Ravioli In Paris, Or The Beauty In Front Of You

I was doing some research this weekend, as authors constantly do. I needed to be in Paris, so I Google Mapped myself there.

As I was virtually walking down various streets, I came across the Rue de Rivoli. It caught my eye because I was in Paris in April 2016 and walked down that street. I giggled at the time. It reminded me of ravioli, and I thought how funny it was to have a Ravioli Street in Paris.

Then I remembered my actual walk down that street. I traveled it multiple times, as it borders some of the typical areas a tourist would visit. My first stroll down the rue was when I went to the Louvre, discovered it was closed on Tuesdays (why Tuesday?) so I couldn’t visit.

Me, upon discovery that the Louvre was closed.

 

It was the best thing that could have happened. Instead, I wandered through the Jardin des Tuileries, then over the Seine by way of the Passerelle Léopold Sédar Senghor footbridge, with its lovers’ locks clasped onto the railings.

Gentleman napping in the gardens.

Lover’s locks

 

 

 

During my second walk down the Rue de Rivoli, I was headed toward a fashion exhibit at the Musée des Arts Decoratifs. The museum is in the same building as the Louvre, though you can reach it from a separate entrance. The exhibit celebrated clothing from 1700 to the present day, and of course, I couldn’t resist.

 

 

But then I remembered something more from that day.

I was headed more or less west along the side of the building that houses the museums. Basically, from the back to the front, where you can enter the courtyard and see the huge glass pyramid.

Along that long, decorative wall of the old palace were tall windows, the rooms beyond hidden by curtains. In between, at odd intervals, were huge, ornate double doors.

And when I say huge, I mean huge. If you walk down the road using the map above, you will see the doors on your left, and the little tiny people in front of them.

For some reason, I loved the doors. I did not know where they lead to, but I could see soldiers spilling out in defense when the building was first a fortress, or later, those doors being thrown wide open for a ball during the days of the kings. Even guards during the French Revolution, when it first became a museum to display national treasures.

 

I remember I stopped walking and stared at those beautiful doors. Imagining. Dreaming.

A Frenchwoman—gorgeous, confident, and with heeled boots I would have killed for—continued to clip past me as I stood there. Dangling from her hand was a shopping bag, the square paper type you would find at a clothing store. She had an amazing leather jacket, neat and trim, over skin tight jeans, and long brown hair that reached nearly to her waist. In other words, I felt very much the silly American tourist in my sneakers and striped coat from Old Navy beside that lovely woman.

Still, as she passed, I pulled out my digital Nikon and snapped a picture of the doors. I was fascinated by their size, by the ornate face carved above and the designs embedded in them. Each dip and curve and exquisite carving was something out of the past that simply does not exist today. This is workmanship of the most delicate, intricate, talented kind. Created by artisans long forgotten, and probably not even fully appreciated at the time.

So many changes since then, I mused. The world is not the same. Art is not the same. This timeless, gorgeous piece of work sits here on the edge of a busy road, and no one sees it. Residents and tourists walk by, day after day, with their shopping bags or their briefcases or their cameras, and so many never notice the utter beauty, the history, right there beside them.

It made me sad to realize it. To know that the people who pass these doors everyday, or even tourists ready for a new experience, don’t actually see it.

I turned away, tucked my camera back in my bag, and continued toward the museum. A little heavier of heart.

Then I stopped again. Because the gorgeous woman with the high-heeled boots and the shopping bag was standing in front of the next set of doors. I remember specifically the way her head tipped back, because of the lovely fall of thick, straight, brown hair. Me and my thin, chin length bob were totes jelly.

She was looking at the doors. Not snapping a picture with her phone, not talking to anyone. She was just looking.

Was she seeing them for the first time, having passed by a hundred times before? Did she notice me, the silly tourist snapping a picture of the first door, and did it make her wonder about the next one? Does she understand the rich, wonderful history of her culture and country can be defined by that very door?

I do believe that if I had not stopped to study and imagine and dream at the first set of doors, she would not have stopped to look at the second set. And if she paused to look, she likely had never noticed the doors before.

Perhaps, with my small moment of wondering and dreaming, I was able to help someone see beauty that lives only a few steps away from their daily life.

And perhaps, by watching her, I learned to see the beauty that lives only a few steps away from my own life.

Adventures: There are some that make me cry

Remember that trip to Europe? It wasn’t all fun and games. I laughed at myself, cried a bit, got in trouble with security guards, got lost—and was overwhelmed to the point of tears.

 

For those of us in the US who—like me—have never traveled beyond our own country (not including a couple of vacations in Caribbean resorts, which totally don’t count), you cannot possibly imagine the sheer enormity of standing in a spot others stood on 2,000 years ago. More, even. You can’t imagine what it is like to walk on the stone floor of a church that is 1,000 years old. How many other feet have touched those stones? Kings, princes, paupers, lepers. The Bubonic plague, the cholera epidemic. Wars, famine, the Middle Ages. THE MIDDLE AGES. Like, with swords and knights and fealty. Death, starvation, persecution.

 

All and more have happened in churches of every religion in every part of the world. It is simply that, for me, no church in my own country has existed more than 400-500 years. And those that did—Native American structures—are not plentiful.

 

So. This post is not about religion. I don’t care what religion anyone is, and any comment that strikes me as bigotry will be deleted.

 

What this post is about is history. Tradition. Connection. It’s sitting in silence beneath soaring stone ceilings, knowing that you are sitting in the same place another woman sat a thousand years ago. A woman who lived, died, bore children. Who made her own soap, slaughtered her own feed. One who probably buried one or more children, and possibly one or more husbands. A woman who got up at dawn to feed the fire and mended her children’s clothes by the light of a candle late at night. A woman who didn’t have aspirin or band-aids, skinny jeans or margaritas. (Because let’s get real about the important things in life.)

 

I left the V&A Museum on my first day in London, passed by a beautiful church with a gate standing open. Beyond that were heavy, carved, wooden doors.

 

I went in.

 

And I cried, sitting there in the silence of the church, basking in a single ray of light through a stained glass window while I contemplated an altar made of gilt and gold and marble.

 

Brampton Oratory Wikipedia Commons - Public Domain Credit: dcaster

Brampton Oratory
Wikipedia Commons – Public Domain
Credit: dcaster

April 14, 2016
4:30ish
The Oratory

 

I’m sitting in almost utter silence.

 

I’m in the Oratory, in a ray of light.

 

The only ray of light.

 

To my right is the most stunning depiction of Mary & Christ. Gilt and gold, marble and huge and carved. I have never seen anything like it. I cannot take a photo [per the rules]—but even if I could, I’m not sure I would. It’s somehow too beautiful to be photographed. It shall have to stay in my memory.

 

There are others wandering here, all quiet. It is like every one of us is holding our breath.

 

 A man just bought a candle, using another to light it. He is praying, as so many thousands have done before. And so many have died for that right. So many have died because of it.

 

Yet, as I sit here in my sunlight, watching it fade away, I cannot help but think about all the souls that have walked these floors, breathed this air, felt this silence.

 

There is something peaceful and precious in these walls, whatever religion it is.

 

Tradition. Love. Respect. History. Whatever else might be part of religion, there are also those four things.

 

The ceilings here simply soar, domed, high, painted and mosaicked. There is a loveliness that defies the imagination—and a beauty as well, that shocks the soul and draws it in. The corners with saints to pray to, for confessions, for quiet reflection. Each is as interesting and detailed as the last. The memorial to fallen soldiers 1914-1919 features a pieta-type statue that holds so much sadness—and yet grace and peace. I hope those soldiers found grace and peace.

 

 

Peace and reflection can only happen in certain places, when the soul is open and ready for it. I was ready for it, as I was again a few days later on Hampstead Heath. (A later post, my dears).

 

When you travel somewhere alone, somewhere unknown and without friends, you are so much more open to new experiences and new feelings than you are at home while in the familiar. I sat in the church for a half hour, doing nothing but looking. Respecting. Feeling. I can understand the magnitude of faith, of dying for faith. I can almost hear the voices of the thousands of people who have sat there before me. Of those that have come before. Of those that have gone before me.

 

Almost as if they were still there.

 

 

I’ve stepped outside now into noise and bustle again. Cars, people, buses—so much life.

 

Yet I find myself wanting to step back inside and think about those I’ve lost.

 

May all of you find peace and grace.

Adventures: An Afternoon At The Museum

Adventures of an Author in Europe: If you haven’t read the beginning of my adventures, you can start here.

After my little foray into Hyde Park, and going around and around the same roundabout a few times, I finally got to the Victoria & Albert Museum. Of course, as per usual, I was very loud when I walked in. Why? Because as security was checking my bag for explosives (Europe was on high alert after Brussels) I was looking around for the ticket counter.

Me: Where do I buy a ticket?
Security: There are no tickets.
Me: [very loudly] You mean, it’s free? I can just come in and wander around for as long as I want?
Security: Yeah. Don’t get lost.
Me: [even louder] Oh, this is going to be GREAT.

And just imagine my squeal of delight when the very first room I see is the historical fashion display.

Oh, oh, oh, it was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen—except maybe for the Three Centuries of French Fashion exhibit I saw a few days later in Paris. We’ll get to that. But first, the fashion.

I took pictures of Every. Single. Item. Far away shots. Close up shots. I looked at stitching on hems and gloves so closely I fogged the glass. I can’t possibly put every picture here or describe every item, but I have so much fodder for future historical clothing blog posts my heart goes pitter-pat just thinking about it.

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STAYS!

 

 

 

And when I found the extant stays, I literally shouted “Stays!” and made the people around me laugh.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What makes me so excited? Certainly I can look at historical fashion books where the details are enlarged and I don’t have to fog the glass. The V&A also has a lot of images online, which I’ve used for research purposes in the past. I’ve seen some of these items already.

But it’s not the same. It’s just not. You can’t understand sizing, texture, color from a photograph. The people of the past really were smaller than us. I kept thinking the men were the same size I was, and some of the women’s gowns seemed impossibly small. And some impossibly large!

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How the heck do you sit in that?

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The shoes were much narrower than I expected. No way would my big ol’ wide feet get in them.

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The fans were exquisite in their detail, and I could just imagine a workman standing over them with a teeny-tiny paintbrush. My eyes hurt just thinking of it.

The other reason I love fashion exhibits like this—and why I like antiques in general—is because someone wore those clothing. They woke up one morning, put on their undergarments just like we do, then their outergarments, then their accessories. They lived their life, just like we do now. Just because their clothes and society were different doesn’t mean they didn’t laugh and love and cry. More, they came before. Who we are now is because of who they were then. Every day of my life is built on the days and lives of others no longer here, but who left a legacy.

 

DSC_0111 DSC_0109And when I see those gowns and morning jackets and horrifically narrow shoes, I think of where they wore them, and what they did in them, and how their actions shaped my life. Maybe some statesman drafted a world-altering law while wearing that jacket. Maybe the woman carrying this parasol fought for women’s equality.

 

Or maybe they lived, married, bore children, touched the lives of others, and left a legacy in that way.

OK, so now that I have waxed poetic about historical figures, on to the marble statuary and jewelry sections!

IMG_20160414_122412I took lots of pictures of the marble statues because I find it interesting to know what people looked like in the past (see me waxing poetic above). Put a face to the name, so to speak. And because marble is so white and pure, there is something both sad and beautiful about them, even when the faces are smiling.

 

Now, onward and upward! On the second floor of the V&A was a really cool room full of jewelry. The room was dark, with lights only on the jewelry so they sparkled in the cases. It was almost like walking into a night club—dim, dark floors, dark walls, with the flash and blink of lights here and there. Naturally, I start to take pictures, and what do I hear?

“Ma’am, no photography. Ma’am. MA’AM!”

I was busy photographing and didn’t hear him at first.

“MA’AM, there’s no photography!”

Oops. Turns out there was a really big sign next to me that said NO PHOTOGRAPHY.

So I apologized profusely, stumbled on my words, stumbled on my feet. And the security guard/porter—we shall call him Fred to protect his identity—came over to tell me about the display I was stupidly photographing. It was the Townsend Jewel Collection, which had once contained the Hope Diamond. [Fred the Porter thought it was interesting that the Americans got the Hope Diamond and Britain got the rest]. The jewels were arranged in a swirling circle, with the hardest jewels in the middle (diamonds) fading to the softest on the outside (opals, etc.). They were also stunningly beautiful! So wish I could have posted a picture, but I think the one I took might be slightly illegal.

Fred the Porter then showed me their computer system and how I can view all of the items in the jewelry collection online. (GO HERE AND DROOL) Then he filled my head with fact upon fact upon fact about stones. He was a font of information, and I was a willing listener. A few of those facts are in my journal entry below.

The conversation then briefly drifted to history, the discovery of the Americas, and a few other subjects I’ve forgotten now. It was fascinating to get the world view of a man so enamored of stones and gems. He was my first of many interesting conversationalists on the trip! And if you ever are so lucky as to go to the V&A and find Fred (which of course you can’t, because I changed his name), ask him to tell you about the stones. The V&A couldn’t have picked a more perfect person to guard them!

Obviously, I have no pictures of the jewelry except a couple of illegal ones I took before Fred the Porter stopped me and we had our lovely conversation. But I can tell you that aside from famous jewels, there were displays going as far back as Ancient Greece. There were lover’s eye brooches, French chatelaines, 1970’s bangles, gorgeous medieval girdles, tiaras worn by princesses, death rings—oh, how I wish I could have taken pictures!

But at least I know—thanks to Fred the Porter—that I can see these all online!

 

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April 14, 2016 3:30 pm
Courtyard of the V&A

I have now been here 4 hours! I think I’ve seen everything now but the paying exhibits.

 

 

IMG_20160414_155911 IMG_20160414_130324I’m sitting in the central courtyard at the little wading pool. There are perhaps ten children running and splashing and shrieking. I find myself wanting to join them, though I fancy the American would be taken up as crazy. [I took the pictures after the kids left to protect them.]

 

Since I left the fashion area, I’ve seen many marble statues and took pictures. Busts, statues in the classical style and a few funeral pieces that were at once a celebration of life and so very sad. The girl on the couch had the most lovely poem on the side of her statue.

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And the Finch family effigies, with father and mother, and the names of all twelve children was very interesting. It was commission when he died, but his died a decade later. What must it be like to look on your husband’s cold stone face every day?

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Then I found the jewelry. Oh. My. God. From Ancient Greece to 2000. I also got yelled at for taking pictures. Stupid American! But Fred and I spent a pleasant half hour discussing jewelry and history and the Americas and all sorts of things.

Notes from the jewelry collection:

The Townsend jewels; part of the Hope Collection.
The Londenderry jewels brought back from India
The green stones (chrysoprase?) that were for Charlotte’s wedding day
A rough cut green diamond – green from radiation a billion years ago
Death and love rings from the Middle ages
Girdles!
Chatelaines!
Tiaras from the 1800s
Steel that was intricate and black

 

Apparently much of the collection is online. Just need to find the jewelry page.

Also, Fred the Porter said that we are part of the earth, and all of the things inside stones—iron, magnesium, oxygen, radiation—they are all part of the earth as well. I would add they are all also part of the Universe, as are we.

Oh, and when tourmaline gets hot, it creates and electrical shock. They used to use them in Geiger counters!

After jewelry I looked at silver and gold stuff, mostly religious, but then I found the portrait gallery. I only spent about 15 minutes there, taking pictures of anything from my time period so that I can study hair and clothing. [That shall be a historical blog post for another day!]

Then I found the tapestries! My God, they were huge. 20 feet tall? 40 feet wide? More? They were from the 1500’s, mostly religious in nature. So intricately woven they were amazing. [Another post for another day—but these things were COOL].

Oh, and I bought a book about underwear. 🙂 All historical. 1500s to 2000 it seems. £10

Now I shall look at the architecture in the courtyard, watch the children, drink my water and figure out where to go next. The temperature is dropping and I’m starving. And tired as well. My poor feet! [Remember, I had walked Hyde Park that morning too!]

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There you go then. My Afternoon at the Museum.

But it wasn’t the end of my day. I made another stop that brought me to tears. You’ll have to wait for that one, though. (How’s that for a cliffhanger?)

Adventures: Breakfasts In London

But it’s not really about breakfast. It’s about the humanity of a smile.

NOTE: I changed the name of the waiter to protect the innocent.

 

Journal Entry:

April 14, 8:00ish

I’m having breakfast at a brasserie. It is a partner with the hotel, so I can eat here or at the hotel using my voucher. I decided for my first morning, I’d go off site to see the city.

The buildings across the way have the most lovely wrought iron fences on the first story. The second and higher stories are set in a little, maybe five feet. I wonder how old that is? If that existed in the 1800’s, it would be great for Vivienne to jump from. Or Magdalena! [Future characters, My Dear Reader…]

Pause. Coffee. Pause.

I’ve ordered a traditional London breakfast. Poached eggs, back bacon, sausage, sautéed mushrooms, grilled tomato, backed beans.

I’m. In. Heaven.

OMG. There’s Blood Pudding!

So. Yeah. I don’t like blood pudding. I do, however love the sausage, back bacon, beans, mushrooms, tomato – and I can chew the coffee. It’s awesome!

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The Awesomeness of an English Breakfast

As per usual, I got in trouble that morning. They said I could sit anywhere when I got into the restaurant. So I did. Apparently, I picked the ONE reserved table. There was a big sign on it, even. So of course, the waiter came by and asked me to move. He was thin and tall, handsome, with thick, short hair that was half salt and half pepper. Narrow featured, narrow shouldered, yet also aloof, as if he were a little detached from the rest of us. He was also a little…irritated. And he spoke to me, frankly, as if I was an idiot. Which I was. I was sitting at the reserved table with the Big Ole Reserved Sign I didn’t read.

I moved tables, but of course, I’m loud. And I get particularly loud when I’m embarrassed. So I’m laughing in my big, booming laugh and apologizing all over myself. I almost knocked over the table I moved to, bumping into it with my bag. Then, when I was trying to get myself settled, I knocked my fork on the floor. What follows, naturally, is that awful, metallic clatter when silverware hits tile. Sigh. More of my booming laugh and apologizing.

Basically, the entire restaurant was watching me. This often happens. I can’t help it.

Also, John the Waiter was looking down his nose at me as if I was not only an idiot, but had grown three heads and he wanted nothing more than to hustle me out the door. In his suit and apron, with that look on his face, I felt like an idiot.

This also often happens. I can’t help that either.

After the table debacle, I order coffee. Again, I’m laughing my booming laugh. “Make it as really big, as I’m super jetlagged.”

I got a very small, stingy half-smile from John the Waiter.

I decided to work on earning his good will back that week, because I was an idiot. So when I left, I made sure to hunt him down and say thank you.

Plus, everyone—particularly those in the service industry—deserve thanks for their work. I’ve been a waitress, and it’s a damn hard job.

April 15, 8:30 am

I’m here at breakfast now, again at the brasserie. I noticed on my walk people aren’t naturally friendly. It’s like New Yorkers – they are all on their way somewhere and in a hurry.

This is not true. I mean it is, in the fact that many people I came across that morning were on their way to work or another appointment, clearly. But it’s not true that the English as a whole aren’t naturally friendly. They are, so much so that I now consider London a home away from home. They were wonderful and welcoming!

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Eggs Benedict…In England. There’s irony there. Also, the Hollandaise was amazing.

I just wanted to clarify before we went any further lest I give you, Lovely Reader, the wrong impression from my journal entry. Now, read on…

Yet a street cleaner gave me a grin, said good morning, and said “It’s Friday, no?” Just like someone would in the US. And I find, just as at home, if you smile first, the person will almost always smile back. And just like at home, I hope my smile cheers up their day!

Which brings me to yesterday’s waiter, John. He was not friendly, though I did get him to crack a smile when I said I wanted coffee because I was a bit jetlagged. Today I came in, the little waitress said hello and recognized me. John – when I sat down I was facing the counter and he was there – he smiled. A real one. Very much a greeting of recognition and hello, and a friendly one at that. I couldn’t have been more happy! I just goes to show how kindness can go a long way – no matter what part of the world you are in.

John [the Waiter] is not English, btw. French perhaps? And I saw him washing the dishes, tie tucked between the buttons of his shirt, sleeves rolled up – and to my surprise, this serious, dour man has a line of text tattooed on his forearm. I wonder what it says? Something personal and profound, I hope. John seems to be a deep thinker.

The table beside me is two couples, clearly mother/father and grown daughter/son or daughter-in-law/son-in-law. I lean to d/s, as neither are wearing wedding rings. I think they speak Italian or Portuguese or Spanish. Can’t tell. But my waiter—who looks vaguely like a young Johnny Depp with side burns—spoke to them in a similar language that the daughter then translated for the family. Fascinating.

Also, they are talking about me right now, which is also fascinating. What are they saying? Look at that chunky little American scribbling in her notebook? If so, that is OK. I was just writing about them.

But I got a smile and a wave as they left. I can’t help but smile about that myself.

For now, it is time to put my big girl panties on and brave the Underground!

Seeing John the Waiter with his sleeves rolled up was very interesting. As with the rest of him, his forearms were thin and narrow. But there was strength there, in the muscles and tendons—probably from a lifetime of waiting. I say a lifetime because that man was efficient. There was nothing he did not see in that restaurant when it came to service of patrons and other staff.

It was the tattoo that really got me. I love tattoos, though I don’t have one myself. But I don’t love tattoos for the sake of a statement. I love tattoos that mean something, whatever it is, to the bearer of it. One can argue that every tattoo has meaning, of course, but some are also for shock value or any other number of reasons. Including drunken mistakes or peer pressure or the idiocy of youth.

But when a person has a tattoo such as that line of text on John the Waiter’s forearm, it usually means something important. I very much wish I had been close enough to read it. I’ll always wonder what it said, and what it would reveal about my aloof friend.

April 16, 9ish

Well, it was an interesting evening. I did, in fact, become “in”. Jackie and my Z-girl let me take a picture! So they shall soon become part of my blog. Which I to start soon—as soon as I get home!

Then I was hit on by a very, very drunk Irishman. Bless him. He could hardly stand, and his conversation was, at best, stilted, but he was a nice enough fellow. A regular it seems, as he’s been there all three days I have. And, as my fabulous Jackie said, I’m becoming a regular myself.

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I can’t recall, but I think that was an omelette. I *know* it was delish.

There was a bit more to this post that morning, going over my time at the pub the night before. But I met a lost soul that night who poured out their worries and problems into my sympathetic ear. I was stranger, a receptacle for secrets, who would never have to be faced again as I was going home to America soon. So I opened myself to their secrets, accepted them, and will keep them.

Everyone needs a place for secrets, particularly the ones that are told while drinking adult beverages.

More, I hope I helped.

But I still saw John the Waiter that day, even if I didn’t write about him. I remember specifically, because I was tired and later than usual after my evening out at the pub. I had coffee again, a big cup, then a second. And when that second cup was poured I saw John the Waiter watching me with a half-smile. Whether because he remembered how jet-lagged I was or because I was clearly a coffee-fiend, I don’t know. But I remember that little knowing smile, as if he knew why I wanted extra coffee.

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Eggs Florentine

April 17, 9:15

Just finished my eggs Florentine. I have about an hour before my Spencer House tour, so I’m going to get a move on. But let’s just say it is gloriously sunny and cool, and I can’t wait!

Though, I’m unutterably sad today to be leaving London. I’ve fallen in love with the city and it’s melting pot of people and history.

My darling London, I shall miss you!

I became a regular at the brasserie. Going in every morning for breakfast. But I never had the pleasure of John the Waiter being my server again, though he was there every single day. I discovered he wasn’t really a waiter, but a manager of some sort. He directed traffic, washed dishes, handled the replenishing of the cold buffet.  Always with a cool demeanor, a sort of reserved and detached expression on his face. But he saw everything.

And every day I came in, he smiled at me. That smile grew each day so that by the end of my time there, he darn near grinned at me. All I did was use my manners, say thank you each day, smile and wave.

There is a saying that we don’t know what troubles others are having unless we are in their shoes. That’s true. But the fact is, sometimes we can change peoples’ lives with little more than a friendly smile. We can make someone’s difficult day better. Let them know you care, even if you know nothing of their troubles. The power of a smile can make strangers your friends.

On my last day in London, I stopped off at the counter for a personal thank you to John the Not Waiter. His smile and the “It was our pleasure!” returned to me was one of my favorite moments of London. It was heartfelt.

It doesn’t matter what country we are in, whether we are a Frenchman working in England or an American traveling to Europe—we’re all human. One of our most basic needs is to connect with other humans. A smile can do that. A genuine, sincere smile can make the world go round.

I hope the next time someone sits at the reserved table or drops a fork or says they are jetlagged that John thinks of me. And I hope he smiles because he met a silly American woman who scribbled in a black Moleskine notebook and drank gallons of coffee.

And also ate everything on her plate, every single day, like a good girl.

Adventures: Day 1, Hour 1, Minute 1

There I was. In London.

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World-wide Electrical Plugs Mr. A bought me.

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Maps. I poured over these maps. I got lost anyway!

I’d packed my overseas electrical plugs, my ticket information, my travel hair dryer, maps of the cities and subways, every cord I could possibly need and a passport belt. Just in case.

I’d managed to get to Charles De Gaulle airport in Paris for my layover, maneuver through security, take a bus (driven by a man who spoke not a lick of English, and my French is bad!) to the flight gate and was chastised for the size of my carry on. Sure, I had a few panicked moments when my first flight left Detroit an hour late, but I was determined to do this all by myself.

I flew from CDG to Heathrow, found the Express Train that traveled a straight shot from Heathrow to Paddington Station. I even bought my return ticket, so I would have that for my return trip. One better, I found a store to buy my shampoo and conditioner right there in the Station! I figured I’d have to buy it later or use the hotel’s toiletries. Low and behold, there was a convenience store conveniently located just feet from my train platform (which was not 9¾, sadly).

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Paddington Bear at Paddington Station!

I was thinking I was all kinds of awesome. I’d managed to fly over an ocean, navigate a foreign airport, and arrive at my destination. All alone. Me. The woman who married at the ripe old age of 20. Who had never lived alone. Never purchased a car by herself. Never rented her own apartment. Sure, I run my household (I’m a mom!), but I’ve never fully run my own life, going straight from my parent’s house to falling in love with Mr. A my freshman year of college.

I’ve been part of a unit ever since–a fact I wouldn’t change for the world.

I’m still in love with Mr. A, by the way. Even more so because he encouraged me to go to Europe alone.

Best. Husband. Ever.

Anyway, I’d made it all the way to London by myself, after having booked my own flights and hotels and everything. I was so all about my independence. Look at me! Headline: Worldly American Author Travels to London!

IMG_20160417_181654 (1) StraightSo I exit Paddington Station, turn the corner and walk a block to my hotel. Luggage wheels are grinding on the sidewalk behind me. It’s a little bit cloudy, a little bit damp. I’m filthy from airports and airplanes and having traveled for twenty-two hours.

But I’m grinning from ear to ear. I’m in London. Pubs abound. I can hear the British accent in the passersby. Signs say “Mind The Gap”.  And there is a big double-decker red bus on the street. Seriously. Can life get any better than this?

It was a short lived exuberance.

I found my hotel, stepped inside, exhausted and hungry and thrilled—but not so thrilled to find a creepy bald man at the front desk. I check in, and I do *not* like his leer. I’m convinced women have a sixth sense about creepy men. Call it self-preservation. Survival instinct. Whatever. We know creepers. This creeper noted I had paid for a twin room, but he decided to upgrade me to a “better” room with a “bigger” bed.

Meanwhile, as he’s upgrading my reservation, I’m watching the cameras he’s got behind the desk. They cover every hallway. That’s good, I guess. But the lobby is—not clean. Not dirty, but not clean. And it’s not even remotely well-appointed. It’s Spartan. And tiny. And dominated by a leering bald man and his cameras.

But I’m an independent woman of the world, right? I’ve just traveled farther than I’ve ever been. I’ve got skillz.

So I take my key and cram myself, my bulging carryon bag, my suitcase, and the shampoo I just bought into a teeny tiny elevator. This is what London is like, isn’t it? Space is at a premium. Hallways are narrow. Elevators are small.

I find my room, walk in, close the door and look around. It’s Spartan as well. Pretty much just furniture and white walls. OK, I think. I can stay here. It’s not what I was hoping for, but I’m not some spoiled, silly American.

I put my suitcase on the nearest non-cloth service (I’m worried about bed bugs), and I look for a room safe. None. OK. No biggie.

I check my phone. No service. I can’t make a call.

There’s no wifi, so I can’t email Mr. A to let him know I’m safe.

The room is at the back of the hotel, away from the street. No one can hear me scream. (Note my overactive imagination taking flight here.)

But I’m good, right? I’m an independent, worldly woman. So I set out the toiletries I need to take a shower, step in, revel in the hot water—and start sobbing.

Hangry tears? Yep.

Homesick? A little.

Missing Mr. A and my 7 y/o Biscuit? Quite a bit.

Terrified and alone and four thousand miles from home? Yes. Big yes.

The good thing about crying in showers, though, is that the water washes away both tears and snot.

But when I got out, I was so uncomfortable I locked the bathroom door and got dressed mostly under the towel. Creeper, you know. Cameras.

I dressed and went to the bed, still not sure what to do. Above the bed were windows covered by ugly beige curtains. I pushed them apart—and realized the windows were open beneath the curtains. Wide. Holy sh!t. And the bottoms of the windows are parallel with the floor of the fire escape. Which means anyone could have pushed aside those curtains and come into the room while I was in the shower. Vulnerable.

Panic, panic, panic.

So I close the windows, but the locks are, at best, paltry. I close the curtains, too.

“I can do this,” I say aloud. “I can do this. I’m a big girl.”

I pull back the cover of the bed…And there’s hair in it. More than one piece. Dark, short hair, about an inch long. Clearly not from my bald creeper, but hair. And a chunk o’ dried dirt, as if it came from the bottom of someone’s shoe a few hours after wandering in a swamp.

“I’m not doing this.” I think I might’ve cursed too. The F-word. But I know I said aloud to an empty room, “I’m not doing this.”

So I went through my bags, looking for all the money I had brought with me. My passport. My travel documents and flight confirmations. Credit cards. I put them in the passport belt and strapped it to my waist. Then I put my phone, it’s cord, my Kindle, a few Great British Pounds and one credit card into my over-the-shoulder carryon bag. All my valuables are now on my person. I leave my suitcase in the room (clothes are just stuff, shoes I can replace), and exit the hotel looking for the nearest pub.
And I end up here. At the Pride of Paddington.

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DSC_0365I’m waited on by a pretty Australian named Jackie (left), then a firecracker of a half-Italian, half-Arabic girl named Zuleika (right). Both are nice and cheerful, and Jackie ended up being a very good friend by the end of the trip. So while she orders me up a BLT and a pint o’ beer, I do my best not to cry while I connect to their wifi.

I want Mr. A. Desperately.

All my skillz, my independence, dissipated in a hangry, travel-worn minute.

It’s silly, as I look back. It was just a hotel room that didn’t meet my (apparently high) expectations. But I felt as though I’d failed. I’d come all that way, determined to be on my own, to be dependent on no one but myself for the first time in my life, and all I wanted was Mr. A.

Sigh.

I shall take this moment to note, I am clearly sheltered. I’ve obviously never had a truly difficult life. Some women live this life every day, with no one to depend on but themselves. Some women live through the worst life can offer—abuse, poverty, war, grief, illness. And all I’m complaining about is hair in my hotel bed. Hair in a bed in a foreign country I am fortunate enough to be able to travel to.

So what, exactly, does that make me? Spoiled.

That is a humbling realization. One I wish I did not have to type.

No, I’m not a millionaire. I don’t a have private makeup artist or a live-in housekeeper. The fact is, I’m fortunate to have a stable life, a loving husband, an adorable son. I live a lucky life, and I know it.

But I wanted a clean room in London. Windows with proper locks. Call me spoiled and selfish, but I wanted to feel safe.

So I sent an instant message to Mr. A via wifi and he sent one back. Between us (my international minutes and data were limited for the trip) we found a new hotel nearby. I called, made my reservations, told them I’d be there in 20 minutes if they had a room for me—which made the receptionist chuckle.

I left the Pride of Paddington, my eventual home away from home (more on that in a later blog post) and went back to the icky hotel. I marched in, got my bag, checked for personal items I may have left behind, and marched back out again. I told the creeper I was leaving. To charge me for one night per the cancellation policy, but no more. And I left.

There was power in that, even if that power was partly fueled by fear, partly by being a spoiled American, and partly by the financial ability to reserve a more expensive hotel.

I went back to Paddington Station, walked past it one block, and found THE BEST HOTEL. It was like staying in a Hampton Inn for those in the US. Clean, simple, not overly fussy décor but modern. And, did I mention clean? The room was tiny and I bumped my head on the slanted ceiling more than once. But everything I needed was there. An in-room safe, a clean bathroom, a comfy bed, lovely receptionists, and a pot for making coffee or tea.

Um. Did I mention clean?

So. I’m spoiled. I know it. I obviously have hotel expectations. As I said, it’s humbling to know I have such expectations. I thought I could have stayed anywhere. But at the same time, I try to tell myself there is nothing wrong with wanting to feel safe if I have the ability to make it so.

In my new hotel I sat on the bed, opened the window, and pillowed my face and arms on the windowsill so I could watch the city go by.

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Looking left…

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Looking straight down…

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Looking right.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I saw locals and tourists. I saw the sun set and rise. I noted how the windows of every building were smaller the higher up they went. I thought the chimneys were cute. I loved how the people below bustled and the buses were full of people. I was comfortable, and more, I was in awe of the city around me.

Headline: Spoiled American Author in London!

Even as I watched the city around me, I realized what I was. A woman who did not know how to live with real hardship. And yet, I could be grateful in the fact that I did not have to stay in a hotel where I felt uncomfortable. Watched. Unsafe.

It is simply my truth. I want to apologize for it, yet I don’t know how to. Who would I apologize to? Women in situations where safety is but a dream? I don’t know. But when I said this trip was part vacation, part self-discovery, I meant it.

I went halfway across the world and discovered just how very lucky I am.