Adventure

I had a crush on one of my college professors, and when he spent one afternoon talking about a recent trip to France I thought, “Hey, I should go to France and then come back, visit him at office hours, and talk to him about it.”  That’s normal, right? 

That was Friday. Four days later, on Tuesday, I landed at Charles De Gaulle airport, stepped off the plane, grabbed my duffle bag, and passed through customs.   Luckily I had emailed my Belgium friend, Leah, the previous weekend to see if she could meet me.  She said she could only fly in and out the same day but she would love to have dinner.  Well, that was a relief because she was fluent in French and could surely call around during dinner and find me a place to stay for the next six days.   This was the 90’s, pre-9/11, so I remember being shocked that there were military personnel with semi-automatic weapons meandering throughout the terminal.  Anyway, I exited customs all excited to see Leah and have her direct my jet-lagged self to a nice place to eat and a warm bed to sleep in.  Uh oh, no Leah.  Hmmm…maybe I’d get a coffee and wait.  After two hours, still no Leah.  At that point I realized I had to call her.  This doesn’t sound like a big deal, but it really meant I had to exchange some money, go the kiosk, pull out my French dictionary, figure out how to ask for a calling card, find a phone, figure out how to use the phone with the calling card, and then (finally) call Leah’s cell phone.  Well, I did all of that, and a voice told me she was “out of area.”  I waited one more hour and then resigned myself to the fact that I was on my own and completely clueless.  I pulled out my “Lonely Plant Paris” book, looked up the “Hostel” section and whipped out my trusty calling card.  After being hung up on during the fist four calls (I kept calling and asking, “Voulez-vous couchez avec moi?”  It turns out that’s not how you ask for a place to sleep),  I finally called The Woodstock, a hostel that sleeps about two dozen in Montmartre, and an American answered the phone.  Whew!  Well, he told me they had a bed before I even got the chance to mistakenly proposition him.  Task one, complete!  Now I just had to figure out how to get there.

I grabbed an elderly man and asked him, in my pathetic French, to give me directions.  From his reply, I figured out that it was going to take me an airport tram, a commuter train, a Metro (subway), a transfer to another Metro, and then a short walk to finally reach my destination.  Yikes.  Well, I made it all the way until the Metro transfer and gave up.  It was a two-story station, I was completely jet-lagged, and every time I asked for help, all I got in return was this pained, sideways, curious expression in reply.  It was kind of like if you looked at a black lab and whistled at him in just the wrong pitch and volume.  Yeah, that look.  So, I gave up.  I got in a taxi that drove me around for about 30 minutes and finally landed me in front of The Woodstock.  Well, the next morning I realized I had hopped in the cab about a 15-minute walk from the hostel, but I still figured that for the amount of preparation I had done, I’d faired well.  

 When he dropped me off, I checked in, climbed the spiral stairway to my room, climbed into the top bunk, and slept for 12 hours.  The next morning I awoke, met my two roommates (two American guys) climbed down the stairs to breakfast, where I happened to sit with three Australians who lived on the same street I had lived on just three years prior, bought a postcard and mailed it to my professor, and then headed out on my roller blades.  Yep.  I spent the week rollerblading all over Paris and heading to the nearest Metro station any time I got lost.  I’d pick my next destination and just rollerblade around there until the next time I got lost.  On my third night, I agreed to an evening out with my roommates.  We bought baguettes, cheese, and wine, enjoyed it all cross-legged on the floor of our tiny room, and then headed out to the Latin Quarter where we happened upon Le Caveau.  Have you been there? 

It’s this bar with a tiny, rock-walled basement where people line the walls to hear jazz.  Well, the 60-something year-old proprietor of the bar grabbed me and whirled me around the dance floor for a few songs.  I can’t dance at all, but I can drink wine and be whirled off my feet (or I could anyway, before I became a grown-up mother who is too worried about what she might need to get worried about to really let loose enough for whirling).  It was quite a night.  When we got back to the hostel, I told one of my roomies, Job, that I loved his shirt.  It was a button-down red linen top.  He thanked me.  I knew that, after six months of traveling, he was returning to the states the next day.  Well, the next morning, I woke to find the shirt in my duffle.  (I know you are thinking now that I smooched him, but I swear I didn’t.)  I still find that very touching.  I spent the next couple of days checking out museums and art galleries.  Dad was a little surprised when I called him from Le Pompidou to say, “Hey, Dad!  I just found an art museum you would LOVE!”  He was paying my way through school and assumed I was still in Boston.  Uh, oops.

Anyway, it was a great adventure.  I made it back alive.  I had one hot date with my professor.  We talked all about Paris, and it was absolutely magical until he happened to mention his…..wife?  DATE OVER.

Why am I thinking about this right now?  Well, for one thing, I have a sick toddler.  I have cabin fever like you can hardly imagine.  If I felt like this fifteen years ago, I’d be on the next flight to wherever they were flying as long as they were leaving within the next ten minutes.  Now, it’s not really so much of an option, but I absolutely had to flee and get to somewhere, anywhere!  Get me out!  One guess where we ended up?  Yep, of course; you nailed it.  Target.  We bought finger paints, band-aids, and children’s Advil.  Mommy called the cops on someone for leaving their dog in the car, with the windows up, on a Texas August day, and then we headed back home.  I have moments where I miss those grand adventures from my 20’s.  Of course I do.  I miss them so much it hurts.  But then my three year-old stumbles out of his bed in the middle of the night, grabs my arm and asks, “Mama, will you lie down with me?”  So I climb into his tiny toddler bed, spoon him, and realize, this is the best adventure of my life, and we’re just getting started.  Yep, it’s a pretty good gig.