Eight-Week Europe Solo Travel 2011: Don't Turn Right at the Left Bank

Tuesday, 5/24/2011, Paris France, Journal Excerpt

I'll be brief because I am tired. It's been a long day, and I have lost another hour in yet another time change from England to France. But today I was more energized than I have been in days. Got up at 5:00am and was at breakfast at 6:30am, and quite early for the Queen Mary 2's disembarkation call at Southampton. I vacated the cabin with my two small bags. In hindsight, I wished I'd stayed and done some yoga and Pilates. As it was, I was so early I had time to fill out my customs card for Eurostar and brush up on my French.

I sat outside the Royal Theater and did so until 7:45am. Then I went into the theater where all the other passengers heading to Paris on the train were to gather and was still flipping through my phrase book when Nicole arrived. We had a pleasant discussion about movies and television, then we got off the ship and unto a bus that took us, after 2 hours, to St. Pancras station. Nicole and I had a light lunch, then embarked on the EuroStar train. We were in two separate cars. Mine was Car 5. I got on and immediately set down my ticket. I stowed two bags above my head and sat down and then I realized I hadn't verified I was in the right seat. But now I couldn't find my ticket. A French man sat down next to me. I told him I might be getting up because I didn't have my ticket and I wasn't sure I was in the right seat. He assured me it happened all the time and not to worry. It was probably in my pocket somewhere. He was right. When I picked up my coat to stow it, the ticket was on the seat underneath. I had been sitting on it. What was strange was that I was in exactly the right seat!

Nicole and me eating our one meal in England (at St. Pancras station) before getting on the EuroStar train to Paris.

The ride was 2 1/2 hours of rolling countryside, several short tunnels, then the long Chunnel itself—25 minutes or so. I sipped the Guinness I'd bought at the station and read my phrase book. And I congratulated myself that things were going pretty well. I had been ahead of schedule all day and even my confusion with misplacing my ticket had not led to catastrophe. I went over in my head my plan to get my train ticket to Germany as soon as I got to the Paris Nord station. I was meeting friends in Dresden on Thursday.

I got to the Paris station, saw Nicole get off the train, and waved to her. We walked out to the taxi area together and she got in line for the taxi. I said goodbye to her and went back into the station to make a reservation for Dresden. I couldn't figure out what window was the one I wanted. The only one for tickets seemed to have a long line. I stood in it for 5 minutes then realized I didn't have time for this. I asked at a small shop across the way for a disposable phone, but the young man said, "It is not possible!" I think he was wrong, but I had no time to find out. I had a car and driver waiting for me outside.

I thought.

Turns out, he/she was nowhere in sight. I waited for 15 minutes at the taxi stand then asked some limo drivers who were standing in front of a sign that said "Limos and hired cars" and they said a driver would either be right there or around the front of the station. I thought I was already at the front of the station. I walked around to the “other” front and waited there for 25 minutes. No show. Then I went inside to try to call the emergency number for the tour group who set up the car and driver. I went to the phone and set down my small blue bag between my feet, hoping to use a credit card to charge the call, but I wasn't sure that was the right thing to do. So I went to the tobacconist nearby and I bought a telephone card. When I returned there were a couple of security guards standing around. I walked back to the phone and saw that my little blue bag was still sitting there. What a relief that no one had stolen it! A security guard came over and pointed at the bag with a question “Is yours?”

“Yes,” I said.

The other guard looked at me pointedly and said, “Be more careful!”

I have to admit that at this point I rolled my eyes in true French fashion. I had so much on my mind, how could I be more careful! What I wanted was their help dialing the phone, but they walked away and I decided that I could figure it out by myself. I dialed, but nothing. I probably dialed too many numbers—including the country code, but I couldn't see what I was doing because it was so dark in the corner where the phones were.

I went back outside. There were a million taxis, but no “limos” or other cars without taxi signs. I decided to just get into a taxi and get to my hotel. After two hours, I was finally at my hotel. (Actually I walked into the hotel next door by mistake first—they are all so close together. But I'd stopped counting these small problems at this point.)

One of the photos adorning the walls of my room at the Hotel Quartier Latin. I believe this shows Collette writing in bed, but I was not able to confirm this with the hoteliers. Anyone?

I was so relieved to be at this charming little place called the Hotel Quartier Latin, which is all about the Left Bank artist scene. Photographs of writers and artists, plus doodles and writings from some of them, are hung along the walls creating a little art gallery.

Once I hung up a handful of clothes I needed for the next day, I splashed water on my face and headed to the lobby in search of a Parisian dinner. I asked the concierge for a quiet place off the main street, but he didn't live there and didn't have a suggestion. A British woman standing behind me, however, said, "Excuse me," and described a street a couple blocks over where there were many tiny restaurants and it was very quiet.

My favorite restaurant on the Left Bank: Restaurant L'Etoile du Berger (roughly translated as the Shepherd's Star Restaurant). I did, indeed, come back here for the fondue after I returned from Dresden.

She was right: the street was cobbled and silent except for an occasional motor bike zooming by. I found a wonderful fondue place—tiny—with stone and mortar walls. Only one other couple was inside. I overheard them tell the owner/maitre'de that they were from South Africa and that a friend from the United States told them to eat there. Wow! How did I manage to stumble upon such a popular place? I ate a wonderful duck confit with roast potatoes and a pitcher of wine—“la pichet de vin rouge.” I wish to go back there when I return to Paris after visiting friends in Dresden and order the fondue—I must!

I walked nonchalantly back to the room and busied myself with social media for a while. It was late when I went to bed—about 2:00 in the morning. The time had changed ONCE AGAIN and it was one hour later than in England. I had wanted to be up the next morning in time to be at breakfast when it opened at 7:00 so I could get my train reservation for Dresden and find a disposable phone before hitting the Louvre. But with the new time, I decided to let myself sleep until 7:00. I was exhausted.

My room at the Hotel Quartier Latin, Paris.

To Be Continued.

This blog is based on a blog that appeared on the electricrider.net sit in May 2011.

Eight-Week Europe Solo Travel 2011: Show Me the Gang Plank!

Sunday and Monday, 05/22 and 05/23 2011 Journal Excerpts

Sunday morning: I'm up before 9:00 and am sipping English Breakfast tea whilst writing in my journal. My steward, Bianca, will be upset, if I'm not out of here before noon. (One day I dawdled until after twelve and she knocked on my door and asked me if I was okay. She is a good steward. She leaves me presents.)

I'll probably make it out of here by 11:15. I'll go for a walk after showering. Perhaps get my nails done. I'd like to see “Much Ado About Nothing” at the Rogue Theater tonight. It's the only Shakespeare that they are doing. I did not enjoy the percussion dude last night, xylo-synth guy, David. The sound of the xylophone was not that interesting and he played all old music. Liz pointed out that it is nice to hear classics reinvented, but these songs were not so much reinvented as replayed. I was bored. And his performance annoyed me. As soon as he jumped on stage he seemed like a crazy monkey.  A tall and muscular-looking monkey. More like a maniac. A human who has gone off his rocker as only humans can. He grinned madly the entire time he played. Yes, he had a lot of energy, but was I supposed to be entertained just by his zeal? And then there was David's wife who danced around him in skimpy costumes the whole time he played. Not impressed. Perhaps the entertainment director felt I needed a wake up after a large dinner, or that my cruise was intended as a distraction from my dreary existence which is solely made up ofwatching too much television and having my cutlet cut into tiny slivers for me so I don't have to chew it with my non-existent teeth.

Yeah, I am definitely not David's main audience. Cheers!

Monday morning (last day before disembarking): Slept in because I was so, so tired. I heard Bianca outside my door shoveling ice into buckets and I knew I should get up, but I didn't want to.. I rolled over and fell back to sleep until 10:30am. Nothing new here. I can't get breakfast because I'm too late. It's ten minutes until lunch. I could bring some food back to my room from a cafe, but that would interfere with Bianca's schedule and it's important to keep up with it. I have recently become familiar with the King's Court cafeteria. I don't think I want to eat anything they have on order, but I think I'd better go see what I can find.

Ugh! The music in the background here at the King's Court is quite boring, monotonous, generic. I feel it is pushing me to enjoy my journey, but that isn't all. It seems to be insinuating that I should enjoy it in a certain way – to think of it, affectionately, as a relaxing and full of nostalgia. Before the trip is even over. I am in the wrong place. And now the cafeteria is filling up for lunch. There is the Captain's noon announcement. I'm off!

One of the presents Bianca, my steward, left in my cabin aboard the Queen Mary 2.

In my room now. Bianca has come and gone. Room service has been called. My hangover is now clearly showing itself—I only had three glasses of wine last night, which is usually nothing to me. I have heard that drinking while traveling isn't advised because it is so hard for your body to recover. So I choose to believe it is more the latter than a pure hangover. The rooms are also very dry and I feel a pressure headache through my sinuses. Glancing in the mirror, I see I don't look as horrible as I feel. But I will definitely be taking a nap after I exercise. I will pack up most everything before I go to dinner. I probably won't put it outside my door until I get back from dinner because I will be wearing an outfit that must go in the suitcase. I'll go directly back to my room after dinner and put it on top and roll that final set of clothes up, stuff it in a bag, and then stuff that in my suitcase.

Ah! Breakfast has arrived. I can be alone and enjoy the meal. It is quiet here. I have my little notebook, my felt-tip rollerball pen, and my squirrelly hand writing—pure me. Simple. Clear. Clean.

Coffee and hot cereal has chased my headache away. I feel energized again. I must now open my laptop to get online and then hurry to read any emails that I might need to respond to and get ready with any pictures or essays I want to post. The WiFi is expensive on board ship, so I want to move quickly. Keeping up with correspondence takes a chunk of the day, but I don't have anything else more important to do right now. I wonder, how will it be when I'm on the road? Will I want to settle in and write in the evenings? I'll be writing on Eleanor, too. I'll get up early and try to be in bed fairly early. I plan to take some days “off”—have down days when I can rest, read, or really get into my writing, whatever I wish.

Monday evening: I am glad that this journey is coming to an end.  I feel bored with "crossing," for that is truly what this sailing has been for me: A journey to get from point A to point B.  Albeit, I have had advantages that don't usually come with a simple passage from one specific place to another. I have had entertainment, excellent service, and activities that I could choose to participate in or not. But ultimately, my purpose is other--to seek out things not directly in front of me; things that do not dance in the now-ness of today, but shimmer in-between here and there, now and then; things that move me more deeply, both intellectually and emotionally.  And to seek out a means of expressing them.  Floating on the ocean in a cruise ship has been distracting and amusing, but it isn't enough.  I need to hole myself up in my room and write.  And read.  And gather my thoughts about the rest of my journey.

And as I do so,  I get excited.  I will be in Paris tomorrow!  My first time in Europe and my first time in the city of Jazz, the City of Lights.  And it is only the first stop!  

When I first stepped onto this floating hotel, I couldn't believe that I was doing an eight-week journey through Europe.  I couldn't believe I was really traveling by myself through several foreign cities, seeing only a couple people I knew and knowing I was bound to meet many I didn't.  Now as I sit here on my final day at sea, I am so ready to embark on the next phase of this trip.  I want off this ship!

I did discover a lot about the ship and its amenities and activities. I now know what interests me and what doesn't on a Cunard Crossing.  For example, the music and dance shows I can forget.  Of the two I saw, one was horribly cheesy (David, who played xylo-synth renditions of classical, folk, and pop tunes backed by a full orchestra) and one was good (the Royal Cunard Dancers and Singers, who danced and sang to songs from the 30s and 40s including Big Band).  But nothing I experienced was too grand to miss.  I enjoyed an hour version of Much Ado About Nothing set in WWII and complete with Big Band Tunes (which got silly after a bit).  They kept the text very much the same and the acting was quite good.  But again, I can see as good or better productions in Boulder.  These shows are entertaining for people who need entertainment, people who are bored and have nothing better to do with their time, which is not necessarily a bad place to be when you are on vacation.  But I have not felt "on vacation" much during this trip. Because it's truly not a vacation for me.  Admittedly, I did get into the night life, dancing and karaoke, on Wednesday, but it wiped me out.  The rest of the time, I felt myself seeking shelter in nooks and crannies in the ship. Not to say I am not drawn to the idea of a vacation on this ship. I was tempted to go to a rumba class at 12:30 today.  But I don't want to expend all my energy that way. If I did, I wouldn't be able to sit here and write like this or to think about how best to spend my time in France. My plan all along was to participate in some activities (like the the Royal Ascot Ball because I had brought a hat specifically for that reason).  But that was it.  I am done performing and now, as Greta Garbo supposedly said,  "I vant to be alone!"

Dressed for the Ascot Ball aboard the Queen Mary 2, May 2011.

I am looking forward to getting more sleep, going to bed and waking each day at the same time instead of an hour later.  We've been inching up to GMT all trip, losing an hour a night, and it's wearing on me.  I want to feel the ground underneath my feet.  And I can't wait to discover the bookshops along the quay on the left bank of the Seine, to see the medieval Lady and the Unicorn Tapestry, and to hang out in the haunts of famous authors such as Henry Miller.  And to finally see the Eleanor Vase up close.

Show me the gang plank, Captain!

Eight-Week Europe Solo Travelogue 2011: Aboard Wednesday, AM

Days Two (PM) and Three, Tuesday and Wednesday, 5/17 and 5/18 2011.

I'm sitting in Sir Samuel's, one of the bars on Deck 3 of the Queen Mary 2, waiting to order some green tea and writing, but no one seems to notice that I am here. I wanted to just sit down and have someone immediately come up to me and ask me what I wanted. This is a cruise ship, isn't it? I am supposed to expect good service, right?

I watch the busy woman with the glasses and pony tail crossing the room from the bar to several other tables, serving coffees and teas. Perhaps you have to go to the bar to order something here. I stand at the bar, still not getting attention. I am still expecting someone to ask me what I want. I am about to be bold and brash and call out that I wish to have some Sencha Green Tea with Lemon when I notice the server go over to the area I had just been sitting in and begin to clean up. I stroll back over and call to the server, trying not to be the ugly American but wanting to get the service I expected. “May I order something, please? I was sitting here earlier, but no one came by.” She is surprised and apologizes. She seems harried, and I realize that she is just busy. And probably not expecting any new customers in the middle of the morning. It was about time I got over myself. My excuse? Tired from traveling. Tired already on Day Three of my travels of being overlooked because I was a solo diner.

I become suddenly charitable. When I was sitting there earlier typing away on my lap top, I must have looked like the last, and apparently abandoned, member of a larger party. When I got up from the table, the server took it as a cue that the party was now completely finished with their refreshment. But, as long as a bar is open, you should easily be able to get service, whether at the table or the bar. It isn't exactly Dublin in the late 1980's! (I remembered when my mother, sister, aunt, and I strode into a pub full of men and expected someone to ask us for our order and, after standing at the bar for several minutes, finally got the attention of the frowning bar keep who lightened up when we ordered pints of ale).

My tea has now arrived and I am trying to ignore the fact that it arrived as a tea bag and hot water instead of a steaming pot of fresh tea leaves brewing. I am expecting luxury treatment on a luxury liner. What a snooty individual I am! I am spoiled from visiting the Boulder Dushanbe Tea House. I am now remembering I had a complication last evening when I first boarded. I had arrived on the gangway at the time the Cunard instructions told me to, which turned out to be much later than the bulk of the passengers. By the time I came on board, my champagne (!) was sitting in a bucket of melted ice and very few people were about the halls. I had to check my large bag at the gangway and was expecting it to be waiting for me in my cabin. But it was not. The Purser did not know where it was. I had to leave for dinner before finding out if I was going to be wearing the same outfit all week. (Capris and a red button-down blouse with 3/4 sleeves would look stunning at the Royal Ascot Ball!)

The Statue of Liberty viewed from the balcony of my stateroom on the Queen Mary 2 as we leave port in Manhattan.

Indeed, I am too influenced by BBC period dramas staring Helen Bonham Carter. Yes. I am truly playing the part of the decadent dreamer. Or is it the pampered princess? You choose. Please note that after lunch I am having a massage and manicure.

Despite my complaints here, I am enjoying the ship. I had dinner last night with my assigned dinner table companions in the Britannia Restaurant and discovered that one of them, a young woman, was, like me, traveling solo to Paris from the ship!  We promised to compare itineraries. She is going directly to Spain, though, from France, so we will most likely miss each other once we leave Paris. But it would be fun to hook up for dinner one night while there. The other folks are from all over the U.S. Only one couple is not. They are British and have lived in the U.S. for 40 years. Everyone was polite and very interested in my research and a couple of them knew a good bit about Eleanor of Aquitaine and British royalty.

With some of my dining companions in the Britannia Restaurant on board the Queen Mary 2.

After dinner, I went straight back to my room. A few minutes later, my bag showed up in the hands of my steward, Bianca, who was glowing with excitement. She had shared my frustration earlier at not having my bag before dinner, but had assured me it would arrive. I think she took personal pride in the fact that it did, finally, arrive.

Now as I sip my tea in the bar, I ponder the question, why am I here? This luxury liner with its jewelry and clothing and art boutiques, its spa and Queen's Ballroom, its restaurants full of servers in white linen jackets and bars that stay open until 2:00am, all seem to be a far cry from the atmosphere of serious research study that I craved and that sparked the idea for this journey. I was to use this ocean trip to prepare for my intense research later. At least partly. But this is only my first day on board. Time to get used to the ship and have some fun enjoying it before I burrow into its corners to read and write. I haven't even found the library yet! The last thing I want to do now is read the histories of France and Spain that I brought with me, orexamine the Dresden train system maps to figure out how to not get trapped in a train and miss my stop, ending in Berlin. (One of my dinner companions talked about a friend who came to visit them in Dresden and didn't get off the train soon enough and did end up in Berlin. It was a long ride back. Now I am nervous about a new something that might go wrong with my complicated itinerary in addition to all the other things I am already nervous about.)  

The White Star staff on board the Queen Mary 2 is exceptional. Other than the busy woman in Sir Samuels, every staff person has greeted me with a hearty good morning. Every single one of them. And they work hard. Constantly. They seem cheerful about the work. Like they know why they are here and why they are working so hard. I hope it is true. Hope that they are sending oodles of money home or working towards university or an eventual Visa in the country of their choice.

The table service was exquisite. The White Star staff on board the Queen Mary 2 was always ready to lend a hand with a smile.

There are so many languages spoken here. So many accents. People of every color and culture. And we are intimate somehow on this ship. We are all headed in the same nautical direction. We all trust the Captain and his crew to get us to Southampton safely. We all wish to have a pleasant time of it. Most of us are at our leisure. The rest are working their butts off. But, except for the uniforms, you can't tell who is on vacation and who isn't. Everyone is smiling or enthusiastic. Actually, the White Star staff is smiling just a little more. That's just not right. I and my leisurely comrades have expectations – high ones – that are likely too high to be met in any reasonable world. We are a little too tense.

The ship's bell just rang for noon. The Captain came on to tell us that the fog we began to encounter some time early this morning is starting to abate, but the weather report is only momentary on the Atlantic, and will change again, so stay tuned for the next report at six. Our route will take us quite close to Nova Scotia and we will pass south of the southernmost point of Newfoundland tomorrow.

The satellite connection to the wireless is horribly slow, so uploading photos takes three minutes each. And because they charge by the minute, I am trying to be picky about which photos I shareI have to content myself with little darts into internet connectivity. I have bought 130 minutes of internet time, and I am already down to 104 because it took me a while to realize how limited it was. But the epistles themselves are cheap, and I will keep them coming.

Based on an essay originally posted on electricrider.net on May 18, 2011