It’s Saturday in France; in Tours, to be more precise.
I’ve lost about half a day, somewhere, in my circadian rhythm, mostly desiccated (along with my nose and throat linings) in the A320 over the Atlantic, I’m sure.
I had a bit of kerfuffle getting to the airport in Seattle and then getting out of the airport at Roissy-Charles de Gaulle. For one thing, it always takes me a while to get to know a new clutch’s feel, so I hop and jerk about at least long enough to give the rental guys alternate hysterics and panic attacks. I'm driving a tiny Fiesta I've named Le Lapin Gris, and my sat-nav is a posh English cow I call Jill.
.
I admit I was white-knuckled part of the time in traffic getting around Paris. And it seems like I was only in the industrial part—which went on for many, many kilometers. At one point I thought I must be passing over a garbage dump that hadn’t been processed since Mitterrand’s presidency; the stench was enough to peel your skin.
And then there were the motorcyclists—who are apparently legally allowed to whiz between two lanes of traffic with the urgency of carrying orders from Garcia. They can do that in California, too; but here I swear the highway lanes are narrower and there’s nothing like trying to shift gears smoothly in an unfamiliar car, follow the instructions of that sat-nav cow and then suddenly seeing some two-wheeled maniac coming into your side vision (since cars are too close behind you to give you any rear view) about 7 cm off your side mirror, just as he’s scooting ahead.
So, by the time I got to Chartres, if I hadn’t already had the intention of laying down my burdens, I would have laid down the burdens of travel and French drivers. (Apparently it’s illegal to let someone signaling a lane change into traffic in front of you; but you do get extra points if you jump in ahead of someone else who’s committed the cardinal error of leaving half a car-length of space in front of her.)
The Chartres experience requires its own post(s); it was so intense and I’m still absorbing it some. Let me just say: that is some special space, sui generis.
Right now I’m doing the unheard-of (for me): lingering in the breakfast room & not doing anything (except writing this, which I’m about to stop). As soon as this post hits the web, I’m officially back to living in the moment.
This magic is starting to work already.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Thursday, November 19, 2009
D-day
Well, I’m coming down to the final hours in dreary, rainy Seattle. I’ve packed my bag three times (and, lordy, but it’s heavy). My carry-on is just about ready to go—I’ll have to stuff my down parka in it just before I leave, to cushion my two cameras and the netbook.
House is prepped for the cat-sitter. I’m leaving these weird wall heaters (fed by the tankless water heater) on incredibly low, as that seems to keep things livable. Especially if you’re a girl wearing a fur coat.
Last night and earlier this morning was a flurry of last-minute “where did I put that?” hunts. I’m trying not to obsess, but I want to make sure that all the things I thought of as being needed for this trip are indeed going with me. I’ve got paper copies of confirmations for hotels, rental car, TGV, Heathrow Express, flights. Probably other stuff, too, but this is all I can think of now.
Once I get on the plane I can relax some. Actually, I can relax a lot. They’d better have Champagne; they’re Air France, after all.
As one of my main goals is to be in the moment (as we say on the Left Coast), as I was taking that trip on a bicycle, I do not intend to spend massive amounts of time either planning my next step or analyzing what just happened. In my mind I shall once again be riding L’escargot rouge, have plenty of time to absorb what’s around me now, and stop to examine more closely something that strikes my interest.
Le voyage commence.
House is prepped for the cat-sitter. I’m leaving these weird wall heaters (fed by the tankless water heater) on incredibly low, as that seems to keep things livable. Especially if you’re a girl wearing a fur coat.
Last night and earlier this morning was a flurry of last-minute “where did I put that?” hunts. I’m trying not to obsess, but I want to make sure that all the things I thought of as being needed for this trip are indeed going with me. I’ve got paper copies of confirmations for hotels, rental car, TGV, Heathrow Express, flights. Probably other stuff, too, but this is all I can think of now.
Once I get on the plane I can relax some. Actually, I can relax a lot. They’d better have Champagne; they’re Air France, after all.
As one of my main goals is to be in the moment (as we say on the Left Coast), as I was taking that trip on a bicycle, I do not intend to spend massive amounts of time either planning my next step or analyzing what just happened. In my mind I shall once again be riding L’escargot rouge, have plenty of time to absorb what’s around me now, and stop to examine more closely something that strikes my interest.
Le voyage commence.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
D minus one
It always seems as though the days surrounding a vacation require twice hethe work you’d ordinarily produce. For some reason, my own job, which had been pottering along for a while, suddenly shifted into overdrive. In the past four work days (plus the weekend) I’ve had to produce marketing materials drafts, mockups, scenario scripts and questions for focus groups that are being held while I’m away; pick up the slack from my technical colleague who simply doesn’t do anything that doesn’t interest him; come up with value propositions and pricing for channel sales and pricing/justification for licensing fees—well, you get the drift.
I feel like that song Lili von Stupp sings in Blazing Saddles:
“I'm tired,
Sick and tired of love,
I've had my fill of love,
From below and above,
Tired,
Tired of being admired,
Tired of love uninspired,
Let's face it,
I'm tired!”
Just substitute “work” for “love”.
Still, I’ve also crossed a lot off the trip preparation list. Notified my credit card company to expect charges in different places (didn’t have to worry about that in ’79; no credit card).
Confirmed hotel bookings (ditto—I spent my nights in youth hostels, forests, vineyards and…well, I’ll go into that later).
Organized all my guide materials (I photocopy them so I can toss after used—30 years ago I had a Let’s Go guide to France; I was flying completely blind in Spain, nothing but my Michelin map).
Did a trial run of packing, including an empty bag for the return trip because dirty clothes always seem to take up more room than clean ones and because I’m notorious for buying books on my trips (on the Motobécane I had two panniers, a handlebar bag and a knapsack; not much to pack)
Confirmed my credit card’s insurance coverage for the rental car (not a factor when you’re traveling by bike).
Downloaded music to my pod (none of that MP3 nonsense back in those days—we entertained ourselves, you youngsters).
Oh, also fighting a sore throat/cold. Not surprised that my resistance went to hell, but I’m trying to trick myself into forgetting all about that.
So—final day at work before setting out. I can not wait.
I feel like that song Lili von Stupp sings in Blazing Saddles:
“I'm tired,
Sick and tired of love,
I've had my fill of love,
From below and above,
Tired,
Tired of being admired,
Tired of love uninspired,
Let's face it,
I'm tired!”
Just substitute “work” for “love”.
Still, I’ve also crossed a lot off the trip preparation list. Notified my credit card company to expect charges in different places (didn’t have to worry about that in ’79; no credit card).
Confirmed hotel bookings (ditto—I spent my nights in youth hostels, forests, vineyards and…well, I’ll go into that later).
Organized all my guide materials (I photocopy them so I can toss after used—30 years ago I had a Let’s Go guide to France; I was flying completely blind in Spain, nothing but my Michelin map).
Did a trial run of packing, including an empty bag for the return trip because dirty clothes always seem to take up more room than clean ones and because I’m notorious for buying books on my trips (on the Motobécane I had two panniers, a handlebar bag and a knapsack; not much to pack)
Confirmed my credit card’s insurance coverage for the rental car (not a factor when you’re traveling by bike).
Downloaded music to my pod (none of that MP3 nonsense back in those days—we entertained ourselves, you youngsters).
Oh, also fighting a sore throat/cold. Not surprised that my resistance went to hell, but I’m trying to trick myself into forgetting all about that.
So—final day at work before setting out. I can not wait.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
D minus two
I’m coming down to two work days before my trip to France, and I have to say that, if I hadn’t already had the goal of shaking off this veil of Seattle misery, I’d have had to add it to my list of must-dos.
It’s got to the point where I’ve started dropping data—and I’m not talking bits, here, I mean entire data streams.
Naturally (even though my product launch has been delayed two months—the latest delay), the number of tasks I have to complete before leaving has metastasized. But I’ll get done what I can and they’ll have to get along without me for two weeks, because I don’t check on work email while I’m on holiday. That’s why they call it “holiday”.
I’m just trying to not wind myself up to the max—I’m already about 90% there and I want to get rid of this sore throat before I board that flight. So I’m practicing deep breathing and restraint.
And holding out the option that I could always stay in France and become a migrant grape picker.
It’s got to the point where I’ve started dropping data—and I’m not talking bits, here, I mean entire data streams.
Naturally (even though my product launch has been delayed two months—the latest delay), the number of tasks I have to complete before leaving has metastasized. But I’ll get done what I can and they’ll have to get along without me for two weeks, because I don’t check on work email while I’m on holiday. That’s why they call it “holiday”.
I’m just trying to not wind myself up to the max—I’m already about 90% there and I want to get rid of this sore throat before I board that flight. So I’m practicing deep breathing and restraint.
And holding out the option that I could always stay in France and become a migrant grape picker.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Poor wayfaring stranger
Thirty years ago I took a trip…
Well, let me go back a bit to explain.
In May of the summer between my junior and senior years in college, my mother was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. She’d been acting, well, not like herself for some months—she was fearful, which was the antithesis of her normal self. And for the first time she’d let more than a year go by between annual exams.
A lifelong smoker, she’d been afraid the verdict would be emphysema, but instead it was so much worse.
Diagnosed in May, dead by December.
During her final hospitalization (which we all knew would indeed be final), my sisters, father and I took turns staying with her. Since I was going to school 30 miles away, I’d drive there on a Monday, stay two nights, return to take the night shift on Wednesday, out to Claremont on Thursday and then back that night. I also took Sunday night, so Monday morning, when my sister relieved me, I headed out to school again.
On Saturday, 2 December, I turned in two papers for different classes to the library, where they would be read and critiqued by classmates. On Sunday, Mom died. On Monday I defended one paper and on Tuesday I defended the other.
And then, from the 5th on until the beginning of February I have absolutely no idea whatsoever what I did, where I went, who I saw. (And, you understand, I didn’t have any recollection even in February of what I’d done for the previous two months.) I had my final semester of classes to take, a thesis to write; and basically I just soldiered on putting one foot in front of the other, without really knowing what was going on around me.
Around March, I happened to be in a church with a chapel devoted to Saint Francis. Francis always struck me as being a standup guy. For one thing, ya just gotta love a guy who tweaks the nose of Pope Innocent III. And then there’s the recognition of animals as something more than just creatures to be exploited by humans. Even his mysticism is something I can get my head around. With Francis, pretty much what you see is what you get.
So I, feeling pretty haggard on all fronts, made a vow to Saint Francis: get me through to graduation and I’ll go on pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela.
Well, blow me if I didn’t make it to May—even graduating Phi Beta Kappa. Go figure.
But then, as is my wont, I embarked on a campaign of equivocation. I mean—I’d just graduated, I had to find a job, I had to get my life in gear, didn’t I?
Well, let me just say that you shouldn’t mess with a saint. Nothing in my life was going right. Couldn’t find a job—wasn’t even sure what I wanted a job to be; so I worked temporary gigs. The men in my life…well, ’nuff said.
And then, in October, I was eating dinner at the Hungry Tiger with a friend, whining about how I couldn’t seem to organize my way out of a paper bag, and I didn’t even go on pilgrimage and now it was too late and blah, blah, blah.
He just looked at me and said, “Well, you’re not doing anything right now that you can’t leave and come back to later. Why don’t you just go?”
Oh. Right.
So, within about a week, I’d put my stuff in storage (thanks, Leilah and Colleen for helping; we’ll all never forget the sight of the two of you whizzing down the hall with my black fake leather sofa-bed, laughing like lunatics), prepped my Motobécane, emptied my savings account (I didn’t have a credit card) and bought my ticket on the Laker Airways Skytrain.
It was an extraordinary, for me, journey. Wonderful things happened all along the way. People offered help in a multitude of ways. And it turns out you meet the most interesting folks when you’re riding a bike. (At least in France; not so much in the north of Spain.)
If you’ve been following my musings in this blog, you know that this past year has been rough on me. So, along about August I thought I’d like to replicate at least part of that trip, see if I can reconnect with that brave and hopeful young woman who was open to all sorts of things. Who persevered when her knees were damaged (her own fault, as it turns out) and when it was chucking it down rain (I learned that after a certain point you can’t get any wetter than you already are, so you might as well keep pedaling)—even climbing through Roncevaux, in the Pyrénees (on the advice of Colleen, sofa shover and medievalist, I kept a sharp eye out for my baggage train, to avoid that whole Roland thing).
I delayed this trip twice due to work issues (and when I advised my manager that I was taking it the last two weeks in November, she actually asked, “You wouldn’t consider December?”), but now I’m ready to head out.
Thursday I’ll be on Air France flight 309, Seattle to Paris. I’ll pick up a rental car and start my abbreviated pilgrimage. (No, I’m not riding a bike and no, I’m not staying in youth hostels.) First stop: Chartres.
I’ll be referencing my journal of 1979 as I make my way along the Route de Saint Jacques de Compostelle. And I’ll be posting every day as I progress.
I invite you to come along with me—in a vicarious sort of way. And have a good thought or two that I achieve my goal.
Well, let me go back a bit to explain.
In May of the summer between my junior and senior years in college, my mother was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. She’d been acting, well, not like herself for some months—she was fearful, which was the antithesis of her normal self. And for the first time she’d let more than a year go by between annual exams.
A lifelong smoker, she’d been afraid the verdict would be emphysema, but instead it was so much worse.
Diagnosed in May, dead by December.
During her final hospitalization (which we all knew would indeed be final), my sisters, father and I took turns staying with her. Since I was going to school 30 miles away, I’d drive there on a Monday, stay two nights, return to take the night shift on Wednesday, out to Claremont on Thursday and then back that night. I also took Sunday night, so Monday morning, when my sister relieved me, I headed out to school again.
On Saturday, 2 December, I turned in two papers for different classes to the library, where they would be read and critiqued by classmates. On Sunday, Mom died. On Monday I defended one paper and on Tuesday I defended the other.
And then, from the 5th on until the beginning of February I have absolutely no idea whatsoever what I did, where I went, who I saw. (And, you understand, I didn’t have any recollection even in February of what I’d done for the previous two months.) I had my final semester of classes to take, a thesis to write; and basically I just soldiered on putting one foot in front of the other, without really knowing what was going on around me.
Around March, I happened to be in a church with a chapel devoted to Saint Francis. Francis always struck me as being a standup guy. For one thing, ya just gotta love a guy who tweaks the nose of Pope Innocent III. And then there’s the recognition of animals as something more than just creatures to be exploited by humans. Even his mysticism is something I can get my head around. With Francis, pretty much what you see is what you get.
So I, feeling pretty haggard on all fronts, made a vow to Saint Francis: get me through to graduation and I’ll go on pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela.
Well, blow me if I didn’t make it to May—even graduating Phi Beta Kappa. Go figure.
But then, as is my wont, I embarked on a campaign of equivocation. I mean—I’d just graduated, I had to find a job, I had to get my life in gear, didn’t I?
Well, let me just say that you shouldn’t mess with a saint. Nothing in my life was going right. Couldn’t find a job—wasn’t even sure what I wanted a job to be; so I worked temporary gigs. The men in my life…well, ’nuff said.
And then, in October, I was eating dinner at the Hungry Tiger with a friend, whining about how I couldn’t seem to organize my way out of a paper bag, and I didn’t even go on pilgrimage and now it was too late and blah, blah, blah.
He just looked at me and said, “Well, you’re not doing anything right now that you can’t leave and come back to later. Why don’t you just go?”
Oh. Right.
So, within about a week, I’d put my stuff in storage (thanks, Leilah and Colleen for helping; we’ll all never forget the sight of the two of you whizzing down the hall with my black fake leather sofa-bed, laughing like lunatics), prepped my Motobécane, emptied my savings account (I didn’t have a credit card) and bought my ticket on the Laker Airways Skytrain.
It was an extraordinary, for me, journey. Wonderful things happened all along the way. People offered help in a multitude of ways. And it turns out you meet the most interesting folks when you’re riding a bike. (At least in France; not so much in the north of Spain.)
If you’ve been following my musings in this blog, you know that this past year has been rough on me. So, along about August I thought I’d like to replicate at least part of that trip, see if I can reconnect with that brave and hopeful young woman who was open to all sorts of things. Who persevered when her knees were damaged (her own fault, as it turns out) and when it was chucking it down rain (I learned that after a certain point you can’t get any wetter than you already are, so you might as well keep pedaling)—even climbing through Roncevaux, in the Pyrénees (on the advice of Colleen, sofa shover and medievalist, I kept a sharp eye out for my baggage train, to avoid that whole Roland thing).
I delayed this trip twice due to work issues (and when I advised my manager that I was taking it the last two weeks in November, she actually asked, “You wouldn’t consider December?”), but now I’m ready to head out.
Thursday I’ll be on Air France flight 309, Seattle to Paris. I’ll pick up a rental car and start my abbreviated pilgrimage. (No, I’m not riding a bike and no, I’m not staying in youth hostels.) First stop: Chartres.
I’ll be referencing my journal of 1979 as I make my way along the Route de Saint Jacques de Compostelle. And I’ll be posting every day as I progress.
I invite you to come along with me—in a vicarious sort of way. And have a good thought or two that I achieve my goal.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)