Flying in the Millennium, Scotland and England and France OH MY! Part II

Tags

breakfast, Edinburgh, flying, food, hotels, Scotland, travel, writing

Photo courtesy of favim.com

When I was a teenager I used to drive to the Oakland airport with my best friend, Mama Dog. She and I would sit in the hatchback of my Ford Fiesta and watch the planes take-off for hours. It was a great escape, dreaming of all the places we would go and all the wonderful things we would see. To this day I still find it thrilling to go to the airport, even if it’s just to pick-up a friend. Of course the rules have changed considerably over the years. I’m not sure if it’s allowed to watch the planes take off from the airport anymore, with all the added security risks. Prior to this trip three years ago, the last time Tony and I flew the friendly skies was in 1996, pre 9/11/01 (God rest their souls). In ’96, it took less than one hour to board an international flight, and the thought of taking your shoes off at check-in was unconscionable.

To be sure, flying was much more dignified back then. For one thing, it was all about YOUR comfort. I remember after being in France for two weeks we were so excited to be going home, that we arrived at the airport in Paris two hours earlier than expected. We were told the x-ray machines were not yet heated up so…they didn’t bother x-raying our bags. Why make us wait? My husband was especially glad this happened since he secretly stashed a bunch of “novelty” switchblades in my luggage. “After all, they’re less likely to check your bags than mine,” he reasoned.

No wonder. Now it was 2009 and things have changed A LOT. For one thing, I was told to pack all of my toiletries inside of my checked luggage and not my carry-on bag. “But I always wash-up before I land.” I protested. I’ll need my Neutrogena face soap, toner, face cream, eye cream, toothbrush, toothpaste, and then there’s my hair smoothing cream. “Whatever happened to looking glamorous on the plane?” I asked. I was told to forgo all that and to be prepared to strip for security.

The day before we left for Scotland, I nervously perused the TSA website (Transportation Security Administration), and became vaguely familiar with a confusing concept, simply named 3-1-1. In short, every (1) passenger is allowed to bring a (1) quart-size zip-top bag stuffed with containers that hold (3) ounces or less. So really it should be called 1-1-3, but that’s just me. Actually, I was happy to finally use the dozens of adorable little bottles I’d saved over the years.

Still, there were certain aspects of air travel that I was not prepared for in the millennium, namely the smell of fear and foot odor. Not to mention walking though various metal detectors barefoot is just gross. Plus, I’ll admit that I slowed down the line more than a little, when the TSA girl told me I was not allowed to bring my Cal water bottle onboard. And I’ll further admit that I let out a rather audible moan escape my lips when I was told to throw it in the trash. Other than that however, I breezed through the metal detector virtually unscathed.

My husband was another story. The man is a harbinger of metal. After several failed attempts to walk through the metal detector, a serious-looking man in a red suit told him to stand still while he slowly ran a wand all over his body, and finally to his neck, where his Saint Christopher hung. I could see my husband’s hands shaking slightly, as he pulled the chain over his head and placed it into the receptacle provided. My poor honey! I thought, and instinctually wanted to run to his side, but I was being pushed forward by the lady with stinky feet behind me; she could care less about anyone’s feelings.

Surviving check-in was nothing compared to our flight, which lasted roughly 26 hours. Our engine warmer failed, so we were forced to change planes twice in New Jersey. Fine with me I thought, better that than plunging into the sea at 500mph. Walking around the airport at 2am was eerie, with all the concession stands closed and the lights at half power, but it was fun too. As the other passengers walked around each other in circles like zombies, Tony and I explored. We found a nice restroom where we could freshen-up, and then we looked at overpriced sunglasses through brightly lit cases and laughed about our trip thus far. Re-boarding was also comical because everyone was cranky and looked a fright, except the flight attendants. They were very patient and treated us like kind zookeepers, giving us an extra meal and free drink tickets. Hooray! Normally, I’d rather starve than eat airplane food, but on this occasion I found myself willingly eating a curious chicken dish and washing it down with Jameson. Within minutes, I was a happy little monkey.

Photo courtesy of damncoolpictures.com

After the lights dimmed and the same movie came on for the third time, my husband, who’s been trained to sleep standing, was snoring while I gabbed with a lady across the isle. She was on her way home and gladly told me where to go and what to see in Scotland. She even drew me a map! We were to encounter this several times in the Land of Tartan. The Scots are very helpful, friendly people. Later, I was to discover they also had one of the most generous breakfasts in the world: eggs, gigantic pieces of bacon, a variety of freshly made breads to make toast, steel-cut oats, coffees, teas, orange juice and of course haggis – something I had to try but ended up avoiding like the plague. Everywhere we stayed, in both Scotland and England offered an amazing spread. This was especially appreciated by me since I wake up so hungry, I could eat a wagon wheel. When we finally landed in Scotland’s capital, I was aching from head to toe and starving, of course. But as usual, excitement overrode my basis instincts, and I bounded off the plane after giving a hearty “thank you” to our flight attendants.

They say life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans. Even thought this trip was to be an unplanned extravaganza, I did plan for our first night in Edinburgh. I really didn’t want to roam around the city looking like Día de los Muertos trying to find a place to rest my frizzy head. I wish I’d planned our first night in Paris too, but that gruesome story comes later. When we arrived in Edinburgh and at the Old Waverley Hotel (great place in the heart of downtown, but not for you light sleepers), I wanted to sleep so badly, but we’d learned our lesson years ago to adapt to the new time zone AT ALL COST. So, after cleaning up we tripped around the Royal Mile, where I saw my very first red telephone booth. Maybe I was delirious from lack of sleep, but it was thrilling.

After eating Italian (odd choice), and a full day exploring Edinburgh on foot, we finally collapsed in our hotel room and slept like babies. Until around midnight. Sometimes jet-lag isn’t all that bad…

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A Man of the World and a Woman Who Can Pull Her Own Weight – Scotland and England and France Oh My! Part I

Tags

communication, luggage, marriage, Paris, Preparing for a big trip, relationships, travel

Courtesy of peteswickedtravels.com

Three years ago, my sweet husband and I decided to save our dough and take a big trip. I’m talking huge. Unlike the time we flew out of OAK (Oakland, CA) to Charles de Gaulle (Paris), then CDG back to OAK; I wanted a real planes, trains and automobiles vacation. So, after months of discussion we decided to fly into Edinburgh, Scotland and out of the most romantic city in the world, Paris. Everything in-between would be an adventure, no plans whatsoever. A tall order to be sure, but we had almost three weeks to roam and the money to do it this time.

The last time we vacationed in Europe was in 1996. We were just two crazy kids flitting around France for our 1-year wedding anniversary. And although the exchange rate was 5 francs to the dollar, as newlyweds, we didn’t have two nickels to rub together and ended up running out of money halfway through our trip. Of course a big chunk went towards the Corsair charter, but upon arrival we were shocked to discover that we had roughly 400 francs a day to live on, about 80 bucks American. After finding a cheap hotel at 250f a night we survived solely on crepes, spaghetti Bolognese at Don Vito’s, and love. Luckily Tony’s father, my new father-in-law, was kind enough to pay for our stay at the Hotel Studia, a great find on 51 Boulevard Saint-Germain (it’s still there; a little run-down now). Without his help it would have been another kind of trip indeed. Now we were able to afford the Metro, a day at the Louvre Museum, Monet’s Gardens in Genevieve and the extravagant train ride to Rouen, in northern France, where my husband spent lonely summers as a boy.

My husband in Rouen, France circa 1987.

What a life changing trip that was for me, not to mention my first experience outside of Les États-Unis. My husband on the other hand is a man of the world. As a young lad he lived with his mother nine months out of the year, and his father during the summer. He was just seven years old when he first took a plane all by himself, to see his dad in Santa Barbara. By the time he was fourteen he was taking trips to Rouen, France, making eyes at the stewardesses, getting free Coca-Colas and peanuts.

Traveling at a young age certainly has lasting effects on a person. One thing I have always admired about my husband is his confidence. He is truly comfortable in his own skin. We can be anywhere, from the shadiest barbecue joint in Oakland to the swankiest restaurant in Paris, and he blends. While I’m awkwardly figuring out which fork to use for my salad, Tony is sitting with his back to the wall, gazing around, taking it all in. Then he’ll flash me a look and say something that melts my backbone, putting me at complete ease.

The ability to enjoy the moment and go with the flow is a wonderful trait to adopt in life, and when traveling it’s a necessity. Three weeks before our daring trip Tony, my girlfriend Evelyn and I went out to dinner at Lanesplitter’s. Over pizza and beer Ev announced that she too was going to be in Paris around the same week as us, and wanted to know if we could meet-up with her before we flew home. She had just ended an eleven-year relationship with a man I never really liked, except he had good taste in music and was a good dancer. Unfortunately, their break-up was more akin to a divorce. When it was officially over Ev was exhausted, emotionally, and wanted to do something spontaneous and fun. I warned her that our plans were not set in stone, but of course we would meet her! It was thrilling to think of the three of us in Paris, even if it was for only one or two nights.

Edinburgh Train Station. Heading to Inverness, Scotland.

Sometimes when you plan a big trip, it all seems so far away and dream-like. With Ev’s announcement things were starting to become exciting, and REAL. Two weeks before leaving, Tony and I had a serious discussion about luggage. In the softest, most democratic way he told me his one fear; that he would be left to carry the bags, or all of MY bags. Normally, I take three: my purse, an extra large duffle bag for my clothes, and a backpack for our arsenal of toiletries. Since we were planning to jump on and off trains, possibly travel by car through England, then take the Eurail from London to Paris, we needed to strategize. He opted for a long, OD green Army duffle bag from the surplus store. I, on the other hand, strategically chose a red roller by Sherpani that had secret zippers on the sides. When unzipped, it resembled a pregnant ladybug. C’est parfait!

The night before we left Alameda, California for Edinburgh (pronounced Ed-in-bur-ah), Scotland I spent two hours packing and unpacking to no avail. I was new at putting everything in one bag! I called Ev, and she came over and showed me how to roll-up everything. By the end, my ladybug looked like she was smuggling colorful tortillas from Ramiro’s, but everything fit. “Won’t the inspection people just undo our rolls and throw everything back?” I was proud of our pack job, and yet resented the amount of time it took. “Who cares.” Ev said, “You’re going to Europe!” “See you in Paris.” I said, then we both screamed like 12-year-old girls.

Sensible shoes and a not so sensible bag. Lesson learned. Inverness, Scotland.

Right before we hit the hay, Tony and I made a practice run – he with his bag and me with mine. I must admit it was difficult. After clumsily rolling my suitcase down 40 stairs, out to the car, then swinging it into the trunk without any assistance from Tony, I was sweating bricks. I decided I needed to lighten the load. So, I went back inside the house and removed 6 sweaters, 5 pairs of pants, 2 jackets, 4 skirts, 9 shirts and one pair of boots.

As I drifted off to sleep, I remembered how I almost froze to death the first time I was in France, in October circa 1996. “Maybe it won’t be so…cold…this time in October.” I yawned. “No matter.” Tony whispered back. “We’re going to have a great adventure…together.” Boy was he right.

Our Chetco River Adventure, Part II

Tags

Adventure, Chetco River, Kayaking

If I could name one aspect of my personality that my husband truly admires, I think it would be my adventurous spirit. He knows that I love a challenge and can rarely back down on a dare. Whenever we watch female action flicks, most recently – Salt with Angelina Jolie, my husband has the habit of saying, rather boastfully, “I bet you could do that,” at a time when the heroine is either rolling on the floor evading bullets from her assailants, or kicking in the face of a villain, then gracefully jumping out of a window – only to land safely on top of a moving truck. Of course I wouldn’t dare dream of shattering the man’s fantasy. However, there is some truth to the man’s assertion about his wife.

When I was younger my adventurous tendencies didn’t always earn the admiration of friends and family. Too often did I ‘jump’ my car over California Street in San Francisco with a carload of screaming girlfriends, and climb the outer walls of the Palace of Fine Arts merely to sit on the rooftop and gaze at the stars. Most certainly, riding a motorcycle ranked low on my families list of accomplishments. So, I was labeled a loose canon, a wild child. Even my older sister called me Reb – short for rebel – she still does, although now it’s more out of habit than anything else. Perhaps being brought up in the 70’s taught me to take chances, or following around my older brother to no end made me tough. Whatever the case may be, if I were not the type of woman who thrives on adventure, I probably would’ve thrown in the towel the moment we curved around the last mountain – to a widening river that seemed bent on consuming us. Instead, I tucked in my chin, swallowed what little saliva I had in my mouth and paddled harder. Like the apostle Paul said, ‘I tell my body to do what I want it to do.’ Despite my exhaustion, I told myself we would parish on that river – food for the vultures, if I didn’t try my hardest. “We can do it buddy!” I yelled to my longsuffering husband, digging into the water with as much oomph as I could muster.

Hours on the Chetco River had taught me two types of paddling. There’s the shallow paddle, which is what you do when you want your partner to think you’re pulling your own weight, but really you’re only skimming the surface of the water. Then there’s the deep paddle, which is what you do when you want to show off your beautiful arm and back muscles. Shallow paddling is all right if the water is moving with you or if the water is, well, shallow. Deep paddling is required when you realize you’re not going anywhere. Due to the fact that the river current was now moving against us, we could no longer waste time with anything but the strongest paddling. The only downside to digging in deep is that you get tired very, very fast unless you’re in Crew or workout on Nautilus everyday, which we don’t.

When Tony noticed that my deep paddling wasn’t getting us anywhere, he stopped his respite, dutifully picked up his paddle and got to work. Together, we were able to move our kayak about an inch every two strokes – slow going, but it was better than moving backwards! As the mountains began to disappear behind us, all which lay ahead was the river. In the sky, balancing on both sides of the embankment was the slender, cement bridge that my husband crosses everyday to work. Beyond the bridge: the Pacific Ocean, Brookings Harbor, and my Ford Escape, which was waiting to take our weary bodies home. “I bet it’s nice and warm inside my car.” I thought, shivering uncontrollably from the cold. It was those darn holes at the bottom of the kayak. They once cooled us from the heat of the day, now they were mercilessly introducing ocean water to our shriveled little behinds.

It’s interesting, despite the fact that we were in more than a bit of trouble, I was still in awe of the beauty that surrounded us, and my trembling hands managed to take two more pictures, much to my husband’s chagrin. I couldn’t help it! I felt like a war correspondent, and we were two insignificant humans in some sort of nature battle with the mighty Checto – her beautiful, rolling current in cahoots with the bracing wind, both trying to keep us from our land goal. Paddling with all our might, we painfully drew closer and closer to the bridge. Suddenly, my husband exclaimed, “Look! There’s an abandoned boat up ahead!” Then panting for breath, “If we can’t make it….to the harbor…let’s go aboard her… and rest a little…or until…we can get help.” Thank God for my husband I thought to myself; he has the ability to make me laugh even in the direst circumstances. “No way!” I said, laughing. I could hear him laughing too, which somehow gave me the strength to keep paddling like a 20 year-old, my neck and shoulder muscles constricting painfully. “Let’s paddle closer to the shoreline.” He said next. “Alright.” I answered, not sure about his reasons, but humbled enough by my past actions not to argue.

When we finally reached the shoreline, I felt the force of the river pushing us back even more, so I attempted to paddle harder, but was seizing by a cramp in my shoulder and lost the paddle. Luckily, I was able to grab it before it got too far. As I turned my body around to reclaim it from the river, I spied Tony trying to grab for a large tree trunk that stuck out of the embankment. “What are you doing?” I yelled surprisedly. “Maybe we can find a place along the shoreline to pull up next to, and climb up the side of the mountain!” He said half laughing, half serious. “Honey!” I said, “It’s straight up all along the river! We won’t be able to climb up….with the kayak!” I couldn’t believe it. He was giving up!

The Great Depression in American history has always fascinated me, I’m constantly researching it: The Stock Market Crash of 1929, The Dust Bowl of 1930, FDR, and Eleanor Roosevelt’s “It’s Up to the Women” speech of 1933 in which she exhorted American women to help pull our country through the gravest economic crisis we’d ever known:

“The women know that life must go on and that the needs of life must be met and it is their courage and determination which, time and again, have pulled us through worse crises than the present one.”

It always comes down to the women, doesn’t it? A man may be physically stronger, get better pay, but it’s the woman who pulls them through hard times. “We can do it Honey!” I yelled, fixing Rosie the Riveter in my mind. “Just keep paddling with me!” As we paddled, I felt my entire body loose all its strength, then regain it supernaturally. It was crazy. All smiles left my face – replaced with wincing pain and determination. I knew we could make it to shore, if we worked together.

After the bridge was behind us I thought we were home free; that the harbor would be an open door us weary travelers could paddle through. Nope. We forgot about the jetty, which went the entire length of the harbor, then opened up to anyone wanting to tie his or her boat up to the dock. The water grew choppy and merciless at this point. I half considered the possibility of clamoring over the jetty rocks, but what good would that do? I’d still have to swim to one of the boat docks. No, just a little farther and we can tie up the kayak and climb onto the dock like respectable folk.

Next thing I knew, Tony was grabbing for the dock, clinging onto an old rusty boat cleat with all his might. “Toss me the rope.” He ordered. We were successfully tied up now. “Get out of the boat.” He said, feigning a smile this time. I tried to get up, but my legs stiffened painfully, refusing to straighten – hours of sitting in the kayak. I tried again, this time using my arms to grab the dock, and then climbed up like a lizard on my belly until my feet were out of the boat and on the dock. I rolled over on my back panting. “Help me.” I heard my husband say, so I rolled back over, got on my knees and helped pull him up onto the dock with an agonizing grunt. For a minute we both laid there panting, then we started laughing uncontrollably and screaming, “We made it! We did it! Thank you God! We’re safe.”

When we finally sat up, Tony reached down and got the backpack, which was strapped tightly to the nose of our kayak. “Honey go. Get the car.” He said exhaustedly, as he threw me the bag. I opened it up and searched for the keys to my Ford Escape. They weren’t in there. I searched my pockets, Tony his pockets. Nada. “Did you leave them in the truck?” He asked me, with a most serious look on his face. “Wha? Uh…no way.” I dumped everything out of the bag, and then I remembered: At the top of the river, after we put the kayak into the water I did a ‘hasty’ checklist of what goes and what stays. I vaguely remember putting my car keys – which Tony kindly put into one of his Ziploc bags – in the glove box. Yikes. I was going to have to find a taxi. “I’ll be right back.” I said hastily. He just lay there on his back, eyes shut.

I should have marked the place where he lay with some sort of landmark, but I was so embarrassed about leaving the keys in his truck, that I went off running like a chicken. Ten minutes later I walked into Zola’s Pizza, our most frequented eatery on the harbor. When I opened the door and the heat from the brick oven hit my face, I closed my eyes and smiled. “Rachel!” Vanessa said, a bit shocked at my appearance. “What’s wrong?” She asked, her kind eyes searching my face. “Kayaking…stuck on dock…no keys…need taxi…may I…restroom?” Was all I could sputter. When I came back there was a taxi waiting outside. I love you Vanessa. I ordered a large pepperoni, mushroom and olive pizza, paid my girl then flew out the door.

The taxi ride was one of the most surreal moments of my life. The driver talked non-stop about his failing health, being homeless, his girlfriend who is addicted to meth, her daughter – who has emotional issues, and how much he hates tourists. He never noticed my withdrawn face, my bloody, blistered hands, my wet clothes or the watermark I was leaving on his velvety seat. I tried to listen sympathetically, and as it turned out we were both from the Bay Area. This switched the conversation to food. “The Bay Area has the best restaurants in the world!” He exclaimed, then he talked about how much he missed the produce, etc.. On and on he went, while I nodded deliriously, shivering.

After driving along the river for what seemed forever, I spotted the turn off and he skidded to a stop. “Can you pull up next to that truck?” I asked, pointing. “Um, it’s a bit rough, I may pop my tires.” He answered. “Oh, ok I’ll get out then.” I gave him a twenty, thanked him and slammed the door, unintentionally of course. As I walked, shaking to the truck, I noticed the sun worshipers were gone, the children too. All was quiet now as the sun slowly set in the horizon and the temperature dropped. There was only one other car parked close to the rocky shoreline, it was a couple making out passionately. I couldn’t help smiling, then I reached into my wet shorts pocket and pulled out the truck keys, which I don’t remember putting in there.

Next thing, I was thundering down the mountain to rescue my man. Driving through the harbor, I was trying to remember where I’d left him. Walking gives one a completely different vantage point. As I drove, I peered through piles upon piles of crab pots and between giant storage hangers, then I pulled into an abandoned lot with mounds of broken cement and gravel. Driving around the un-drivable lot I spied two feet propped up on the tip of a yellow kayak. “Honey!” I yelled out loud to myself. It was my sweet man; my man who would do anything for me, whose love humbles me on a daily basis. “Honey! I’m here!” I squealed, running towards him, and then hugging him tightly as I kissed his salty neck. “Wow, that was fast Darlin’.” He said, getting up slowly with my help. “I ordered you a pizza.” I said, seeing the pleasure in his face. “Yesssss.” He said through his teeth, smiling with his fist in the air. “You won’t believe what I just went through!” I said excitedly, driving towards Zola’s. As I told him all about my most recent adventure, he sat in the passenger seat, grinning, listening admiringly…

Our Chetco River Adventure, Part I

Tags

birthday, Kayaking, river adventure

My husband is incredibly sweet. For example, on our first year of marriage he surprised me with a pearl necklace and earrings for my birthday. I never led on that I even liked pearls, but he confidently told me that, “Every woman should own a set of pearls.” A few years later it was a new motorcycle helmet, followed by diamond earrings. Most recently he got me Bella’s backpack from the movie Twilight. He actually went on-line, found out what kind of bag it was and bought it. Mind you, I did not ask for Bella’s backpack, but he thought I would like it and to my surprise, I do. Then there’s the time I tore out a picture of the boots Keira Knightley wore on a Vogue fashion shoot because I liked them. He secretly found out who made those boots and bought them for me. The man is incorrigible! Well, when we moved to this little seaside town and I happened to say, “How fun would it be to spend the day on a lake?” Guess what he did? He researched and found a place in town that rents boats, well kayaks, so we could spend the day on the lake for my birthday.

The morning of my big day, after dad hit the road, Tony and I excitedly headed for the Escape Hatch to pick-up our very first kayak. As we loaded that sucker into the truck I noticed it was a lot larger and heavier than I’d imagined, but it was a fun, bright yellow with two seats, which eased my mind since I thought we’d be in individual kayaks. Next stop – Lake Earl. My husband was told that Lake Earl was a very serene lake – perfect for beginners. When we got there however, the water level was so low that it looked more like a bog than a lake, and it smelled. After some discussion we turned around and headed for our second choice – the Chetco River.

The Chetco is a pristine, scenic river that runs deep into the mountains and pours out into the Pacific Ocean. “Are you sure?” My husband asked, concernedly. “Kayaking on a lake is a lot different from kayaking down a river.” Was he insinuating that I couldn’t paddle down one little river? I was offended! “Sure I’m sure.” I said confidently. “Besides, this river has a strong current that will lead us down stream and right into the ocean, probably, without much effort on our part.” I pretty much made all that up, but it made sense to me.

Driving up into the mountains, I could see the mighty Chetco sparkle through the trees. “Keep going.” I said excitedly, when he turned on his blinker to pull over. “Alright.” He said uneasily. After two more attempts to pull over and me egging him on, we finally found a place where you can pull your vehicle right onto the river’s edge. On the rocky shore were sun worshipers and families sitting in beach chairs. Some were drinking beer; others were sleepily fishing in inner tubes, while children swam and splashed in the beautiful green water like river otters.

As we started to unload, everyone began to watch. The bright, banana-yellow kayak seemed to clash hideously with our surroundings. After a hasty inventory of what goes and what stays in the truck, I strapped on my puffy life vest and hopped into the kayak, which was much easier on the eyes once it was in the water. When I sat down, it bottomed out. I think I heard some of the river otters laugh. “Oh!” I said surprisedly as the water started pouring into the holes at the bottom of the kayak. This is when I felt the difference between a boat and a kayak.  In a boat we would have been dry. Kayaks are meant to roll, which I didn’t plan on doing since I’m not a very good swimmer. Oh well, who cares if our behinds are going to be wet I thought, we’re on the river and it’s a beautiful day! After we walked our banana slug into deeper water, we got in with as little fuss as possible, which meant almost tipping over several times while I squealed with laughter, holding my “Bella” backpack over my head. When we were finally in, I looked over my shoulder and could tell that our audience was a little sad we were off and running, or glad.

Truth be told, Tony and I are straight City. We both grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area and we’ve only gone camping once together, which was an adventurous nightmare to say the least (perhaps another story for another day). That’s why we’re so excited to be living in the county now. We’ve always wanted to get away from the smog and experience nature: fishing, hiking, and kayaking. Sure, we’re new to it all but we want to learn, and Kayaking down the Chetco River was our biggest and newest adventure since we moved here two months prior. So there I was sitting in a giant, yellow river Cadillac, life vest secure (Tony refused to wear his), with a hideous sun hat on my head that I normally wouldn’t be caught dead in (thanks mom), thrilled to be paddling down a river on my own steam. Life couldn’t be better.

My husband thought it best if I sat up front – he being the strongest would act as our rudder. I was quite happy with this arrangement; it gave me an unobstructed view of the river. My job was to report what lay ahead. The first couple hours I was happy as a clam, taking pictures of the incredible scenery, videoing my husband paddling while we sang songs that glorified the Chetco. When we hit a stretch of river that was especially calm, Tony asked me to help paddle. “I’ve been paddling.” I joked. Then I resealed my birthday camera in the Ziploc bag my husband made me promise to use, and threw it into my backpack. As we paddled together we developed a pretty good rhythm. That’s when I spotted my first white water. “Um, honey, I see rapids ahead.” I reported calmly. “Alright, just sit tight and let the water take us!” He yelled, as if we were about to go straight over a waterfall. I nodded, laughing. As we approached the rapidly running water I failed to mention the rather large tree trunk that hung low, directly overhead. As I ducked to let the tree pass, my sweet husband tried blocking it with his arm, and fell overboard. After somehow stopping the kayak and apologizing my head off, he got back in and almost tipped us over. Lucky for us I have cat-like reflexes and shifted my body weight just right. “Well, at least you’re cooler now.” I said, looking on the bright side. He was a champ about it, and it was only four feet deep in the rapids.

For the next two hours the current seemed to move at a snail’s pace, but I didn’t mind one bit. It was so refreshing and beautiful on the river. As I alternated taking pictures with paddling – mind you every time I wanted to use the camera it meant going into the backpack, taking it out of the protective plastic bag, then reversing the process when I finished getting that magical shot – I could see that Tony was beginning to fatigue. “Let’s pull over and eat.” I suggested. “Great idea.” He said happily. When we spied a nice spot to pull over, we paddled hard towards the shore and the nose of our kayak slid up perfectly. Ahoy! We had landed.

As I pulled our lunch out of the backpack I noticed how meager it was. Then I remembered – we had planned on spending a couple of hours on “Lake Placid,” not four hours and counting, paddling, then walking our kayak downstream. Yes, walking. Our kayak was so big and heavy that we had to get out quite often and walk it through the shallows. All this in and out and constant paddling was a real workout, but we became quite good at it – no more nearly tipping over. After inhaling our PB&Js, chips and downing our one Hansen’s soda (How can food taste so good?!), we noticed that it was starting to get late. Neither of us had the time (Who brings their watch on a nature quest?), but the sun wasn’t as warm as when we first began our adventure, and the breeze, which started out balmy and warm, was chilly now and blowing in our faces. “How much further before we make it to the bridge?” I asked rolling down my sleeves. “Well, you see that mountain range up ahead?” My husband said, pointing west. The mountains were all around us, and they stretched and curved as far as the eye could see. “Uh, yeah?” I said doubtfully. “We need to make it all the way through those, then it’s about half a mile to the bridge. That’s where the ocean water meets the river, then it’s another half-mile to the pier.” Wow, that’s far I thought, so I put my camera away for good this time (sort-of) and started to pull my own weight.

We were really sailing for almost an hour, and I loved the way it felt when we synchronized our paddling – the kayak slicing through the sparkling, green water. As we steadily moved along, I noticed the shoreline was changing and the river was getting wider. When we first began, the river was calm; the water was warm and crystal clear with beautiful multi-colored rocks at the bottom, which were covered with a blanket of green moss. Salmon and steelhead, mallards, egrets and a multitude of birds whose names went beyond my knowledge, surrounded us. Now, the current was pushing us back, the water was colder, darker, and much deeper, and the only birds I noticed were carrion and the occasional seagull. Even when my arms began to shake I didn’t stop paddling. Once, Tony took a break from paddling but I kept on going and I realized how difficult it was to paddle by myself. Then I felt bad. Most of the time I was laying back in the sun like a modern day Lady of Shallot, taking pictures of the wildlife that surrounded us. All the while my husband slaved away without complaint. “Badly done Emma,” I thought to myself, feeling the sting of my selfishness.

“Honey, I’m sorry!” I said to the outstretched river in front of me, still paddling as hard as I could. “I shouldn’t have said ‘keep going’ when we were driving up-river. I should have trusted you!” I could hear him laughing behind me, which made me smile. However, when I turned around I saw that his face was badly sun burnt, and although he smiled back at me, his eyes showed his exhaustion, as did his body, which was slumped over the paddle in his lap. “Honey!” I yelled worriedly. “It’s alright darlin’ just keep paddling. We’re almost through the mountains.” He said, sounding drunk with fatigue. As the wind started to blow harder and harder in my face, my paddling wasn’t even noticeable anymore. Up ahead, I could see the mountain curve and the river widen maddeningly before my eyes….

Come Back Soon…Prelude to Our Kayaking Adventure

Tags

birthday, cake, family, HWY 101, ocean, redwoods, road trip, stargazing

Last September, my Dad surprised me and came up to Oregon for my birthday. He loves to hit the road in his shiny black Corvette, and HWY 101 from the Bay Area is a road tripper’s dream. For the first few hours you wind through hilly emerald green pastures dotted with boulders, cows and sheep; the countryside, we discovered on our travels looks a lot like northern Scotland. Next, you drive through lush valleys packed with conifers, which eases your mind about the shortage of trees, and then quite suddenly, the road spits you out along the coastline. Here you can get out of your car, walk barefoot through the soft, white sand, get your feet wet enough to realize how bloody cold the water is, then hop back into your warm car and continue on.

101 then rolls you up hills that become thousand foot peaks, where you can stop again and take in the Pacific Ocean in all her majesty. Oh it’s beautiful up there! The cliffs are breathtaking and from that height, the ocean appears to be broken up in lines like desert sands; each line introducing different shades of green, blue, even black water. As your eyes scan the horizon you find yourself taking in and holding deep breaths of crisp, salty air that flows straight into your capillaries. Whenever I stand on those cliffs I like to imagine I’m in Ireland or Nova Scotia, or perhaps I’m one of Jane Austen’s heroines who has left home to travel west, and seeing the sea for the first time. It’s always thrilling.

After you pull yourself away from the inspiring ocean views, the landscape drastically changes from sandy tree-lined cliffs to dense redwood forests that beckon you to stop and take in a moment of calm. There’s something otherworldly yet welcoming about the redwoods. It’s as if they’re waiting for something. What that is I’m not exactly sure, I think it’s different for everyone. What I do know is that after I leave, I feel elated.

Stout Grove

Leaving the redwoods is difficult, but you still have a few more hours alternating ocean views with patches of forest. Then suddenly, you are at the Oregon border, where people stop to have their picture taken. This is my favorite part of driving through the border. I love the excitement in their faces as they stand in front of the Welcome to Oregon or Welcome to California sign and awkwardly have their picture taken by their mom or husband, girlfriend or grandma. I love the adventurousness of the human spirit and I think even the smallest adventures keep us young.

Unlike my mom who is a young 65, Pop is an old 65. Like they say, “It’s not the years, it’s the miles.” But I think this trip helped him regain some of his youth. When he arrived he had color in his cheeks and pep in his step, despite the fact that he was exhausted after such a long drive. It was great to see him and he was awfully sweet to come up for my birthday, since I hadn’t made any friends yet and family live so far away. In return, I spoiled him with starlit nights and culinary delights. After his nap, he and I went for a long walk on the beach, which he loved, and said the landscape reminded him of Morro Bay because of the large rock formations. For dinner I made him my special – chicken potpie, which has sort-of become our favorite “guest meal.” I got the recipe from Comfort Food by Williams-Sonoma, my most favorite cookbook at the moment.

After dinner, we all went outside and lit sparklers. I danced around with my sparkler while my husband watched, smiling. My dad, who is fascinated with outer space, was looking at the star-filled sky. “You know, I haven’t seen this many stars and the Milky Way Galaxy since I was a boy.” He said in wonderment. I thought it was adorable that he called the Milky Way by its proper name. As we all gazed upward, he showed us how to differentiate between a planet and a star – a star “twinkles” a planet doesn’t. When I spotted the planet Venus, he explained why this planet is brighter than any other planet or star in our galaxy – it’s partly due to the highly reflective clouds that surround it. Lying down on an old quilt, he showed me how to spot satellites in space, which I’d never done before. It’s quite simple really, you just stare for a long time in one spot, and all of a sudden you’ll see something that looks like a star moving across the sky at a steady pace. It’s crazy, as soon as you have the eye, you can spot them all over the place. “Ok…that’s a little scary.” I joked. “We’re always being watched by big brother.” Pop said, almost admiringly. Next, he attempted to explain something even scarier – Dark Matter, which is something Einstein tried to prove. I began to realize how smart my dad was on the subject of Astronomy. After all, he has been studying it for pleasure for as long as I can remember. Excitedly, I listened to him explain how outer space is slowly spreading, when all of a sudden I felt just as excited for cake – so we went in.

I had to make my own birthday cake this year. Growing up in the Bay Area, I’ve become spoiled on the best cakes you can buy, and I couldn’t lower myself to eat one from Fred Meyer. Instead, I found a great German chocolate cake recipe and used Scharffenberger chocolate, fresh eggs, sweet cream butter, King Arthur flour, organic pecans and coconut flakes. It was a two tier cake so I smothered the inside layer with the coconut-pecan filling and then I covered it with chocolate ganache frosting. I was a little surprised it turned out so well, as I rarely hit the culinary nail on the head on my first try. It usually takes me two or three attempts before something turns out perfect – like my creamy chicken potpie with its flaky, buttery crust.

After we had our fill of German chocolate cake and ice-cold milk, Pop and I talked and played Kings Corners until after midnight. It was great to spend quality time with him. When I got tired of loosing, I told him about the adventure Tony was taking me on the following day. For my birthday, he was treating me to a kayaking trip on Lake Earl. I’d never been in a kayak before and was beyond excited about our nature quest.

Cake for breakfast? Absolutely!

The next morning was a beautiful, warm summer day. After eating a healthful breakfast together and discussing the highlights of our visit Tony and I said farewell to my dad, who I could tell was excited to hit the road again. As we waved him off, I felt a little sad and melancholy, like I always do whenever I say good-bye to anyone I love.

However, I had little time to wallow in nostalgia. Tony was excitedly making PB&Js and bagging up chips and a soda for our afternoon on the lake. If only I had known what was going to happen I would have brought some water and a more protein enriched meal, like roast beef on a roll!

Crêpes, the Champs-Elysées and Oh Joy! The Arc de Triomphe – Paris Noir 1996, Part IV

Tags

crepes, fashion, food, France, metro, Paris, travel

After our adventure to the town of Enchanted School Children and the Small Castle, we ended up not at the Torcadero but the Champs-Elysées. This was perfectly fine with us, we were in Paris who cares where we ended up. We’d built up quite an appetite wandering and happened upon a crêpe stand shaped like a tiny round house. It’s still there last time we checked in 2009. It sits at the top of the Champs-Elysées, on the outskirts of a lovely park where you can sit and eat your crêpe in peace. The park stretches all the way down the avenue and ends where the stores begin.

Standing in line, anxious to order my very first French crêpe, I realized I didn’t know how to order. How do you say ham and cheese in French? It makes me laugh now because those two words are such an integral part of French cuisine. It’s like saying cheeseburger and fries in the States. After a moment, the nice middle-eastern woman in the stand faintly smiled, patiently waiting for me. I blushed and said, “Ummm, ham and cheese please.” She shook her head and went away. “I make you my favorite.” She said confidently, in good English.

As I watched her smooth the thin batter over the hot disk (which reminded me of a record) with a strange wooden tool, I grew excited. She flipped it once with a long, thin metal spatula and looked at me, as if to make sure I was watching. Next, she smoothed butter on top, sprinkled extra fine sugar and then chopped up banana – at an angle, laying it neatly into one corner of the crêpe. She was good, very-very good. After expertly folding my crêpe, she wrapping it in crisp, white sandwich paper and handed it over to me steaming hot. The exchange reminded me of a nurse handing over a newborn baby wrapped in swaddling clothes. “Merci Beaucoup Madame.” I said smiling gratefully.

Tony didn’t know how to say jambon et fromage either and ordered, “Ham and cheese.” He got ham and cheese. My first bite was crisp and buttery and full of banana flavor. It was utterly delicious. When Tony sat beside me on the park bench we took big bites out of each other’s crêpes. “UH!” He managed to say about my creation. “I know! Right?!” I said enthusiastically. His was really good too. When he had finished his jambon et fromage he ordered another crêpe like mine, along with a big cappuccino. He wanted to make sure we were fueled-up for our next adventure.

As we said au revoir to our crêpe lady and our park bench, I felt a little sad. It was such a great time sitting there talking, kissing and feeding the black birds crêpe crumbs; watching little Parisian children holding and eating their own crêpes without the assistance of their parents. It was a truly magical experience.

As my husband walked me down the Champs-Elysées, touted as the most beautiful avenue in the world, I soon discovered why. It’s the home of Chanel, Louis Pion, Bally, Louis Vuitton, YSL, Peugeot automobiles, and Häagen-Dazs thank you very much. The Champs-Elysées is where the fashion houses are, where they design the most beautiful clothing, and make Haute Couture for the world over. To sum up, whatever is in fashion today comes from this very street. The trends are then imitated or hacked by mall stores brands like Ann Taylor, Banana Republic and Target.

Now, I’m not a materialistic woman. By far, I’ve been wearing the same dress black shoes for almost ten years (hey, they’re good shoes). But when I walked down the Champs Elysees, devouring window displays one after the other, my heart was pounding like crazy! If this is how a woman feels when she is struck by the desire to own a soft as silk, caramel brown leather satchel by YSL then you can count me out. As I nervously walked about the YSL boutique, Tony offered to buy me anything I wanted. I bashfully declined and practically sprinted out the door. It was too rich for my blood, bordering on opulent I told him. In truth, I was afraid the same thing that happened to me at La Farine would happen again (story coming soon). Instead of expensive French pastries, it would be exquisite leather goods. No, my cloth bag from Cost Plus suited me just fine. Of course when we hit Louis Pion, a watch dazzled me there and Tony surprisingly bought it for me, which taught me a valuable lesson. Being newlyweds, we were still learning about each other, and one precious aspect about my husband is that he can refuse me nothing. If I show serious interest in something of quality, he wants to get it for me. It’s so endearing. If I were a different sort of woman however, we would be in serious financial trouble.

Every step we took down the Champs-Elysées filled me with excitement. This wasn’t only due to the fact that it was buzzing with Paris fashion, beautiful people and Häagen-Dazs. We were drawing closer and closer to my most favorite monument in the world – the Arc de Triomphe. When we finally stood across the street from the arch I became so excited that I started laughing and jumping up and down like a schoolgirl. My husband was so surprised that he started laughing too. After making a complete fool of myself and rousing the attention of others, I suddenly stopped and began to cry. As my husband held me, the other tourists walked on, confused – but my husband knew what was happening. This was the second dream that had ever come true for me, in my life. My first was to fall deeply in love with a man who would never hurt me. My second was to go to Paris and see the Arc de Triomphe with my very own eyes. For years it seemed like a pipe dream but there I was, standing before my monument, taking in the beauty of that moment.

How the Arc de Triomphe became MY monument is quite whimsical. Only six years prior, I was a single girl working for The Limited in Oakland. It was pretty mind numbing work, but it paid. One day we received a shipment of clothes and french inspired jewelry, ie: the Eiffel Tower, the Cathedral of Notre Dame, the Louvre Pyramid, etc.. In the mix were five Arc de Triomphe necklaces that hung on long silver chains. At the time I didn’t even know what monument it was, but I liked its symmetry. I bought one and wore it every single day – to work, lounging, dancing, church, everywhere. When people started asking me what it was, I felt compelled to educate myself and find out. I discovered the Arc de Triomphe honors those who fought and died for France in both the French Revolution and the wars during Napoleon’s reign. It’s also a monument to the nameless soldiers who died in WWI. Then, of course there’s the humiliating history: twice Germany marched their troops through the arch in an act of intimidation. After discovering its historical significance I grew curious about the country, which developed my love for all things French.

Arc de Triumphe from the Eiffel Tower

 

 

 

 

 

 

What started out as a fashion piece became a real desire to see the Arc de Triomphe and Paris with my very own eyes, which meant traveling out of the USA, a dream I never thought I could afford. I think I wore that necklace well past the age of thirty, and when the loop that held the chain broke, my heart broke. But I had seen it, I had been to Paris and my experiences there fed my mind and my heart with even more dreams, like attending UC Berkeley at the age of thrity-three (yet another story).

That night, in our shabby little hotel in Paris we slept like newlyweds, and I dreamt of croissants and crêpes…and the Arc de Triomphe. I dreamt I was standing at it’s base, gazing up at the sun, smiling. I remember feeling warm and safe, like I had triumphed myself in a way – and I had. I married a truly great man and he took me to France. Which proves, dreams really do come true.

Getting “Lost” on the Metro – Paris Noir 1996, Part III

Tags

camcorder, food, France, Paris, the metro, travel

Before leaving for France one of our in-laws kindly loaned us their camcorder so we could record our trip. This was to be a thorn in my husband’s side; he hated the thing. Even thought it was documenting such a monumental trip, my first time in Europe – Paris for that matter, the most romantic city in the world! Still, he hated it. In fact, I’m not sure which he disliked more – being filmed by me or lugging it around his neck. Granted this was a 90’s camcorder, a much bulkier, heavier cousin to the ones today. Still, I blame a lot of his attitude on male training. Men are trained their whole lives to be hands-free, carrying all their necessities in their back pocket or inside of their jacket. While we women are taught as toddlers to carry some sort of purse or bag that starts out small when we’re teens, but gets bigger and bigger as we get older. I was only in my twenties and already my bag was the size of a pillowcase.

Once in a while I would carry the camera in my bag, but the rope-like straps dug mercilessly into my shoulder leaving painful red marks. As I looked around at the Parisian women – nary a bag among them, I began to grow jealous of their freedom of movement and carefree attitudes. One word of advice to new travelers: Don’t carry a bag while touristing. You’ll end up picking up a bag here or there while shopping on the Champs Elysees, a Boulangerie-Patisserie or farmers market. That said, by end of day my honey was carrying the camera and several other bags.

This was only our second day in Paris and he accidentally “forgot” the camcorder, so I took a ton of black and white pictures instead. After we finished our first ever street-side petit déjeuner, we walked to the Metro station, figured out how to buy tickets then hopped on the train. What a thrill! The Metro is amazing. It’s so fun, fast and easy (once you get it down) and it’s incredibly dense – there’s a station on every block it seems. Now, I can’t remember if the metro lines were numbered 1-14 in the 90’s like they are today, which makes the system easy to use. We seem to remember they were colored lines (red line, blue line, etc.) that were named after the very last stop the train would make. So, if you wanted to go ten blocks to the Latin Quarter you would take the purple line, Porte d’Orleans. Or if you wanted to see the Eiffel Tower via the Trocadéro like we wanted, you take the green line, Charles de Gaulle – Étoile. It makes sense now but at that time we were newbies. Plus, I was so in awe of everything I saw that I wasn’t paying much attention to where we were going, or how lost we were getting.

As we walked in and out of a dozen stations, Tony was trying to solve the mysteries of le Metro, while I was struck by how old the city was. America is such a baby! You really feel that when you visit European cities for yourself. It still shocks me how American is such a world leader when it’s only 234 years old and France is ~1,000!

After we walked through the Luxembourg Gardens and my husband named each sculpture we encountered (so romantic and funny), he decided he had finally figured out how to get to the Eiffel Tower via the Trocadero, so we hopped back on the Metro. This time we stayed on for about twenty minutes. As the train dipped in and out of tunnels we got a chance to sit and observe Parisians and many of Paris’ Arrondissements (districts/neighborhoods). Silently we rode along, occasionally squeezing each other’s hand, trying to fit in as much as possible. I’d rather die than be viewed as another annoying American in Paris! Besides, it was wonderful just watching everything.

When we finally arrived at our supposed destination, we had to pay to get out of the station. This was curious since our tickets should have been good all over the city. There was a lovely flower stand outside of the station, with beautifully simple arrangements, and a smoke shop across the street surrounded by middle-school kids all in uniforms. The boys, who were dressed in wool navy blue vests, crisp white collard shirts tucked into navy pants, were bustling in and out of the shop. The girls were wearing wool navy cardigan sweaters with beautiful white pique blouses, and wool navy and green plaid, pleated skirts – some long, some short. I noticed the boys were all wearing sensible black leather shoes, while the girls wore black or navy opaque tights and black leather ballet flats. As we descended the sidewalk towards these children, I saw that many of them were talking intensely to each other, smoking casually, or reading by themselves. Who are these kids, I wondered? They seemed like miniature adults to me, their demeanor was so mature and confident and casual. I was dumbfounded, and staring. My husband had to pull me away from the scene and we walked up the hill.

Then we saw the school, which was the shape and style of a miniature castle. It was made of old brick and stone and looked straight out of medieval times. To top it off, a dry mote with two drawbridges surrounded it. I gasped at its beauty. Now I was beginning to wonder where we were. As we read street signs and tried to find them on our Paris map, we were at a loss. Actually, we were lost completely, and loving it. This quaint, hilly town was made complete with cobblestone walls, brick houses with slate roofs, and friendly French people.

Nows the time to differentiate French people from Parisians: Parisians are the people who live in Paris, while the rest of the people who live in provinces, are French. This may sound funny, but they really are two different types of people. Just as people from New York City are very different from people in say, Montauk. I am not suggesting Parisians are unfriendly because we encountered very kind souls in Paris. When we left Paris however, we did find people were a lot more relaxed and amiable.

As we walked about the town, discussing ways in which we can retire there, we bumped into a young man on a skateboard and I asked, “Pardonne-moi, where are we on this map?” He smiled at us and apologized for not knowing any English. My husband gave it a try. This time he got the gist, took our map and pointed off to an imaginary spot. OH! We thanked him, laughing at our idiocy. We were no longer in Paris, but some town on the outskirts. Still laughing, we boarded the Metro again and made it to the Champs-Élysées where I had my first French crêpe, which, like the croissant is near impossible to imitate in the States. The French crepe ties for first place with the pains aux raisins as my most favorite edible in Paris, but we’ll save this experience for next time.

I will say one last thing. To this day, my sweet husband and I don’t know the name of that town. If it sounds familiar to anyone, please enlighten me. Blast! If we had our camcorder we may have some idea…kidding.

Paris Noir 1996, Part I

Tags

1996, France, jet lag, Paris, smoking, travel

“Wait. Is this normal?!” I asked my husband, voice trembling and wide-eyed. “Yes, don’t worry, it’s perfectly normal.” His confidence did comfort me a little, but the bouncing steadily grew worse. Suddenly, the no smoking sign went on overhead and the stewardess asked everyone to please return to their seats, all en Français. Slowly and rather nonchalantly the passengers of over half the plane took their seats, many with lit cigarettes in their hands or hanging dangerously from their lips. For some reason their blasé attitude towards the bouncing 747 relaxed me, so I released my claw-hold from Tony’s arm. I still felt nauseous however, from the non-stop cigarette smoke I’d inhaled over the past 12 hours, but I knew we’d be landing soon. Plus, the face washing and tooth brushing I just executed greatly revived me. Weeks before we got on this Corsair charter to Paris I’d read a travel article in Mademoiselle or somewhere that said, “Before landing a girl should always freshen up in the restroom, remembering to use bottled water.”

Another reason I was feeling good, despite the fact that my tendrils of long brown hair smelled of cigarette butts, was that we were able to sleep during most the flight – thanks to Valium. Still, it was so smoky in the cabin that we had to lay damp bandanas on our faces while we slept. Once, when I got up to use le toilette, I rinsed out my bandana and light brown liquid squeezed out. No joke. Now of course smoking is no longer allowed on international flights, but this was 1996; before ten year-olds were writing reports on the evils of second-hand smoke. In a way, all that smoking on the plane prepared me for how it was going to be in Paris, because Parisians smoke anytime, anywhere, anyhow: In quaint little cafes, swanky restaurants, le Louvre Musée – even in elevators, which are small closets. It’s wildly amusing.

Another good piece of advice that I got from that travel article, was to change your clothes from the comfy ones you wore on the plane to smart, weather appropriate attire. This I did not do, but wished I had. I was fine when we landed, went through customs and retrieved our luggage, because I was excited and it was warm inside. When we stepped outside and hopped into the taxi however, I realized how foolishly I’d packed.

I was a California girl who’d never set a toenail out of the United States and I’d only been out of state twice. The summer I turned fifteen, I accompanied my mom to a family reunion in Missouri; she was to meet her father for the first time, he never showed. The other time, I was twenty-one and flew to Texas for a two-day pharmaceutical convention on behalf of my boss; no fun either. All my life I heard the term Indian summer – October was when temperatures rose to their highest. Now I was in Northern France in October to celebrate our one-year wedding anniversary, and I was freezing. With chattering teeth I asked our taxi driver if he could turn up the heater, “s’il vous plaît,” but he didn’t seem to understand me. My husband gave it a shot and the man nodded and cranked the heat.

This was to happen the entire two weeks we were in France. I, who knew very little French (only a handful of phrases I learned in Let’s Go Paris), but more than my husband, was rarely understood. While my husband, who lived in Rouen (where Joan d’Arc was burned) during the summers with his father, never tried to speak French other than, “Je ne sais pas,” “Non,” and “Whea,” all with attitude and an irreverent tone of voice, yet he always got results. He had it down pat – the whole Parisian attitude, and I loved it. I was too humble to ever force myself on anyone, and lacked the confidence my husband acquired as a man of the world. Instead I was overly friendly, eager to learn, and genuinely in awe of the people and the country. After a few days of this, those we encountered on a daily basis began to melt, and my husband watched in wonder as I charmed the crankiest Parisians into giving me whatever I wanted, even directions – en Anglais.

Our first two days in Paris were a Noir-ish blur. Week’s prior, I responsibly reserved a room for our first couple of nights. I figured if we didn’t like the hotel, we could upgrade somewhere else (which is exactly what we did). Classic scenario: When we clamored into the hotel from the airport, they didn’t have our reservation. “Je suis desole Monsieur et Mademoiselle.” Luckily, I had the name of the person I spoke with so they relented, giving us the only room they had left, which normally cost 500 francs ($100 American) at the rate I was quoted – 250 francs. Sweet! The concierge kept saying something over and over to us en Français, but we were so tired we just nodded in agreement without understanding.

Our room was on the 5th floor, and after trying to cram ourselves into le petit elevator like sardines, my husband sent me up alone with the luggage while he hoofed it up the stairs. We both made it to the 5th floor about the same time. After sloppily unpacking all over the room, we took long needed showers then, instead of heading out to explore Paris, we fell asleep in each other’s arms. It was 3pm but it felt like 3am, and no one ever advised us to adapt to the current time zone NO MATTER WHAT. So we slept…until 2am.

When we awoke, our stomachs were growling ferociously. We were like vampires in serious need of blood. So, after putting on almost every article of clothing I brought, and my husband his fedora, we headed out in search of food. I had in hand the names of two restaurants that were open late, according to Let’s Go Paris. We were staying in the 2nd arrondissement, which was one of the “cheaper” districts in Paris that’s still within walking distance to many of the sights.

When we hit the streets it was straight out of a Noir film. People lurking in the shadows, street lights flickering, the city landscape – a menacing silhouette; a man threw a bottle at us from across the street, and nothing was open. Not a single cheerful crepe stand, no smoky cafe, nor any of the restaurants listed in my travel book. As we walked under a bridge near the River Seine, I felt like the night was closing in on us. Then I heard it, the faint sound of a Jazz trumpet playing. “Hear that?” I asked. For the first time Tony had a glimmer of hope in his eye. “Let’s check it out!”

What we found was a bistro that was vaguely styled after a 1950’s American diner. We laughed at the irony. Inside were several finely dressed couples quietly huddling around their tables. They must have come from l’Opéra de Paris Garnier, which was near by. The jukebox was playing an odd combination of American jazz and 80’s hits, and the only food being served was alcohol. “We’ll have two chocolate milkshakes?” I ordered uncertainly. Our server just looked at me and then walked away. What she brought was literally chocolate milk shaken-up and poured into two small fluted glasses. As we laughed over our first Paris meal and our nighttime adventure, I started to shiver from cold and excitement. Our waitress must have noticed, because she came over and asked if we wanted something to warm us up, or at least that’s what we deduced. “That would be great,” my husband said nodding. She brought us two half-filled glasses of whisky.

Now I was warm. Two more whisky shots and we were back at our hotel, breathless and feeling giddy. After we played around a little we fell asleep, two lovers in Paris. Only to awaken three hours later to the angry yells of the Concierge. “Go! You must go! Remember?” He managed to say en Anglais. “Wha? Why?” My husband said sleepily into the phone. “You move to room you reserve!” He said angrily. “OH, Deco,” (or d’accord, which means OK) my husband said, still asleep. “What did he say?” I murmured from beneath my pillow. He never answered, and we fell back into a deep sleep.

An hour later there was a pounding on our door…

My First Car (or The Day My Life Began), Part II

Tags

California Street, coming of age, driving, family, First Car, Oakland, San Francisco

My brother picked me up (for the LAST time I told myself) in his Datsun 280-Z and together we zoomed over the Bay Bridge to purchase my new set of wings. Once we hit Angel Island we drove around the military parking structure – lost for a while, and then I saw him, the Naval Officer. He was standing next to my car, and it was cuter than I ever imagined! An uncontrollable squeal passed through my lips. I looked at my brother excitedly, but he just said, “Rae be cool.” Between his teeth.

There’s a lot to be said about buying a used vehicle from a person in the Navy. This car looked virtually brand new. It was freshly waxed, the paint was perfect (the benefits of a covered parking garage), the vinyl seats sparkled, none of the piping was ripped, and you could practically eat off of the rubber floor mats. I couldn’t believe he wanted to sell her – then he proudly showed us his brand new sports car, black, with sunroof.  I remember thinking what an odd contrast his two cars made. As I think back, he was probably about 45…”mid-life.”

California Street in San Francisco..."gulp!"

After my brother looked under the hood and drove around the parking lot, he gave us the thumbs-up. I stood shaking as I handed him my money, “Will you take $800?” I smiled, blinking innocently. One side of his mouth went up, “Sure. But promise to take good care of her.” I nodded, afraid to speak. I could feel another squeal building up in my throat.  He took my hard earned cash, we signed the pink slip, shook hands (ouch) and he was gone. I couldn’t believe how easy it was to buy such a big item.

Now, you must remember that it was my brother who test-drove around the parking lot, not me. I was busy ogling the overall splendor of my new wings, when I noticed a long stick with a ball at the end, between the two front seats. “That’s a strange looking E-brake,” I whispered to my brother. He just gave me another wide-eyed look, which meant, “Be cool.” I said no more. Now that we were alone with MY car, I sat in the drivers seat and asked, “What the heck is this stick?! And why are there THREE pedals?!”

“Dude, it’s a manual transmission, a stick shift.” My brother said and started laughing, wickedly. I began to sweat. My mom’s Toyota was an automatic; I’d never driven a stick before. I must have turned bright red because my brother quickly said he would teach me. “Where?” I asked. “We’ll drive around the City together until you feel comfortable enough to drive home alone.” He said, reassuringly. I was still sweating, but it was my brother who taught me how to drive a manual. Besides, how hard could it be?

After a quick lesson around the parking lot we headed onto the freeway, with no plan at all except taking the first exit off of the freeway – Fremont, and into San Francisco. All went exceedingly well and even my brother was a little impressed at how calm I was, but we were still on the freeway. As I took the Fremont exit I almost drove us into the bus terminal. I was downshifting for the first time, grinding the gears trying to find third when my brother yelled, “Get over!” I did immediately, without looking. Thank goodness no one was there. I began to shake. “Turn left here,” he said casually, so I did. It was California Street. I was beginning to feel a little uneasy about all this stop and go clutch, brake, clutch, gas, break, clutch. Then I looked up. “Why did you tell me to turn? It’s straight up!” I yelled at him, tears springing from my eyes. He started laughing, having the time of his life. “Dude, you’ve got to learn how to drive up and down hills using your clutch!” He was right, but this was definitely a crash course in manual driving. Peter always did like torturing me…

Like the time I was nine, sleeping peacefully in bed when I heard a muffled, “Rae. Rae, wake up.” When I opened my eyes I was nose to nose with the devil’s skull, or Peter wearing a Halloween skull mask, complete with dark, hollow eyes, white boney features and black sackcloth. I screamed, and then I fainted. He was nice enough to shake me conscience, and was holding the mask in his hands when I awoke. I think he let me strike him, then he apologized and his eyes were sincere so I forgave him. He can’t help it, he’s a boy I thought, plus I always knew that deep down my brother truly loved me. He just had a hard time showing it in healthy ways…like now.

As we drove UP UP UP California in first gear, then second, I could feel all the weight of the car pulling me backwards, it was a horrible feeling. Also, I saw cars building up behind me, and the car directly behind me was a shiny black limousine. “PETER!” I screamed, looking in my rear view mirror. He looked back and his smile went away. Long story short, I must have burned 1/2 ” of rubber off of my tires that day, but I mastered California and I became an exceptional parallel parker.

As I followed my brother back over the Bay Bridge I blinked my lights at him in gratitude. When he took his exit off of the freeway I kept going. I was alone, in my own car, destination unknown. I began to weep, then I quickly stopped because I didn’t want to crash my new car. I thanked God for protecting my brother and me while we terrorized our fellow drivers.

I drove all around the beautiful city of Oakland – Piedmont, Montclair, Rockridge, Broadway then Jack London Square. I parked in the staff parking lot and ran into work to show my best friend, Keith, my new set of wheels. “Dude! Awesome!” He said excitedly. I told him the whole story and we both laughed.

Thus, began my life…

My First Car (or The Day My Life Began), Part I

Tags

Bay Area, coming of age, family, First Car

The car I wanted...a vintage BMW 2002.

The car I could afford...a 1978 Ford Fiesta, Hatchback.

Time has a tendency to wash away certain memories (thankfully), but I can still remember my firsts: First kiss, first fight, first boyfriend, first time, first heartbreak, first tattoo, first arrest (just kidding). These memories are a little foggy now, but I’ll never forget my first car. Some people can remember their lives very early on; my nephew says he remembers when he was born! I think my life really began when I turned seventeen.

I graduated from High School via night school, I started wearing make-up (hooray for lipstick!), I had a true best friend (Baby Dog) and I got my first full-time job at Pier 1 Imports in Oakland’s Jack London Square. I was ready to start living my life. The next step was to buy my first car.

Over the years I’d already mastered the bus, BART, Amtrak, SF Muni, Cable Cars, and my mom’s 1981 Toyota Corolla – strictly used to pick-up groceries or to clean the doctor’s offices (another story for another day). But more than anything, I wanted to get out of town on my own, with my dog, in my own car. I wanted to see the world (or at least the Bay Area) without having to rely on people to take me where I wanted to go…and I wanted to park in the “staff only” parking lot at work.

Almost every one of my friends got jobs after graduation. I think two enrolled in community college and zero went away to university. We all worked for a living, at Croll’s Pizza, Walden Books, Burger King, or Ross. Nobody thought any differently, because we were all taught to be laborers, not rocket scientists. And none of us expected our parents to buy our first car for HS graduation or for our 18th birthday like they do in the movies. Nope, if you wanted a car you had to save up and buy one yourself.

It took me nine months to save $800 working for Pier 1. I called my brother the day I found a car in the classifieds and asked if he would accompany me to Angel Island, where a retired naval officer was ready to sell me his 1976 Ford Fiesta Hatchback, new condition with low miles for $900 – “firm.” He’ll forfeit the extra hunski as soon as he sees my winning smile, I thought.

I used to dream that my first car would be a vintage BMW called the 2002. There was an orange one parked on the other side of Alameda, where the “rich” people lived that I would pass by to and from cleaning the offices at night. I wanted that car so much that I used to park across the street and just look at it. I would fantasize about the wonderful places I would go and how fabulous I would look. The sign in the window read $4,000.

After working for three months at Pier 1 I was promoted to Assistant Manger, making $5.50/hr from $4.25 and I saw the reality of my situation. It would take me YEARS to save for that car. Yes, it hurt as reality can, but I took it on the chin and moved on. My brother’s wife had a Ford Fiesta, and I suppose I admired her because she was my brother’s wife and four years older than me. I remember hearing Anne Shirley say, “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.” It would be a romantic gesture.

In truth, I was ready to buy anything….