Swimming with the Fishes

Sarah and I have reached a draw in our butt-bruises contest: her bruises are far, far more impressive than mine are, and will likely remain a part of her life long after the sunburns fade. Mine are less scary, but I broke my tailbone, according to the resort’s nurse-on-site, so it’s like comparing apples to oranges, or something. We both have a lot of whimpering and squirming, but it’s all for a good cause.

Mary is considerably less bruised, seeing as how she did not leap off any cliffs in the recent past, but she makes up for it by being smugly smarter than us for not having leapt off any cliffs in the recent past. It all balances out in the end. (Hah, the end, get it? I slay me.)

The original theory was that we would have lots of time on Sunday morning, to have a leisurely breakfast, do a little snorkeling, get packed up, check out of the hotel and be on our way around the island to Ocho Rios, where we were scheduled to swim with dolphins. To quote the Jamaicans, “No problem.”

Of course I knit. But not very much.

Then the reality dawned: my mother and sisters, to balance out for their myriad gifts and brilliance, have, how do you say, a bit of a challenge with the concept of packing quickly. Less leisure, and less snorkeling, but we were in the car and on the (left side of the) road in good time. I got to drive this time, and I can say with confidence that the weirdness of driving on the left side of the road wears off much faster than the weirdness of riding on the left side of the car.

Did I mention the goats?

We arrived at Dolphin Cove in Ocho Rios after a wee bit of lostness – we drove right past it; it’s simply not well-marked. We had a bit of time before our appointment with the big fish, and Mary wanted to go snorkeling, so we headed into the ray area and got ready to snorkel. I got the mask, got the lifejacket, put everything in its proper place, got ready to place my face in the water… and promptly had a right and proper panic attack. Seriously, not a pretty thing; if they hadn’t let me go to the ladder and get out early, I’d have levitated. It was amazing; I had no idea I would panic like that. I can swim underwater, can put my face under, can even deal with sharing the water with creatures large enough to double as afghans on a cold winter’s night, but I could not – could not – put my face underwater while wearing the snorkel mask setup. I’ve never had quite that effective a freakout. So the girls and my mom snorkeled, and I paced and breathed slowly on the dock.

But then, swimming with dolphins? Awesome and fun. You’ll have to check back in a few weeks; I don’t have any photos, but the Dolphin Cove staff helpfully videotaped the whole thing and sold it back to us for a billion dollars, so once I get a copy of that I can probably post snippets of it. Sarah did not lose her bathing suit bottom, or her top… but she threatened to do both, at separate times.

Better pictures to follow... I was in the water with the dolphins, so we paid ridiculous amounts for the DVD made by the Dolphin Cove staff.

Speaking of which, have I mentioned that once again, I was the largest of a group of four women, and therefore was rendered effectively invisible for most of the trip? Sarah got two separate marriage proposals while we were in Jamaica; I’m not entirely certain they were kidding. I got to hold the camera.

Anyway, after that, we dried off. Then we drove to Kingston.

Hah, those five little words, they don’t sound too intimidating, do they? But we were driving through rain forest and mountains, on the left side of the road. On roads that were no more than 11 feet wide. Very exciting stuff, and my mother did a fantastic job driving. I’m certain I could have handled the driving, but I’m not certain I could have handled her anxiety while doing so… she’s not known to be the most calm of passengers under normal circumstances, and this was decidedly not normal. One of us would have ended up pitched over a cliff in rural Jamaica if I’d been behind the wheel, and I’m not quite sure who it would have been.

We made it to Kingston, a terrifying experience all by itself. The road that takes you to the outskirts of town is a wide, four-lane toll road; it dumps you off into a narrow, poorly lit inner city area in which prostitution and active, in-the-moment drug use happen on the sidewalk as you drive by. I haven’t spent a lot of time in my life being an obvious, physical minority, and it created senses of both self-consciousness and acute fear. I was very aware that we were four white women, in a nice (by comparison) car, with all of our possessions and money and identification in one place.

We made it to the airport, checked in the rental car, and asked the lot attendant to get us a taxi to bring us to our hotel. The Sheraton. “No,” he said.

Excuse me?

“There is no Sheraton here.”

Hmm.

I checked the printed confirmation page that my mother had carfeully carried throughout the trip. Sure enough: Kingston.

Kingston, ONTARIO.

Oh, my, yes.

It all worked out in the end. We weren’t able to get on an earlier flight, since our 6:40 a.m. flight was the next one to leave the island. But we found a room in the Hilton, the only chain hotel in Kingston with available rooms. It was overpriced but safe and not scary, and we made it back to the airport in plenty of time the next morning.

The flights home were thankfully uneventful, and I had a lovely reunion with my kids and husband.

And there were two feet of snow waiting in my front yard. Perhaps we came home a bit early…

…if You Know What I Mean.

I think that, with time, yesterday is going to rank up there as one of the best days of my life. Not the best, of course, having given birth and gotten married, but pretty freaking amazing.

We started the day with what has already become a routine: breakfast at the buffet, time wading and sitting out by the water. I’m still sunburned like crazy, so there’s no more lie-in-the-sun time for me, but I’m perfectly content with some good lie-near-the-sun time.

Then around 11:00 we met in the lobby for our scheduled trip into Montego Bay – MoBay, to locals – for parasailing. Which is an amazing, mind-blowing, quiet, peaceful, exciting, fun time, and I’d go again in a heartbeat if someone let me. It was gentle enough that Mary was able to do it; you get the big harness on and just sit on the deck, and they let the rope out slowly so you float up into the air. We were on a 400-foot line, which could have been anywhere from 20 to 2,000 feet for all my holy-crap brain was able to judge. Turns out my height perception is not very good. This figures prominently in my day later on.

The four of us spent an hour or so parasailing, and our tour guides were Bruce and Miguel. Bruce is a dancing man who wears shorts and nothing else – really, nothing else – to work. Miguel is quieter and owns at least one white t-shirt. The Jamaicans are, in vast majority, a friendly and helpful bunch. I’m sure some of that is because their primary source of revenue is tourism and only the French seem to be able to get away with a successful tourism industry founded on disdain and poor service. I’m sure it’s also because they live in an incredibly gorgeous place, so even if it’s a bit in disrepair and falling apart at certain seams, the ocean is always just a few miles away.

We went directly from the pier to the airport, to pick up the rental car. I haven’t yet had the pleasure of driving on the left side of the road, since my mother did the driving yesterday, but I tell you what: sitting on the left side without a steering wheel is weird, weird stuff. It’s almost like being in a Disney ride all over again, except without the sense that they won’t kill you midway through.

After my mother and Sarah got their massages on the beach, we packed up and piled into the car for a two-hour drive around to Negril, where Rick’s Café is located. Rick’s is famous for its laid-back bar scene, its Plantars Punch and Sex with Rick (a bit like sex on the beach, but so much better), and its cliffs. That you jump off. And land in the ocean.

Rather than letting ourselves get psyched up about it any more, spending too much time thinking and talking ourselves out of it, Sarah and I immediately stripped to our bathing suits and, well, jumped.

Sarah was almost smart enough to back out of it, graciously allowing Kate to go first.

Forty feet is a long, long way to fall. Four stories. You have time to think:

Oh.

My.

God.

I’m.

Still.

Falling.

Sarah answers the age-old question, "If your sister jumped off a cliff, would you do it to?" Affirmative.

And when you hit the water, it’s hard and cold and you are instantly ten feet under. You’re deep enough that the water actually looks blue, not like looking up from the bottom of a swimming pool where it’s clear because the blue color comes from the nice, safe, civilized pool liner. The first instinct is, “Ow.” Because you get a wedgie with your bathing suit so fierce that you’ve effectively removed the need to go to the dentist for the rest of the year, seeing as how you just flossed your back teeth from the bottom up. The second instinct is, “Up,” because it takes a while to find air again. Then you have to battle that ongoing “Ow” instinct to get to the narrow and steep ladder to get out of the water, but you have to smile and act like you don’t have an increasing agony spreading outward from your rear end because of the cameras and traveling companions.

The remainder of our trip will be punctuated by Sarah and me making whimpers and moans because we have dark purple bruises in various large areas from the back of the knee to the lower back. My tailbone is also sending out sharp pain, and I’m fairly sure I chipped it in some way. Ah, well. The price for awesomeness; I will not do it again, but I’m thrilled to bits that I made it all the way to Jamaica, survived a hair-raising and goat-intensive drive there (which quickly devolved into an ongoing game of inserting the word “goat” into proverbs and sayings, such as, “I regret that I have but one goat to give for my country,” “Carpe goat,” and “Another one bites the goat,” and then occasionally throwing in a pithy little, “If you know what I mean,” and somehow this was the height of hilarity for hours yesterday), and then threw myself off a cliff.

Would I do it again? All but that last bit, in a heartbeat. And even though I won’t be jumping off a cliff again, I made the right choice in the moment yesterday. No matter what my butt says.

I Have Found the Secret to Happiness

…and it is clean underwear.

At about 2:00 this afternoon, I got a wonderful phone call. “We haff found your bags, miss. We are driving them from Kingston to MoBay. You should get them around five o’clock.”

We didn’t get them until almost 7:00, but this is a small tree in the larger forest that is filled with clean clothes and toiletries.

Oh, my goodness, having more than two choices of clothing (one set purchased for approximately a billion dollars in the hotel gift shop) and toothpaste is a wonderful thing. As are readily available meals and drinks of all sorts, there for the asking as long as you have a snazzy yellow wristband.

I don't think we're in Kansas anymore... or Boston, either.

We ended up with a first floor room. In most circumstances, this would make me nervous – less safe from wandering nefarious people and aggressive crabs – but first off all, it’s really cool to be able to walk directly to the Caribbean, and secondly, the door weighs approximately six hundred pounds. Even the crabs aren’t that aggressive.

The day began with breakfast and a walk on the beach, and progressed to a flurry of reservations: massages on the beach – remember that massage tent I mentioned? – today, parasailing and cliff diving tomorrow (with copious amounts of rum consumption before the latter), and swimming with dolphins on Sunday. Expensive dolphins, and I’ll have to cram in a few extra overtime shifts to assuage the guilt of that, but it’s swimming with dolphins. On Easter. Halleluia.

From there, we had some beach time…

...some trips on a much-faster-than-it-looks catamaran…

...some sunburn (turns out, the tropical sun is different from the New Hampshire winter sun, and after 40 minutes of exposure I glow in the dark)…

It has been a vastly, infinitely better day than yesterday.

And my underwear is clean. Bliss.

It was a full moon that second night... apparently a full moon in Jamaica brings much better luck than the day-before-a-full-moon.

Welcome to Jamaica... Have a Long Day

Note: I didn't have Internet access in Jamaica, or to be precise wasn't willing to pay $10+ a day for the privilege when I was on vacation, but I did bring my laptop and kept a running "blog" in Word. I'll post one day at a time, so you can pretend along with me that I'm still there a bit longer, instead of back to work in less than 12 hours.

---

According to the hotel clock, it’s 8:44 p.m. According to my internal clock, it’s about midnight. Of tomorrow.

It’s been a very long day.

Any day in which you deliberately set the alarm for 4:00 a.m. is destined to be a long one, but one might expect a destination of Jamaica to cure a lot of the yawns and lethargy associated with the day. There comes a point, though, where enough hassle and ridiculousness balances out even the nicest carrot at the end of that string.

The angst started early. In theory, we were to have the alarm go off at 4:00, with a backup call from the front desk at 4:15, to allow us to hop up, get on our clothes, and climb into the shuttle to the airport. In reality, the alarm went off at 4:00, and some combination of my young and lovely sisters beat it into submission and promptly fell back asleep. I didn’t hear the alarm, but the resulting flurry must have registered on some level, because at 4:08 I sat up, grabbed my glasses, and squinted blearily at the clock. By 4:35 we were, indeed, all on the shuttle – a good thing, because the next shuttle didn’t leave until 5:30, which is cutting it a bit close for a 6:45 international flight. It required me scurrying down to the lobby ahead of the group, throwing my bag in the back and begging the driver to wait “just another minute.” He did.

We stood in long lines for security, as was expected, and made it to the gate with a comfortable margin. This turned out to be a rare and precious experience.

That first flight left about 25 minutes late. Since we were originally scheduled to have a 45-minute layover in Miami, the margin suddenly became too close for comfort. I paged a stewardess – sorry, airline customer service technician, or whatever the politically polite term is – who dragged herself to my side as though I had asked her to walk barefoot from Siberia, and asked what we should do, since our connection time was so tight and we were traveling with Mary, a young lady not known for her catlike speed and reflexes.

“Well, a lot of people have connections to make. Don’t worry about it,” was the helpful reply. When I explained that I was a lot more concerned about no one getting hurt in the process, she laughed at me. Literally, “Ha, ha, ha, ha,” and walked away. I was less than impressed.

Then they forgot to have a wheelchair waiting for us at the gate, so there was a delay waiting for that. We followed a helpful and very speedy man through the airport, fast enough that Mary got a slight case of windburn on her face, and made it to the gate just in time to watch them close and lock the door. Fabulous.

We were reassigned to another flight, and were told to hurry; it was now 10:55 and the flight took off at 11:30. In the five minutes it took to get new boarding passes, Mary and Sarah left to find a bathroom, and someone wandered off with the wheelchair. We couldn’t get another one – apparently they’re a hot commodity in Miami, I shudder to think of the black market – so I ended up carrying her on my back and running. You try running with someone on your back without jostling their head enough to bounce it down onto the ground and through the terminal. Especially down a moving escalator. Mary loved that part.

Midway to the new gate – which, of course, was back near the original gate, about a 10-minute walk from the second failed attempt – we managed to hitch a ride with a friendly neighborhood golf cart, and breathlessly made it to the gate by 11:15… only to be informed that, no, no, the flight doesn’t depart at 11:30, it merely starts boarding then.

I didn’t kill anyone today. I just want that stated for the record.

So we had a few minutes in Miami to sit and wait, which was probably a good thing. The flight to Kingston was uneventful, as long as you don’t consider my neighbor’s unbelievable foot odor to be an event, and if the day had ended there I’d be a much happier individual right now.

Instead, we still had yet one more plane to catch, because we’re spending the first three days of our vacation on the other side of the island, in Montego Bay. So the plan was to rush to baggage claim, grab our bags, hurry through customs and catch the next flight.

Instead, all we did was the first and last steps there. Because the airline – wait for it – Lost Our Luggage. Oh, I’m barely able to type it out, what with the wiggles of sheer delight.

Then we left through the wrong door, and had to go all the way back through the long security line again to get to the last plane.

I’m not sure at precisely which point my spirit broke, but it was sometime in there. I know this because once we were finally, frantically seated in the last plane of the day, we were asked to once again fill out immigration and customs forms. I was seated next to a pilot from the airline we’d been using all day – not to name names, but let’s just say that after this trip, I’ll never again offer money and time to anything rhyming with Schmamerican Schmairlines. He decided to helpfully pipe up and tell me how to fill out the form, not knowing it was my second time in the past few hours. First I snapped at him, and then I tried to recount the events of the day and I got all teary-eyed and choked up (very not me). I informed him, “I have had a truly terrible day, and you can’t help that. Please don’t try.” I have to give him credit for knowing when to shut up.

I can’t say the same for the three-year-old a few rows up. That child has lungs, and knows how to use them. Endlessly. At top volume. Those poor parents. There was a moment of hilarity after we got off the plane and were headed out: a young woman came sprinting past us toward Customs, just as the lung-intensive creature reached the large, high-ceilinged hallway perfectly designed to maximize volume and echoes. I expressed sympathy for both child and parents; Sarah thought that the woman who'd just run frantically past us was probably the mother. It's less funny in print, but in the moment it was a rare smile on a difficult day.

Finally, finally, we made it to Montego Bay, and the day stopped being so incredibly, inexcusably screwed up. We found our ride to the hotel, as promised, with minimal fuss, and were able to check in with one small blip, only noticeable because it was just one more thing in an already endless day, when they wanted to charge Mary adult rates but not let her wear the adult wristband for food and drink. My mother negotiated it, and we have a room.

It’s a small room, less ornate and well-appointed even than the one I shared with Willem and the kids in Florida, but it’s on the first floor, and if I open the sliding glass, I can be in the Caribbean Sea in 34 steps. There’s a massage tent just a few steps to the left. They have constantly-running slushie machines filled with pina coladas and strawberry daiquiris, and it turns out that I quite enjoy the taste of locally made Jamaican rum in said refreshments.

It will all be OK. In theory, they will get our luggage here on a subsequent flight and deliver it to the hotel. Even if that doesn’t happen, I found a wildly overpriced sun dress and flip-flops in the gift shop, and can wear clean clothes tomorrow. When I get a massage, and go wading, and just lie in the sun for a bit.

Tap, Tap... Is This Thing On?

Hey, guess what? We're escaping from the country once again!

This time, we're headed to Jamaica. Mon.

We're leaving Thursday morning. Eeeeeaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrlllllyyyyy Thursday morning. Staying in Montego Bay, on an all-inclusive resort. I fully recognize just how spoiled this makes us.

With a little luck, we'll have Internet access and be able to post from the trip. If not, I'll keep a journal on my computer and will post it after the fact.

Stay tuned...

Our Apartment

I forgot, I'd taken these photos on our way out the door on our last day in Paris... it's already starting to fade into memory, no longer feeling like "I was just there." Which is a little sad, but I'm still just so thrilled that we went. What a gift for us all.

Sigh.

Anyway. Our digs in Paris... small, but it certainly met our needs! It was called Citea la Villette, on the avenue Courentin Cariou, in the 19th arrondissement... which means it was in the northeast corner of the city, toward the end of Line 7 on the Metro.

Sigh.






Seeing as how we were in room 610 (which places us on what Americans would call the 7th floor), we had to use an elevator to get there. And in France, elevators close With Authority, and they don't need no stinkin' sensors to protect your pathetic touristy little arms and legs (and heads) from sudden closings. We learned how to scamper on and off with very little practice.


Okay.

Sigh.

I'll be off having some nostalgia. Anyone up for a quick trip to France?

My Shutter Finger is Tired

One last day of Paris photos... and we took a lot of them.

On Friday, we crammed a LOT in:
A morning revisit to the Louvre...




...an ascent of the bell towers of Notre Dame...





...and then a stroll through the church proper...



...a visit to the Crypte Archeologique under Notre Dame...


...a peek at the Conciergerie, an ancient prison...


...a wander along the Seine...



...and a visit to the Eiffel Tower (where, you'll notice, it rained, thereby rounding out our week such that the only day it didn't rain during our vacation was the day when we were too jet-lagged and incoherent to appreciate it)...






...but we did get a rainbow out of the deal.


And, c'est tout!

What's that? You're disappointed that there will be no more Paris photos? Yeah, me too. A little. Though a week of heavy-duty walking and exploring and seeing and absorbing and wrestling with an increasingly bulky wheelchair has effectively worn me out, and if we had stayed in Paris longer, I think the photos from yesterday would have involved a lot of naps and watching TV. You have to rest and refuel at some point, you know?

But instead of taking a day off in Paris, we came home. The flight was long - eight hours - and the landing was exciting, with potential smoke from the right engine and then getting towed to the actual gate, but we all survived intact so we're just going to pretend it was just mist from the New Jersey rain, okay?

Okay.

We were all heavily jet-lagged upon our return, enough to miss Route 24 in Jersey and to take the slightly longer way up - but that gave me the opportunity to call the lovely Lisa and warn her that we were in the neighborhood. She is the mother of a toddler and a newborn, so of course I would never be so sadistic as to pop in unannounced - it was bad enough for me to call during that 7:00-ish hour after dinner and before bedtime when chaos abounds, but she'll probably forgive me - but it was nice to be able to call and hear a familiar, non-French voice upon my return.

My mother and I stayed awake for the drive back to New York - which is particularly handy for her, seeing as how she was driving - and now I'm just finishing up with the copying and transferring of photos to her computer before I get on the road to head home for real. I have a few stops to make, so it'll take me a while... but I'll get hugs from my kids tonight.

I'm not quite done with this blog just yet - there will be film-photos, as yet to be developed, from the disposable and 35mm cameras that my mother and sisters brought with them. Once I get copies, I'll scan in a few and post.

In the meantime, I'll be over at my regularly scheduled blog. If you don't know its address, just drop me a quick line - kate2kids@gmail.com - and I'll happily share it.

Thinkers

At Versailles, there is a bust of Rene Descartes. Which reminds us of one of our favorite jokes:

Descartes walks into a bar. The bartender says, "Can I get you a drink?"
Descartes says, "I think not," and promptly disappears.

Thus, we took a moment to think with Descartes.

You'll Just Have to Wait...

...for pictures and stories from today. It's after midnight, we just barely got back from dinner. I'm super-ultra-mega tired. We saw Notre Dame today - do you have any idea how many stairs there are between me and the bell tower?

376. I counted on the way down.

But, good views, and I'm glad we did it. My feet aren't glad yet.

We also visited the Crypte Archelogique under Notre Dame, the Conciergerie prison, and the Eiffel Tower. And three different places for dinner before we ended up at the same place we ate last night - the first place ignored us for half an hour (apparently my ability to repel French waiters is growing), the second place had almost no food left, and by then we were starving so we just returned to last night's place and it was just as good tonight.

So, I'm tired. Will gather my thoughts and post tomorrow from my mother's house, if I'm able - otherwise, Sunday night, I'll be home.

I Threw My Sister off a Train

We took plenty of pictures today, at the Louvre and then at Versailles, but I don't feel like posting many... I'm tired and it's almost midnight again, and tomorrow is our last full day in Paris. So, bedtime soon.

But, the Louvre (not a lot of areas where you're allowed to take photos there, and boy are they militant about it):




And Versailles:



And proof that the sun did shine, at least once, while we were in Paris:



Gorgeous, both places. Of course.

And the train thing? One of the highlights of my life to date. We had to take a commuter train to Versailles, which are a bit different from the Metro trains - more expensive, smoother ride, two levels on each car. On the ride back, we sat on the lower level, and given Mary's tendency to sway in a stiff breeze, we need to keep her seated until the train comes to a complete stop. We're not big fans of prying her out from underneath the seat in front, you know?

So, we're not standing right there at the door the moment the train stops, but that hasn't been a problem. Except, this time, we had to maneuver some stairs - never an easy proposition for Mary, and then add to it the fact that a crazy lady (this is my professional opinion) was sitting next to the stairs and flatly refused to move her big bulky shoulder bag off the stairs, and it became quite the obstacle course, first for my mother carrying the wheelchair, then for Mary and me.

So we were rushing the best we could, and my mother and Sarah made it off the train without incident - and then the doors SLAMMED shut just as Mary was about to step off. We're in a country in which the elevators have neither visual nor pressure sensors to prevent foot-pinching and hand-crushing, so there's no reason to expect the doors of the train to be any gentler. At first, we were prepared to just go on to the next stop and then figure out a way to get back - these commuter trains run every half-hour, so just waiting for the next train wouldn't work - but then some random hero came along and pried the doors apart with his bare hands. This allowed me to pick up Mary under her arms and physically lift her out and onto the platform, then squeeze myself out the doors right behind.

We all started walking toward the exit, and I hadn't had lunch - that's another story - and was travel-weary with sore feet, so it took several minutes before I suddenly realized... "Mary," I said, "Did I just throw you off a train?"

She agreed that, yes, I did. And remarked that this was not normally the kind of situation around which there is any ambiguity.

So, that was fun. Especially since we all survived it without injury.

As for the no-lunch thing... first the waiter corrected my French when I inaccurately requested water, and then he didn't bring me my sandwich, marking the third time this week that only my meal was incorrect or flat-out missing. Clearly, being the largest one in the group leads them to believe I could stand to skip a few meals. Perhaps if I carried around a sign advertising my weight loss? Anyway, so, I had about four bites of Mary's sandwich then, and by 9:00 at night, when we finally were seated at a restaurant, I was ravenous.

But we ate, and ate well, and now I am calm and happy.

I Saw Dead People

We got off to a late start this morning... I can't decide if I'm sleeping late because of ongoing jet lag, increased physical activity every day, or a certain glee in knowing my children are waking someone else up at ungodly hours every morning. I miss my kids deeply, and I miss my husband like crazy, and 90% of my time I wish they were here with me. But from about 7:00-9:00 in the morning, I'm kind of enjoying my lack of parental responsibilities.

Once we were finally up and about, we planned to go to Versailles - but we didn't have the right Metro tickets and I was cranky and harassed and didn't want to wait the half hour for the next train to arrive, so we postponed that. Tomorrow, I think.

Instead, we went to the Catacombs, which involved a certain amount of arguing and near-tantrum-throwing between myself and a concerned, well-intentioned, misguided Frenchman who did not believe Mary was capable of getting herself through. And my comment that we would be happy to drag her by the hair if we needed to seemed largely unappreciated. But eventually we won our argument - Mary does a really, really good big-eyed pathetic woe-is-me look, I need to have her in the car if I'm ever pulled over for speeding - and headed down. 180-some steps down, over 500 meters on uneven surfaces underground, and 100-odd steps back up - Mary made it the whole way, and was a real trouper throughout. I'm pretty proud of her.


The Catacombs, you ask? Yes, they are just as creepy and macabre as one might expect. My mother is not sad to have missed that bit. But they're also impressive, and of course in my psychologist sort of way I can't help but wonder, what does it take for someone to conceive of such a project in the first place, and then why on earth could they not have stopped in a less excessive manner? There are literally millions of human remains organized into hallways and artwork; when I saw the word "millions" on the brochure at the entrance, I was skeptical, given the slight propensity for French enthusiasm. But, yes, really, millions. I didn't count - couldn't have if I'd wanted to - but it was endless, and the public isn't allowed into all of the areas. Crazy, really. Worth the time, just to see that the human mind really does have an endless capacity for obsessions when it wants to.


From there, we were off to Sacre Coeur, where there are les funiculaires, sort of an elevator/ski-lift contraption to take you to the top of the very steep Montmartre. Except it was out of order, so instead we got to ride on shuttle buses driven by individuals whose regard for human life is considerably less heightened than my own. Their need for speed was constant, and in fact was fulfilled - on busy, crowded city streets they were reaching 90 kph. I know because my eyes would get bigger with each passing mark on the spedometer. And then they would brake VERY ABRUPTLY at any given stop light. I know because I have two big, dark bruises on my thigh (no, I will not take a picture, and you are welcome) that precisely match two of the corners on the ticket-collection device. The very sharp, metal, rectangular, angry ticket-collection device.

Mary was brave (stupid? Nahh... brave) enough to relax on the return shuttle. She seriously did work hard today; she is not normally a napper. Especially under life-threatening circumstances.


But the church, and the view, are gorgeous. Again, worth the visit. Especially because the hill and the turns are so steep that you barely glimpse the view until, BANG, it's all there, laid out before you.







We had dinner at L'Hippo, a local chain-type establishment... nicer than Applebee's, think more along the lines of Legal Seafoods or Vinnie Testa's, those of you in the New England area. My sisters were enthralled by L'Hippo himself, so we went, even though they advertised "American style food." Well, it was not American-style, it was much better than that, and we overate terribly.

And now we're back at the apartment. Sarah had some serious, studious research to do on the computer tonight - she had to find a pattern for her new yarn - and so I didn't get on the computer until late. I swore I was going to bed early... and then my mom came back from Marseilles and asked me to upload her photos so she could empty her camera (with a shout-out to Calvin for the loan!), and how could I only look at one set of photos from the day?? This traveling with a digital camera is dangerous, sleepwise...

So, here's a few from my mother's trip southward... she did, indeed, rejoin us, instead of running away to the Mediterranean forever. I'm not actually sure why, now that I think of it.

Knitting in Paris

Yes, indeed, Sarah and I have spent much of our time in the Metro knitting. And, yes, Gretchen... mine is socks. Sarah's... I'm not really sure. Maybe legwarmers? Or very enthusiastic '80s-style slouch socks, which would have their own charm.

Anyway, I find it very interesting that apparently knitting is something done only behind closed doors in Paris. People on the subway - especially men - watch us warily, as though any minute we're going to stand up and stab our neighbor in four different orifices at once. Women are a little more relaxed about it, but still openly fascinated. And I think Sarah scarred a poor girl for life yesterday, by knitting a 10cmx10cm swatch of her new yarn (for which the onlooker smiled and watched intently) and then pulling it out to use in her intended project (for which the French girl was just appalled, as though Sarah had just sliced the head off a baby squirrel).

So, we're spreading a little culture to the town at the same time that the town gets its culture all over us. We're starting to think about bringing a hat (maybe a knitted one?) to pass around for donations after each knitting display, in the manner that people ride the subways and sing or play instruments and then ask for money.

a yarn of wax and books

So today we checked out the musee grenvin : the wax museum, in the morning. There I had a chance to slap Jackie Chan around....


catch up with Sean and Julia...


and watch Sarah nearly get her head lopped off...


It was pretty neat. Some of the figures were very obviously wax, while others were so real-looking as to be creepy.

After that we looked around the book markets on the Seine and we each got paintings at this place:
(if you look at the left, you can see the artist.) Then we stopped at a book store before heading to le bon marche, which apparently roughly translates into the Sanctuary of Yarns.


Personally I don't knit, so there was a limit on how enthralled I could be, but the same wasn't true for Kate and Sarah. It was kind of fun to watch them get so excited and a little overwhelmed with all the options and potential projects. They ended up with a good stash....

which they seem pretty satisfied with. Tomorrow the plan right now is to check out Versailles in the morning and Sacre Coeur in the afternoon. We might see Mom again tomorrow if she decides to "leave this heavenly place" (Marseilles) but it sounds to me as if Thursday will be more likely, assuming she decides to come back at all.

--Mary

Editorial note: Our Mommy Dearest decided that Paris wasn't quite exciting enough for one week, plus she has a chronic and intense need for the sea, in any form. She needed some alone-time, too, I think... in any case, she's in Marseilles for the night, and possibly the rest of her life. Which is good, because she's happy, and we got to go book and yarn shopping in Paris. Which she would not have enjoyed nearly as much as drinking wine while overlooking the Mediterranean. --KBW

Il Pleut

Yesterday we relied heavily on vehicles other than our feet to get us around Paris. Things like a boat, and a bus, and the Metro. We needed a bit of a break from the cobblestones, plus there were the intermittent downpours that none of us was particularly interested in experiencing face-first.

So, we took a boat tour of the Seine...




...rode on top of a double-decker bus until it looked rainy again...





...and then had a traditional French dinner.


And now we're off for some wax museums, shopping and further bus tours, while my mother has departed for Somewhere in the South of France, and we hope to see her again before we depart on Saturday.

Nighttime Adventures

So, after the nap...


...we wandered over to the Eiffel Tower at night. Guess what? It's pretty.




My mother also has a digital camera with her. You may not truly understand the significance of this fact without the knowledge that her other means of photography are either disposable film cameras or a 35mm point-and-shoot from about 1980. Really, 1980. I suppose it earns credit for being durable.

Anyway, I've received feedback from my children that there aren't enough pictures of me here - something to do with the fact that it's mostly me holding the camera. So I pulled some photos off my mom's, and viola! Mama!

Bonne Journée, les Mères!

I'm not sure whether Mother's Day is a French holiday, but we sure celebrated here. We had brunch at a cafe on Trocadéro, in view of la tour Eiffel, climbed to the top of l'Arc de Triomphe, and wandered la Musée d'Orsay. A pretty good time to spend with your mom, if I do say so myself.

We got a somewhat late start this morning, but once we were up, we proved that pushing through the jet lag was worth it. That is, we were all almost human all day today, with no apparent fogginess or unusual crankiness.


Besides, can you really be all that cranky when you have quick and easy access to a patisserie?


We wandered to l'Arc du Triomphe, which offered some wonderful views...



...and a glass-topped elevator. Even though the top was enclosed, so we're not too sure why it had glass. Aside from the obvious, "to allow a goofy photo op."


It rained like crazy for about five minutes while we were in l'Arc du Triomphe. There are worse places to be trapped during a rainstorm.

From there, we ventured to la Musee d'Orsay, a lovely museum in a converted train station. On the way, we learned that even French antelopes dress better than the average American.


We couldn't take many pictures inside the museum... the flash is bad for the artwork, apparently. Or maybe the paintings are all just very shy. Either way, that which we could photograph was still gorgeous.



We're back in the apartment for a little while now... went shopping, so we have food to allow us to avoid spending 60 Euros on a meal once or twice... and now Sarah's napping and the rest of us are recharging in various ways. We're thinking of going to see the Eiffel Tower lit up tonight, just because we can. Because it's there.

The Lag of the Jet, it is Strong

We've completed our first full day in Paris, and there was much rejoicing.



It was a close call, let me tell you. Stupid New Jersey and its stupid construction projects and the stupid only opening one lane out of four and the stupid taking 5 hours for what should have been a 3-hour drive.. ugh. It's nice that my paranoia and anxiety paid off, because we left insanely early and arrived only a little late.

Right now, my poor minivan is parked in a very sketchy, scary parking lot somewhere near Newark airport. Think good thoughts for it, okay? There just wasn't time for me to turn around and find someplace better to leave it, so I'm trying to convince myself that nobody's going to want to mess with a vehicle that has that many carseats and old Cheerios.

It's about 10:20 p.m. on our first night here; we left yesterday evening a little after 9:00 p.m. New Jersey time, arrived here about 10:00 this morning, Paris time, and made up our minds to stay busy and active as best we could so as to power through the jet lag, get a good sleep tonight, and start fresh tomorrow.

I'm happy to say, we were successful. Of course, there were moments when the jet lag overpowered us all...



But we still managed to take a guided tour of the Opera House and visit the Eiffel Tower - though we didn't try to climb it just yet. Apparently I speak more French than I realized, because I've had a number of embarrassing conversations, where I try to be polite and start in French, and then very quickly become overwhelmed and pathetic when I can't keep up. Ah, well... so far they all seem to appreciate the effort.

One unexpected little adventure... my mother is a bit of an oenophile, and we are, after all, in France. So you can imagine her delight at not only being able to get some French wine that's not imported, BUT being able to cork and purchase her own bottle right in Paris.


Just a few photos from today - there's lots more in my flickr account - I'm not taking the time to name and adjust any photos for now, so if things are sideways or confusing, well, so am I, sometimes. Plus there's a lot of doubles at the moment. Maybe I'll care later.
Paris Opera House




The Eiffel Tower through the French Holocaust Memorial.
The French just do good monuments.




Earlier today, while stuck in a traffic jam in which I moved 8 miles in 75 minutes, I hated everyone. But now, sitting in an apartment in Paris, belly pleasantly full, face just slightly sun-warm, muscles tired, surrounded by the women in my family... I just love the whole world.

NINE HOURS!!!!!

Ohmyohmyohmyohmyohmy!!! ACCK!

So, we are leaving for PARIS (EEK!) in about nine hours and I am completely freaking out. I may in fact be on the border of tweaking out or geeking out or otherwise spazzing to the outer most extreme!!

I think the reason that I am posting right now in stead of Kate is because they want to give me a new audience