72 Million Bodies

Saturday began at the bright, sparkling hour of... 11:00 a.m. (Did I mention the jet lag?) To balance, we were out until midnight or so on Friday - but still, there was a disproportionate amount of sleep involved, even for my mother... who is known far and wide for her ability to subsist on long blinks.

Sarah and I officially missed the hotel's breakfast, which was a buffet of simple cereal, yogurt, croissants (plain or chocolate) and various drinks, but Mom and Mary liberated a basket of breads and jams for us, so we weren't left to face the day without sustenance. The hotel also provides a free "picnic lunch," which means a pre-wrapped sandwich (tuna or chicken salad) and a bottle of water. Around 5:00 on Sunday afternoon, Mary and I sat, propped up against the wall overlooking the Seine, at the Place de St-Michel near Notre Dame and the Conciergerie, and inhaled our sandwiches. They were the best sandwiches in the history of sandwiches... or perhaps that view was tainted by starvation brought on by several hours of walking. In any case, it was one more reason to be quite pleased with our choice of accommodations.

Anyway, once vertical, we showered ourselves conscious. (In typical European fashion, the shower is a tiny, coffin-sized-but-vertical box, but here the water pressure is such that my hair is entirely conditioner-free within about 10 seconds flat. No mean feat, that, since I've got thick, long hair normally and it's only enhanced by the pregnancy.) And then off we went - our destination, the Père Lachaise Cemetery, permanent home of Oscar Wilde, Jim Morrison, Edith Piaf, and various other famous types.

It was, to say the least, picturesque...

Rumor has it - and by "rumor," I mean, the weird guy who appointed himself our tour guide for 20 minutes or so - that there are 72 million bodies within the cemetery walls. He pointed out a few things, explained a few others, and then vanished - but not before delighting us with a sing-songy, "Bar-be-cue, bar-be-cue, everybody bar-be-cue," to explain how many people can be housed in one smallish area... never having heard "cremation" referred to as "bar-be-cue" before, we were stunned enough that we didn't think to offer him a pourboire until he disappeared just as abruptly as he appeared.

Beyond the photos from above, I did have a few favorites...

This guy just amused me. I'm sure he's someone important and the statue is intended to be quite impressive...

...but without a blade, it looks a lot like he's saying, "Hey.... somebody stole my pointy thing! Help! Somebody stole my pointy thing! Quick! I think they went that way! Help!" Poor guy.

And this was an interesting combination, to me. From above, which was where we first saw it, it looks a lot like a soldier threatening the poor, innocent woman, with a child trying to distract him or call for help, down below:

But then, upon closer, ground-level inspection, it's actually a much more dignified soldier, with a child adding sentiment to a potentially austere monument. And the lady next door was apparently entirely unrelated, and just randomly happens to appear intimidated by his presence.

Another odd combination, occurring on the same grave:

This was a common motif among the graves and carvings, though it took me a while to notice it. Once I did - and realized the symbolism is not too obscure, because where other than a cemetery is there a stronger reminder that time flies? - then I saw it everywhere:

Apparently it is a tradition to place a kiss upon the grave of Oscar Wilde. That which I know about Oscar Wilde could comfortably fit into an espresso cup with room to spare, but, hey, if everyone else is doing it...

Note: My kids complain that there aren't enough photos of me when I go on vacation, since I'm the one holding my own camera. I know that there is at least one photo of me snuggling up to the gravestone, as well... once I get access to my companions' photos, I'll show up a bit more often here...


After several hours and hundreds of photos - seriously, I'm only posting a handful of the total I took here... and Sarah took so many her camera battery died. We're a clicky bunch, apparently - we escaped and headed toward the Left Bank. Sarah and Mom were considering climbing the tower of Notre Dame, but arrived about 15 minutes after the last group was allowed in. Mary and I peeked in at a bookstore and a street vendor or two, and then opted for the Sandwich of Wonderment, as mentioned above.

We then wandered back to the Eiffel Tower, with plans to take the elevator to the summit. I made it about 20 minutes into the two-hour-long line and my body announced, "Hey, guess what? We're done here." I just got tired, and sore, and overwhelmed, and had an intense need to get horizontal as soon as possible. So I left early, returned to the hotel and recharged my own batteries for a bit. The others had a lovely time at the top of the tower, and I'm sure photos will eventually surface.

There it is again! I told you, I cannot stop taking pictures of this thing.

Day One: Jet Lag and Too Many Photos

If you watch closely, in the hallways and waiting areas of any major airport, you can discern three major classifications of travelers.

There are the business travelers, those for whom this is just an extension of the workday. As such, there is no magic, no excitement, just humdrum routine and a vague wish to be Somewhere Else. And, perhaps, a tinge of frustration, being surrounded by all of these vehicles that are designed to go to any number of Somewhere Elses, and instead knowing you're just on your way to or from another meeting.

Then there are the vacationers, whose perception of vacation is that it starts after you have finally arrived and checked in at your hotel. All of the in-between steps, from locking your front door to navigating the airport to entertaining oneself mid-flight, those are just annoyances, and often they blossom from annoyance into outright stress and misery. These are people who know they are soon to be Somewhere Else, and that soon cannot come quite soon enough.

And, last, there are the vacationers who consider the entire process, from the moment that front door closes at home, to be part of the adventure. They're not necessarily giddy or unruffled throughout the process, because mishaps and frustrations occur no matter what the mindset, but they're more interested in the moment and seem generally to be less stressed and harassed by the intervening steps between home and Somewhere Else.

We, we being sisters Kate, Sarah and Mary, and mother Pam, have always tried to fall into that third category of traveler. We none of us have flown so often that the experience of lift-off or the hours in the air have become routine, and we all try to remember that if you have to go through a certain process to get to your goal, you might as well figure out how that process is interesting, if not outright enjoyable.

I tell you what, it is a lot easier to place yourself into that category when the process goes as smoothly as it did on Thursday.

We met at JFK Airport in New York City - I was coming from Boston, meeting Mary, Sarah and Pam from upstate New York - and it was just one of those instances of cosmic perfection in terms of timing. I had to leave my house around 10:30 in the morning, to catch a city bus and then a Jet Blue flight to get me to the Air France desk, and they met at Pam's house and drove from there. I called as I was waiting to disembark from my flight, to find out their dinner plans, and they were just pulling into their parking spot. We reached the check-in desk within seconds of each other.

The overseas flight was delightfully uneventful. We were on a 777, which means that in our non-fancy-seats section, there were three seats, an aisle, four seats in the middle, another aisle, and then three more seats. We were placed in those middle four seats, which means we didn't end up in uncomfortable proximity to any strangers and I was able to seamlessly snag an aisle seat - a not unimportant maneuver, considering that I am five months pregnant and need uncomplicated access to the bathroom.

The only truly odd bit came to us courtesy of the little TVs attached to each seat. There was a good variety of channels, in both French and English, all pre-recorded so there were no concerns about losing the signal mid-show. And, as I've seen on other flights, as well, there was a map which pinpointed our current location and showed information about estimated time of arrival, time and temperature in the destination city, and so on. It would show, presumably for perspective, a smattering of other cities around the world, and there was a certain randomness there: New York, Boston and... Abilene, Texas? Really?

But, fine, great. Nothing worth noting... until we got over the ocean. We noticed it was still showing little dots with labels next to them, and soon we realized what they were:

Noteworthy Shipwrecks en Route

OK, that's a little weird. I couldn't decide if it was just morbid (especially because that was the only other item on the map: just cities and sites of mass watery graves) or if it was meant to be congratulatory, like, "Hey, good for you! You chose to fly instead of taking a horribly dangerous ocean liner!" (There were not, it is to be noted, similar map entries for sites of plane crashes.)

We were also seated across from a 20something couple who might have been on an engagement trip. She was wearing a diamond ring big enough to weigh down her arm, and in the airport they were fairly snuggly - bordering on inappropriately so - so one might assume that all was well between them. But upon boarding, the young man was delighted to discover that they had their little block of three seats to themselves, and announced, "Oh, good, we can keep this empty seat between us now!" He was consistently loud in a way that thoroughly illustrated the concept of the Ugly American, with obnoxious comments and an astonishing level of self-focus; he was never overtly offensive or insulting, just consistently annoying. And his choice of in-flight entertainment consisted of an alarming variety of skin magazines, which his fiancée seemed to blithely ignore.

Happily, they are not staying in our hotel.

Which, the hotel? Is just fine. It's called the Opera St. Georges, and is located within a short (but steep) walk of the Sacre Coeur and Pigalle... thus combining picturesque religious architecture with risqué-and-beyond forms of entertainment, all within a few short blocks. It's small, and simple - not a fancy place by any stretch of the imagination - but it offers free wireless Internet access, free breakfast buffet, free boxed lunches, clean bathrooms and doors that lock soundly. Just about perfect, for our needs.

Traditional French windows, big enough to let in lots of light and thick enough to block out most of the traffic sounds

We landed in Paris around 9:00 in the morning, and between one thing and another it was about 11:00 before we arrived at the hotel. I have vague memories of the drive... a series of strange sculptures, ranging from a multicolored disembodied hand giving the world a thumbs-up to a pair of pink-clad sumo wrestlers lifting a storage truck... trucks with odd labels and too-long phone numbers... rush hour traffic... lots of small but intense naplets...

The stated check-in time is 1:00 in the afternoon, but when I gave them my very best impression of a pregnant woman who is several steps beyond exhausted and more than a little pathetic, they very graciously allowed us to settle into our rooms a bit early. I had reached a point of beyond-tired such that sleep was imminent and inevitable... my only aspect of control in the situation was where that sleep would occur. Happily, I was able to stretch out in a bed, instead of curling up in the hotel lobby. Mary collapsed in her own bed, and the next few hours evaporated in that dead-to-the-world way that only severe jet lag can bring on.

Our hotel keys have these fantastic, thick tassels... thoroughly appropriate given the Red Light District locale. My mother can spin her tassels in opposite directions!

Sarah and my mother were feeling more energetic, and they took a walk around the neighborhood, climbing the hill to Sacre Coeur and finding a few bottles of Beaujolais Nouveau wine (my mother's stated reason for wanting to return to France, and for choosing this particular weekend: it's a wine that is only released once per year on a certain date in November, and she wanted to be nearby when that happened). They also found several dozen pâtisseries in the area, so once I regained consciousness I was greeted with a delightful array of croissants and chocolates.

We headed in to see La Tour Eiffel that evening, and took the requisite 4,000 photos from every conceivable angle. This is my third trip to Paris, and I still can't figure out just what is so compelling about the Tower... and I can't seem to stop myself from taking far too many photos of an already ridiculously over-photographed structure.

Of course this isn't all of the photos I took... I deliberately take a lot so that I can choose my favorites. But this isn't even all of my so-called favorites, there are a ridiculous number more in the Flickr set, and I'm sure I'll take even more before we leave. I just can't seem to help myself.

From there, we headed - at my request - to Le Bon Marche, a large department store which just happens to contain a satisfyingly extensive yarn shop. I had decided, like before, that my primary souvenirs from this trip would come in the form of yarn, to be made into sweaters and such after returning home.

There are probably better yarn shops in Paris... but I know where this one is, and am delighted by the novelty of a yarn shop inside a department store.

The walk was significantly farther than we anticipated, even with the help of a map, due (I think) to the intensity of our jet lag and unfamiliarity with the area. And so I picked out enough yarn to make scarves for my travel companions, as a way of saying, "Thanks for not killing me in Paris."

And then it was back to the hotel, for more of that really deep, dark jet-lag-enforced sleep. Bon soir!

Retour à Paris

Two years ago, there was a momentous coincidence of birthdays within our family: the eldest daughter turned 30, the middle one 21, and the last 16, all within the same year. We had to celebrate, and after a short period of research and brainstorming, we decided on Paris. Our mother graciously offered to join us, and within a week the plane tickets had been purchased (on the theory that once the tickets were reserved, we were far more likely to follow through on the trip, instead of just talking about it without actually going anywhere).

We went, and the adventures are documented down below.

A year later, we decided to travel again, this time just because we could. We chose Jamaica, and away we went... again, documenting the trip here, and racking up stories and a few bruises.

As 2009 rolled by, it was looking unlikely that it would feature another major travel escapade. For one thing, none of the daughters were employed full-time, and for another, there had been changes in health status, a few moves, and general spurts of chaos that interfered with things like leisure, just-for-fun sorts of travel.

But 2009 also marked our mother's 50th birthday, and of course we had to celebrate somehow. We considered a weekend on Cape Cod, but for a number of reasons it just wasn't right. And then, in late July, she stumbled upon an excellent deal, plane tickets and hotel and Metro passes for just over $500 per person. It was one of those "buy now or the deal expires" sorts of situations, so at 8:50p one summer night, none of them planned to go anywhere exciting this year... and by 9:00p, we had seats on a plane and beds in a hotel reserved.

And thus opens another chapter in our travel journal...

...is this thing on?

And, once again, we're headed eastward. This time, just a quick jaunt to Paris, just a long weekend on the Continent, you know... very cosmopolitan.

Mom had a birthday that needed celebrating this year, and so we're going to France for the uncorking of this year's Beaujolais Nouveau wine, and a bit of extra sight-seeing on the side for those of us who aren't wine-drinkers. Rumor has it that our hotel has Internet access, in which case I'll be posting from there... otherwise, I'll write while there and post once we're home again.

Stay tuned...

...and the Home of the Brave

She would practice, when no one else was around. When she was driving, or at home alone, in the rare moments when her children and husband had scattered to pursue their own interests.

She would sing the National Anthem, and dream of the day when the Red Sox would call her up and ask her to open a game.

Years passed, and she stopped singing with her band. She stopped singing professionally, though she was good enough to stand behind Michael Bolton and Celine Dion on the big stage. She went back to school, became a wife and mother and therapist all within a short span, and accepted the new direction her life was taking.

But she still practiced.

Her life became more and more stressful and difficult. Each of her children has a big, intense personality, and broke and healed her heart over and over again, the way children do. Her husband was changed by parenthood and the weight of responsibility, the way we are. Her father-in-law died, and her own father became undiagnosably ill. Her sister called, devastatedly hit with breast cancer and possible colon cancer. The stress built, and life grew more difficult, and it became harder and harder to find things to smile about.

And then, in August, that call came through.

Her brother-in-law works for the Jimmy Fund, a cancer research and fundraising organization, and they were looking for someone to sing the National Anthem at a Red Sox game. Someone who was local, and who had a relevant story, and most importantly someone who would sing well.

She fit all of those criteria. And so, sight unseen, song unheard, they invited her to sing.

The first game was rained out, creating a bitter last-minute disappointment. But they rescheduled the game, and invited the same people back to perform. And this time, her two friends, with whom she had been escaping for a monthly girls-only lunch for the past many years, started to plan. They neither of them could have attended the August game, but husbands could be placed in charge of children and tickets could be obtained, to allow them to attend the September rescheduled game. And, more importantly, to be there, in person, when their friend sang her dream.

Waiting for the song to start, her friends were impressed with how relaxed and happy she seemed. They remarked that they would sooner face a firing squad than sing in front of so many people, and that at the very least they would be pacing and nauseous and nervous. But she just waited, and smiled.

Then the time came, and the announcer explained that she was singing this song for her sister. The crowd went quiet.

She was amazing.*

Her friends were so proud, so thrilled, so grateful to be able to be there and share that day with her, albeit from arm's length away. It's a pride without a sense of ownership, a vicarious wonder at watching someone else experience a lifelong dream. It's safe to consider the day as being on par with the births of her children, in terms of important, shining, successes in her life.

It was a very good day. Bigger than words. An honor to observe.**

---

*Note: The sound quality is good but the video... not so much. You may want to watch with your eyes closed. Her brother-in-law was sneaky with a video camera in a sports facility, and bless his heart for doing it. There are clearer still photos, here.

**And another note, while we're at it: Carolyn and Jenny, I don't know how often you stop by here, but I wanted you both to know just how grateful I am for our friendship. You are both so special and wonderful, and I'm thrilled to be able to share in your lives. Thank you.

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…