July 2, 2019 Ah Paris

The day finally arrived for me to fly off on my adventure. My daughter Katryn drove me to Toronto's Pearson International Airport, we quickly jumped out of the car in the departure drop off area, hugged each other and she waved me on my way with the same expression on her face as had been on mine when I waved her on HER way to her first day of kindergarten. Have fun! GULP! I had insisted on arriving at least 2 hours early to the airport fearing that I would get lost, or have trouble bumbling my way through hordes of people. I felt a little ridiculous. My Tilly hat was too new, I barely knew how to carry my backpack, I still struggled when I needed to lock and unlock my new walking sticks, I really wasn't sure that I chose the right bras. I'm a 58 yr old woman for God's Sake! What the heck was I doing? I had mastered finding my electronic ticket on my new cell phone and had it ready to share at a moments notice to anyone interested. I felt like the novice that I was. I was ready and anticipating my first road block in the biggest airport in Canada. However for some reason I was fast tracked through security and was at my gate within 10 minutes. I have no idea why. Maybe those young security guys could see the worry in my eyes and decided to help me out? Maybe it was a slow day? Anyways it was the evening of July 1st, Canada Day, and I was hoping to see fireworks over Toronto as I flew away from my safety net over the Atlantic all by myself. I saw no fireworks, just calm open seas which probably was the parable that I would cling to over the next two months. I had no problem fitting my backpack into the overhead compartment. Even my walking sticks collapsed small enough to fit inside the backpack for the voyage which had worried me. I had heard horror stories of walking sticks being forced to stay behind because of the spike on the tip, but because mine were able to store in my backsack I had not one problem. So, with compression socks on, sleeping mask at the ready, movies to enjoy and food served I thoroughly enjoyed my flight to Europe.

I made it to Paris at around 12:30pm on July 2nd. It was a pretty easy flight all in all. To my surprise the Air Transat plane landed on the tarmac outside of Charles de Gaulle airport in front of a tiny terminal, a little like my Calm Air flight arrival at the tiny Flin Flon airport but in this case there were over 500 people needing to exit the craft. Oddly, after the pilots turned off the engines, they also turned off all of the cabin lights and air conditioning. Most of the crew abandoned ship and the rest of us lined up quietly in the dark aisles of the plane waiting for our turn to hop onto a shuttle bus that would take us to the customs terminal, about 30 people at a time.

For some reason, like many people I assume, I get nervous at Customs. I have a tendency to play headgames and am quite bossy with myself. 'This is not the time to make a joke', 'Be polite' 'Where is my passport?' 'What is the address of the place I am staying at again?' 'Will he or she understand my french?' Anyways, in short, I had no problems at all. Easy! I was tired from the flight but pretty proud to have travelled at least to France... totally on my own. Maybe I got this!

The Terminal that we were taken to was really a small out of the way building. I was expecting to exit the plane walking through the same Main Terminal that my family had walked through 10 years earlier leading me to a row of Taxis that would take me to my loft in Montmartre. No such luck. I was following the exit signs out of the Terminal with a few other people when a fellow came to me asking whether I needed a taxi. I said yes and followed him to a unmarked black van. I hesitated but got in and we headed off before I noticed other cabs with TAXI signs driving past me and then I noticed a baby seat behind me.

Uh oh! Well, here we go I thought! Mistake #2. The good news was that he did take me to my destination... bad news as I was getting out he wanted 150 euros for his trouble. Here my middle-aged-indignant-self appeared and I glared at him and disbelievingly shouted 'Are you kidding?!" He offered some excuse about the going rate etc. Luckily I had brought some extra 'if I do a dumb thing' cash with me, gave it to the guy with a mom 'shame on you' disgusted look on my face, grabbed my backpack and stepped into Paris.

Notes from my diary

As instructed by the VRBO owner I found the 'blue door' on the street that would lead to the courtyard where the loft is located . I walked through the large Blue Doors, down a short hallway, and to the left was the door to my loft. The cleaning woman was still finishing up the room when I arrived but she allowed me to drop off my backback with a suggestion to come back in an hour or two.

She quickly gave me instructions on how to get into the building when it is locked. Oddly this 400yr old building uses a City of Flin Flon type fob to get into the general facility and vestibule. The large skeleton key to get into the loft itself looks like something a prison warden might carry. Once getting this important information I was happy to stretch my legs and explore the area. This afternoon I roamed around Montmartre, L'abbe de Montmartre celebrating its 870th Anniversary! and the Basilica of Sacre Coeur. I finally accomplished my bucket list of reading a book in a cafe in Montmartre. (The Great Gatsby was the book that landed on my lap when I was visiting Katryn. Her condo has a lending library. She noticed the book and I realized that I had never read it before and I nabbed it. It's a fun read. I've purchased some brie cheese, artisan bread, Chateau Frontenac wine, am now trying to keep myself awake until 8:30pm. It's been a good day.

REALITY CHECK

So one of my bucket lists was to 'read a book at a cafe in Montmartre' That was all that I told myself that I wanted. No clarification of what book to bring, no time limit, no choice of wine to go with the book, simply 'Read a book in a cafe in Montmarte'. Well sometimes 'bucket lists' have a way of becoming illusions. My imagination saw myself sitting romantically in an outdoor Paris cafe, with book in hand, perhaps a latte or glass of red wine on the table in front of me, reading as long as I wanted undisturbed. I wanted to be Kevin Imrie at the Orange Toad in 'his' chair reading poetry with the odd person saying 'Hi Kevin how are you doing' not expecting a reply and feeling that all is well in the world when Kevin is there reading his book. (People in Flin Flon will know the reference, others can imagine it). The reality is that no matter how hard I tried, I could not commit to 'the perfect book' until a few hours before leaving Toronto when passing by the communal library in my daughter Katryn's condo I found the small soft covered 'Gatsby' waiting for me. I grabbed it. The other reality is that Montmartre is busy! Every café seemed full to capacity and everyone was run off their feet, stressed out and a little threatening if truth be told. I finally chose a quintessential outdoor café. I made myself comfortable, opened The Great Gatsby to page one when a young somewhat disgruntled waiter plopped a menu in front of me and evaporated into the crowd. I looked through the menue, realizing that I was actually hungry, looked at what other people were eating a few inches away from me and made a preliminary choice. My waiter returned and I tried to nonchalantly request my choice in my first attempt at French since 2009. He huffed, I quickly pointed to my selection and he snapped up the menue and took off. Back to page one. Then my attention wandered to the young woman about two yards from me who was trying to entice people into her café. I thought, 'Gee she looks nice, I should have gone there', back to page one. On page two my meal was flung in front of me. It was delicious and beautiful to look at. Once finished I returned to my book attempting page two again. Within a few seconds my empty plates were whisked away and then there was the juggle of payment. Do I pay now? Do I pay later? How much? Trying to remember what to tip. By the time that rather awkward experience was done it became apparent that my time there was at an end and the seat should be released for another patron. I guess I did accomplish my goal but it made me wonder at that moment what other assumptions I had made that might prove challenging. And page three would have to wait for another day.

I have always wanted to rent a little loft in Montmartre...and so I have! The main floor was about twice the size of my old arts council office (which essentially is comprised of a desk and a filing cabinet)...and the bed is actually in a loft! Two big windows open to a private patio which is lovely and also so foreign to us Canadians. I am typing this to you right now enjoying the lovely breeze in this little space while wondering whether someone is going to walk up to my window for a chat (or simply jump in for a glass of wine). The sounds remind me of mine and my mom's favourite movie called Summertime, with Katherine Hepburn. In the movie Katherine a middle aged single woman is traveling to Italy alone. While she is walking through the streets the director amplifies the sounds around her. With these full length windows wide open I can hear a mom and child arrive arriving home to get dinner ready, a repairmen fixing something in the vestibule, people chatting as they return from work. It's so unlike anything we experience at home in Canada with our triple paned air-tight buildings. It's quite lovely.

The lovely woman inviting people into her cafe.

Montmartre, Paris

The Courtyard of my loft