached into his bag and sweetly produced a small bag of cashews, which he knew to be my favorite, on which we leisurely dined at the station platform.
The train arrived. Our second class seats were on a fast metro where we fell in and out of sleep all the way through Holland and France. I watched the scenery pass as we neared France on this three hour trip and noted the many water channels placed in huge fields where boats were gliding by. The large majority of animals found on these farms were goats and a few of the pastures held horses that grazed with large blankets on their backs. I imagined them to be found on the race tracks during the weekends and thought of Hemingway's addiction to such betting. The old barns in these fields were very short with wide bases and long roofs and seemed neatly placed at large distances from the farm houses. I listened to the announcements in the train, first in Dutch, then French and finally English before each stop. During one stop, a French speaking couple boarded the train and I listened gleefully as he quietly repeated, "Voila!" to his wife while stowing a significant number of her shopping bags above our heads. I peered over the seat to watch him read his Le Figaro newspaper.
The fifth time I pulled on John's arm to wake him and inquire if we were yet in Paris proved to be successful. It was after 4:00 p.m. and I was in absolute awe as we exited the train at Gare du Nord in Montmarte. The magnificent height of the station and the architecture was enough to set me in frantic spins as we walked the length of the train to the station. John set his bags near a snack machine to use the coin operated WCs as I stood stoically in wide eyed wonder. I was intimidated, tired and unable to take everything in and thus passed on attempting to use these bathrooms myself. We asked a security guard who spoke very little English as to the direction of the Eiffel Tower, as this would lead us toward our hotel, and he was shocked that we wanted to travel a pie, stating that it would be too far. But we persisted and he lended us a few general directions.
As we walked through the exit of the station, I felt as though I had just been violently spilled onto the streets of Paris. It was dark and had begun to rain, my bags grew heavy and I could not see enough of the beauty that surrounded me on the crowded boulevard. We wandered for awhile, unsure of our location and finally decided to sit at the nearest cafe. My first cafe - Au Bouquet du Nord on 85 rue de Maubege - where we sat inside a clear, lamp heated canopy area with small round tables and upright chairs. A waiter greeted us almost immediately and John requested two beers while we removed our bags from our backs. I lit two cigarettes and received our two Jenlains with a smile and a 'merci'. John pointed out the crowd of people passing by as I looked on stupidly. The coupling of such admiration for my arrival in Paris and the overwhelming weariness that engulfed my entirety was nearly too much. I wanted show John my excitement and appreciation as opposed to my drooping eyes and languid speech, but could not give full value to my extreme enthusiasm.
With anticipation, I rose and not so boldly walked inside. I requested two more beers and inquired of the toilette with success. It was down a small stepped, winding set of stairs and in a very small room next to the telephone that promoted the entire idea of claustrophobia. After five minutes of desperatation in locating a light switch, I finished my business just as the light went back out. I scrambled to find it again and searched for the flusher for another five minutes. A small round indent on the top of the toilet was my only clue and I pushed it gingerally as the water was sucked quickly down the bowl. I grabbed a handful of the pink toilet paper to bring back to John as I knew he would be needing to blow nose and because I was 'tickled pink' by its color. I was in awe at my first Paris restroom...
*** To be Continued...