Monday, November 10, 2014

Whale of a Story - The Untold and the Final Chapter




















Yes, we have fabulous memories of Europe and this is my final post in my “OMG Europe!!!!” blog, for which some people might be grateful.  After all, it is a labor of love to read through someone else’s vacation diary and to sit through all the photos of someone else’s life.  I do appreciate your attention and I know that your patience is limited.  The real beauty of blogs is that the writers never know if people really read the post or not, unlike if you were to sit in someone’s living room and appear to be interested in their old, boring, falling apart photo album.  A discerning eye might notice that you were really not paying attention to page after page of pictures of whales breaching in the Atlantic Ocean.   But luckily, we now have the internet and we don’t have to actually pick up a book of photos or an actual novel with our hands, showing our hand, with an obvious intention to read it or not.  We can sneakily log on to the computer and sneakily pull up someone’s blog and sneakily hit the backspace out of the blog and comfortably go back to reading about what’s trending on our Yahoo home page, keeping our hands and our boredom to ourselves. Hooray for that progress?

So I, as a budding writer, have to resort to tricks to keep a reader interested and since I can’t see you rolling your eyes right now, I’m assuming that you are buying into my devious little plan.  I know you.  I know you like FREE.  I know you like a good bargain and a good story and the truth about what was really between the lines of all of the great, fabulous, wonderful, amazing, stupendous blah blah memoirs in our trip to Europe.

Aw…I’ve gotcha now.

Remember playing “truth or dare” as a teenager?  That is one dangerous game.  I’ve always leaned toward the truth, not having a lot of faith in the decency of dares.  I didn’t say that I always TOLD the truth, I said I “leaned toward the truth”.  When you realize that you are a “sexual minority” as a teenager, you can become quite scared – even the title “sexual minority” had a scary connotation that didn’t make me want to tell the truth in every situation.  So I leaned toward honesty but kept my options open so I could bail and keep myself safe at any given moment……  Still doin’ it.  Yup.  But I do like to snuggle up to the truth whenever possible and show my hand and my humanity.

Europe was not totally one big happy merry go round, we fell off and the music stopped a few times.  One time was in Amsterdam in the afternoon on a cobblestone street as we were rushing to meet up with Eli and Lisa.  Jolynn fell and hit the uneven rocks, scraping up her hand and bruising her knee.  I had over packed my suitcase and had prepared for this kind of thing by bringing a ton of antibiotic gel to keep us safe from infection.  But, alas, I didn’t have it with me that afternoon when she hit the ground. Luckily, all she had was a very bad bruise and she jumped back up, brushed herself off with a hurt little face and jumped back onto the merry go round.

That same day, Jolynn was carrying my purse – yes, she was carrying my purse – you read that correctly, with my cell phone in it.  In a restaurant bathroom, she accidently let the cell phone fall out of the purse and onto the floor of the bathroom.  Two hours later we discovered that it was missing and instant panic set in – banking information, passwords, trip booking information had all been scanned into my unlocked email that would be accessible on my phone.  There’s nothing like panic to jolt one out of jetlag.  The Hyatt in Amsterdam was so helpful – they made several calls for us as we tried to retrace our steps that afternoon.  Amazingly, the cell phone had been found in the bathroom and was honestly turned into a responsible employee! Eli graciously agreed to run back to get the phone and valuable lessons were learned:  Lock up my email access, carry my phone in my pocket and relieve Jolynn from any responsibility whatsoever of carrying or holding my purse.

The next morning in this 5 star Amsterdam hotel, I was heating up my curling iron on the bathroom counter when I smelled smoke.  Seconds later, my curling iron burst into flames and both Jolynn and I burned our fingers trying to put out the fire before the Amsterdam fire department could be summoned to room 321 where the miserable redhead was trying to curl her red hair.  Note to self – American curling irons don’t work in Holland outlets.  Second note to self, do not reach out and touch a burning curling iron with your bare hands.

Then there was the constant struggling with our luggage on the trains.  We both packed too many clothes and on top of that, neither of us had the right clothes for the unseasonably warm Europe weather…so we were carrying around our American winter wardrobes, for four weeks, for the exercise, for the hellovit and to keep us humble.  It worked.  We were quite humbled by the end of the trip.

Oh and then there was Paris, the City of Love.  We were having our dinner and wine on the train to Paris as we discussed in detail our plans for our arrival in the Paris train station.  Several months earlier, I had figured out that the transportation from the train station to our downtown hotel would be challenging on the Paris subways with luggage….…there’s that luggage issue again.  So Jolynn and I calmly (thank you Pinot Noir) discussed the plan of splurging and getting a cab from the train station to the Hyatt.  Inside the station after we arrived, Jolynn went to the information desk to inquire in English to the French speaking clerk about where to get a cab while I stood with our bags against a wall watching the constant onslaught of travelers racing by.  When Jo came back to me, she had a piece of paper that looked distinctly like a subway map.  She had decided that we would take the subway instead of getting a cab. She had made the executive decision to change the plan.  Hmmmmmmm. Before I knew it, we were clunking our suitcases down the rugged concrete steps in the subway hall and heading toward the screeching sound of subway trains.   We stood on the platform for only a minute before a train came.  The only signs in English read “Beware of Pickpockets” – so comforting for two tired women with a ton of luggage who don’t speak French in a dingy, gray Paris subway station.  We weren’t entirely sure that this train was the right one so we didn’t dash into it and the doors closed. But then, Jo rethought the situation of being left on the platform with the surrounding characters staring at us and she pried open the subway doors and we squeezed onto the train with our bags, barely being able to hold onto a pole as the train sped away. 

We rode in silence for 4 subway stops (felt like an eternity) and then got off at the Opera stop, where we clearly had gotten off of the merry go round and the music had clearly stopped.  No signs in English about which way to go so we headed up one lonely set of steps and it just didn’t feel right.  So we turned around and clunked our bags back down and headed in another direction.  I could see that Jo’s face was showing concern as we walked into a hallway that was getting more narrow and desolate by the second and I was, well, livid.  We climbed another set of steps and found ourselves in front of the Opera House with six or seven streets branching off away from the Opera House.  The French don’t put up nicely lettered green and white signs to identify streets – they put little tiny signs on the buildings on the corners of streets and neither of us had our binoculars.  So we walked around the Opera House a couple of times, arguing about which way was the right way to get to the hotel.  It was getting dark, we were tired and lost and we had nonrefundable dinner reservations on a cruise in just a short time and we couldn’t find our hotel and this redhead became very, very miserable in the City of Love!  Suddenly, we came upon the correct avenue, thanks to Jo, and we completed the short walk to probably one of the most luxurious, expensively renowned hotels that we will ever stay in – here’s the link so you can see for yourself (and remember, it was free because of the Hyatt credit card).  It’s hard to remain miserable in such elegance.  We dressed up in our black evening attire and had probably the most memorable evening of our lives on the dinner cruise with piano and violin and the sparkling Eiffel Tower that night.  Ah, the City of Love and Forgiveness.


After the big entrance into Paris, celebrating our 13 years together, all of the other incidentals seemed incidental.  I fell on the limestone bathroom floor and severely bruised my arm but I didn’t break my hip again.  We took the wrong train to Montreux Switzerland but resolved it, thanks to a sweet little French family with two adorable children.  We nearly didn’t get off the train at the correct stop but then rushed down the isle at the last minute calling for them to hold the door open.  A man in a coffee shop in Amsterdam was randomly rude to me and wouldn’t let me sit on the chairs in front of the store, waving his arm and saying “go away!”.  (ok, whatever) A driver on the Big Bus Tours in Paris took several unscheduled stops and nearly caused us to miss our nonrefundable sunset tour of the Eiffel Tower, which resulted in us having to eat hot dogs, yes I said hot dogs, while running down the sidewalk to meet our tour guide.  And then there was the young French man who tried to get Jolynn to open her wallet by handing her a “gold ring” that he had “just found” and so generously wanted to give to her (a scam which we found out later is the ruse that preceeds the thief grabbing the wallet and running).   So, those little stories coupled with the blog posts that I wrote earlier, should complete the big, REAL picture of our trip to Europe. 

One last breaching whale picture – proverbially speaking.  Montreux, Switzerland was our last stop in Europe before we headed back to Amsterdam to fly home.  I can’t really tell you anything about the city of Montreux except that the city is well known for jazz and jazz festivals that bring in the big names.  We walked two short blocks from the train station to our hotel on a Saturday evening and checked into, seriously, one of the most magnificent hotels I’ve ever seen……Le Montreux Palace.  (see the link – it’s AHmazing!) http://www.fairmont.com/montreux/

I can’t tell you about the city because for two days, we didn’t leave the hotel. The front desk upgraded us to a suite on the top floor that overlooked Lake Geneva and the Swiss Alps!  The weather was warm enough to swim in the outdoor pool – so we did.  And then there was the indoor pool and the private women’s quarters where there was a hot whirlpool, an ice whirlpool, a steam shower room, a sauna, soft bathrobes and huge towels and complimentary cosmetic products….hey, this stuff makes me happy!  We laid on the lounge chairs around the pool in the Switzerland sun and chatted about our fabulous memories until the sun started to go down.  We had dinner in the hotel’s Montreux Jazz CafĂ© where Stevie Wonder had recently dined and shared a fabulously memorable dessert while the wait staff did everything possible to make us happy and comfortable.  We had a breakfast buffet at a table that overlooked Lake Geneva with unbelievable fresh, delicious food in the hotel’s elegant restaurant with pillars, arches and amazing artwork.  It was Magnificant Montreux!  And, yup, it was FREE.

Again I have to bow to La Credit Card.  When you get the Fairmont credit card (see link above and go to the bottom of the Fairmont home page to see the information about this deal), you also get breakfast and dinner coupons to use in their hotel.  I’m just sayin’……  These deals are out there waiting for you to take advantage.  I know you can do it.  (Let me know if you need help.)

I’m going to post some of our pictures of La Montreux Palace in Switzerland with the Swiss Alps and Lake Geneva.  This concludes my personal essays about our trip to Europe on this blog.  Now stop bothering me, I have a book to write. 

I will say, however, that we are forever changed and enriched by the people and the places we visited in Europe.   We are extremely grateful to Trish and Rafa for loving all of our sweet animals and our homestead and for taking such good care of every single thing while we were away and also to Ken for taking care of some important banking for us and to Mary for checking our voicemail. We appreciate your support and love!!  And we are extremely grateful to the people who took care of us while we were in Europe, Eli and Lisa, MJ and Ginny, Jacques and Marie and amazing hotel staff in Amsterdam, Paris and Montreux!!  We are so tremendously fortunate to have all of you in our lives and to have had the good fortune to experience Europe, a memory that rests contently and passionately deep in our hearts.  OMG Europe!!!!















The End.  (not really)








Copyright ©2012   Jeannine Cristina    All Rights Reserved

Saturday, November 1, 2014

The Most Magnificant French Escapade!


From the moment we entered the big stone, two story bed and breakfast in the south of France I had this tingly, excited feeling in my chest.  Hustle and bustle from twelve women around me, I walked slowly through the entry way into the oversized dining area that was furnished with long, beautiful drapes, scattered French antiques, huge wooden tables with chairs, armoires filled with dishes and fruit and vegetables in glass jars and the smell of earth and stone and scrumptious hors d’oeuvres whiffed it’s way into my miserable red head.  Smiling from ear to ear, I peeked around the hedges to see the in ground pool and the view of the mountains and then walked back to the stone patio in the warm afternoon sun and poured myself a glass of superb French wine .  Wow.  Oh my.  I might never leave. France.



The big, burly grinning owner and chef introduced himself to our enthusiastic group and took each one of us to our rooms.  Jo and I unpacked the heavy, overstuffed suitcases that we had dragged on trains, trams, subways and a ferry all through Amsterdam, London, Texel and Paris with confidence and relief that we would be “staying put” for a full week in this charming, picturesque French room that overlooked the stone courtyard, the vineyards, the pool and the French mountains in the distance.  Total bliss filled our hearts as we descended the steps to get acquainted with our absolutely delightful tour guides and the other endearing members of this fabulous escapade in France.



I wish I had taken notes throughout this marvelous week but, alas, I was having too much fun to remember to write things down.  Like flash cards in third grade when I was studying for a test, my mind is pitching images of that week before me.  Cobblestone everything.  Streets, walls, homes, arches, towns – big round, ancient, uneven rocks in every direction.  Awww, my dad would have loved that, being the stone mason that he prided himself on.   Red earth in one town where artists thrive is a vivid, rosy memory that uncontrollably urges my fingers to rub together as if I’m feeling the earth again, as if I’m right there with the other women, standing again in awe of the extraordinary view.  Funny how I DO remember buying an ice cream cone at this little French village and standing with the other women and laughing  - oh, just laughing and being so happy to be there, to be completely safe and cared for and to have absolutely no other place to be at that moment other than having an ice cream cone in a tiny red village with women in the south of France.



There were castles, so many castles and climbing up to the castles and trying not to fall coming back down from the castles.  There were street fairs.  Linens, clothes, weird antiques, trinkets, cheese, wine and scarfs.  Everyone, every single person, had a scarf around their neck – at least that’s how I want to remember it.  My own pink scarf nestled into my neck and fussed at me when I took it off each night.  I acquired a newfound passion for scarfs and the street markets counted on that tourist passion. Our tour guides had a plethora of activities planned for us and they drove all of us to the various activities in complete comfort and safety in a large van and a very cute, totally European, car.  Looking out the windows at the French countryside, we all chatted about the simple things in life to the most complex discussions as we delved into each other’s backgrounds and unveiled the complex layers to our lives.  And then suddenly, we would arrive at an olive grove or a vineyard or a lavender museum or a vegetable farm or a ranch with bulls and cowboys on horses.  At each place, an authentic owner would greet us and hug our tour guides and give us explanations and tours.  Our guides interpreted for us but, always, the property owners tried to speak to us in English.  So respectful, intelligent and kind, these French people were to the foreign visitors in France.



A 3 day old lamb flashes before me now.  The total blessedness of holding that motherless baby lamb on the farm where we picked our vegetables from the garden and then cooked together in the large, stone kitchen to make our lunch, later served to us with, of course, bread and wine.  I tried not to worry about the little French boy lamb but his sweet face and breath permeated my thoughts for days afterward.  Once a mom, always a mom.  Awww, my mom would have loved that farm, having grown up on a farm herself and having worked as a cook for many years.  And my daughter, Hannah, the pet-obsessed, devoted cat mom, would have tried to talk me into bringing the French lamb home to Oregon, in keeping with her history of talking me into filling our home with pets when she was a child.  So I drank an extra glass of wine to help me “walk away from the lamb” and move onto the next exciting attraction on our perfectly arranged agenda of attractions in southern France.



Ending every paragraph with the word “France” is comforting to me since I had to leave that baby lamb in France.  Self-soothing.  Speaking of self-soothing, swimming in the semi-warm Mediterranean Sea with Jolynn is a flashcard memory worth framing!  True, we were the only two women on the tour to get into the water that day but we had to, we absolutely had to get into the water and continuously dive through the big, crashing waves of the Mediterranean.   I know that I keep typing the word “Mediterranean” and that’s because I am still, weeks later, SO IMPRESSED with actually swimming in the Mediterranean Sea! And of course I’m impressed.  I have endearing memories of swimming in the Pacific Ocean as a young teenager, while living in Santa Barbara and swimming at Herring Cove in the Atlantic Ocean when we lived on Cape Cod.  And Jolynn, having been an accomplished surfer girl in San Diego, shares my love for being immersed in the salty, ocean waves.  And there we were, swimming in the Mediterranean!  Ha!  Only in France!



And then there was the surprise.  None of us knew what to expect when our ingenious, passionate tour leader, Jacques, told us that she had a surprise for us.  And here’s where my dilemma rests – do I write about it and expound on the profound impact that her fabulous surprise had on us or do I keep silent in an effort not to ruin it for future tours……..hmmmmm, what to do, what to do…..?  It’s not that I enjoy teasing and keeping secrets and perpetuating the mystery (smile), I feel that my loyalty has to linger with Jacques and her remarkable tour, called French Escapade (promising a link at bottom of this post).  I will say, however, that the surprise was truly a highlight of the tour.  It was larger than life artistic and vehemently musically passionate and, well, simply exhilarating!  Four of us women (and you know who you are) found each other in the middle of this cryptic experience and hugged in a circle, silently crying and embraced in the passion, in the overwhelming emotion of it all.  One hellova surprise Jacques!  Sincere gratitude for this unexpected experience, deep in the south of France.



Stay with me now.  I have to tell you about Vincent, about Gene, about St. Remy and about haystacks.  I want to elaborate on something I wrote about in an earlier post.  My dad and his love for impressionist art – this is a subject very near to my heart and almost always in the grasp of my subconscious.  Standing in front of Van Gogh paintings makes my heart race and we gifted ourselves the ability to visit European museums where this could happen.  So lucky, I am.  I feel the gratitude of seeing these impressionist paintings up close and yet I share that gratitude with extreme guilt….guilt that I have had the indulgence to witness the art up close when my dad, Gene, who would have given his right arm or his left ear to have such an experience, never, in his short 55 years of life, did get to see his passion in person.  And so, visiting St. Remy in person was staggering for me and I had to silently sit by myself to take it in.  St. Remy is the mental asylum where Vincent van Gogh enrolled himself in May, 1889.  I held securely onto the stone handrail as I walked up the stairs to Van Gogh’s bedroom that overlooked the gardens in the asylum and I stood for a very long time in the doorway to Vincent’s room.  My dad in my heart and tears in my eyes, I thought about how my dad was living in a drab little room in Indianapolis, set up similar to this room in St. Remy.  Gene had bought some used art books and he cut out his favorite pictures and taped them to his bedroom wall.  He was living a basic life, going to work every day and coming straight home to his empty room, cheered only by his cut out pictures of artwork and his classical music on his vinyl albums that I had mailed to him.  His whiskey on the table was his only roommate and the two were happy to see each other every night as the sun went down in God-awful Indianapolis. And they were happy to see each other every morning, as well, as he drank himself into a kidney-rotting-oblivion. He could have walked into a wheat field with the haystacks and shot himself in the chest, Vincent-style, but he chose a more deliberate, slow route until it came to an abrupt end in an ICU unit of the local hospital.  His seven children sullenly sat in his room after his death and we took the taped artwork off of the rented walls, packed up his longjohns and flannel shirts and his trowel and his favorite whiskey glass and “got the hell out of Dodge”, as he used to say.  I walked down the lane at St. Remy with the asylum behind me with Gene in my heart and in my head and through the tears in my brown eyes, I could see the olive trees where Van Gogh sat and painted.  I put my dad there with him, on the ground with his paints scattered around and a bottle of whiskey next to the canvas.  For the first time since my dad died, I felt a little peace about losing him.  As our van pulled away, heading for the next activity, I closed my eyes and pictured Gene and Vincent sharing a few laughs with a bottle of whiskey in St. Remy, France.


Every day we had interesting activities to do and just about every evening we returned to the delicious aromas of five course dinners when we walked back into the inn.  Our own Chef!  After spending the day being tourists together, then we had the privilege of being new friends together at dinner.  The laughter, the total unabashed laughter at dinner was just so fun.  Going to restaurants indoors and on sunny patios outdoors and navigating the French menus….fun!  Clapping for some of our women, including Jolynn(!), who spontaneously performed for us, singing and dancing in the starry night air was really fun! Laying in the middle of the road all together on a dark night and looking for falling stars – I’m smiling now at this memory…..what fun.  I can’t forget the special memory of when the whole group celebrated our anniversary before dinner on the evening before we left with a toast, a beautiful card, a cake with the number “13” on it and the special, wrapped gift….a Van Gogh bread board from the St. Remy gift shop…evocative and so sweet.  And then, suddenly on that final morning in the noisy, hectic train station, everyone with their luggage and nervously looking for their train departure time on the train station marquis and knowing we have to say goodbye to one another and say goodbye to France, a little miracle happened.  One of our group members, Cindy, sat down at the piano in the train station and played two beautiful classical pieces while we stood around, some of us crying, and had yet one more opportunity to bond together in this beautiful, passionate land of France. 



Then, with a final note on the piano, it was all over.  I’d do it all again tomorrow if I could.  And yet, life goes on and going home is inevitable.

It took me more than a week to get over the jet lag and to get over the depression of leaving Europe and the people we met, and met up with, in Europe in our month away from home.  It was helpful to have dinner with good friends when we came home and to reconnect with family and of course, to see and kiss the animals (no we didn’t kiss each and every one of the 16 chickens nor did we kiss the llamas but Boo-Boo, Bear, Rosie and Chipper were kissed abundantly!). 

 I was in a fog and still feeling sad and tired, one foggy morning last week and as I was pruning my roses in an effort to get them ready for the Oregon winter, I started to come back home. I picked some roses and brought them in to our kitchen. As the delicate little pink roses continued to bloom in the warm room, my heart warmed up to the idea of being home and my head returned to Oregon.

I really loved Europe.  But frankly (scarlet), I know it's an old cliche, but “There’s no place like home”. 

 





As promised, here’s the website for Jacques' amazing tours – call her and tell her the Miserable Redhead sent you and ask her about the surprise…but I don’t think she’ll tell you!
http://frenchescapade.com/












Copyright ©2012   Jeannine Cristina    All Rights Reserved