Eight-Week Europe Solo Travel 2011: Half Destroyed and Living History

Monday, May 30, 2011, Journal Excerpts

(The blog entry, Dany, occurs chronologically ahead of this entry, although it was posted to this blog earlier this year.)

I'm sitting in the sun on my friends' second story porch in Dresden, Germany. It is a gorgeous day. I took forever to get up: 9:45am. Woke a while before, but didn't roll out of bed right away. Started yoga and fell back to sleep. We stayed up late drinking again last night. We hit City Beach in Neustadt. What fun! More about that later. First, allow me to set the scene.

View of the surrounding mossy roofs from my friend's deck in Dresden, Germany.

Incredible place, Dresden. Full of very old memories and very new ones—both vivid. The blackened side of buildings and the traces of rubble now made into rubble monuments—a reconciliation of sorts for what went before. The Altstadt is so dark, heavy, gloomy, eerie. Ghosts everywhere. I feel like I'm not supposed to be here. This is something I'm not part of.  In addition to the old European feel of the place and the constant memorials (both formal and informal) to the devastation of World War II, the current social and economic structure of what was East Germany is also alien to me. It took 6 months for Dave and Lisa to get a car, and that's with active pestering. And by getting, I mean buying. My American can-do attitude makes me wonder: If they had done something—anything—differently, would they have gotten their car sooner? Did the owner of the car dealership or the government start a clock somewhere when my friends first approached a dealer to look at a car? I am not clear who was in charge. Someone has to be, right? “They don't know how to sell cars,” Dave says. The salespeople obviously don't, but what about the managers? The owners of the car dealerships? Doesn't show much business sense. Lisa says the government finally figured out that they needed to give the salesmen incentives to sell cars. Why had the owners of the companies not thought of it themselves before then? I don't understand, and it's not with the same non-understanding that I approach American politics or industry.

The entrance to the Markthall or grocery in Neustadt, Germany.

I feel like I understand the context in America, the forces at play, even if in simple terms: Politicians with red faces gesticulating and ranting about the ramifications of taking government money away from the oil industry and giving it to alternative energy companies, etc. Propped up by industry lobbyists, they are the “bad guys.” In the U.S. I'm am one of the “good guys,” and so are my family and friends. We are just trying to get by and be happy and not wreck the earth too much. And admittedly, I don't think about it all the time. But here I don't even understand the context. Here, where capitalism isn't the focus, it is too difficult for me to take a stand. No obvious good and bad guys, just confusion. How can I know if I'm a good guy if I can't figure out who the bad guys are?

Fountain in the courtyard of my friend's apartment building in Dresden, Germany.

Second cup of coffee. Feeling better and less melancholy. Had some OJ, but no breakfast in the house, so I'll be on my way after my shower to find something to eat. But no worries. I'm rarely hungry when I first get up and today is no exception. Clean breeze blowing and ruffling my shirt sleeves. Children laughing and playing – talking and yelling behind me across the street--probably at a nursery school or day care center. The fountain below in the courtyard spills water continuously. I can hear it below me. A small engine wines a block or so over. Someone is doing yard work. I move around the table as the sun moves.

The building where Lisa and Dave live is very old--18th century. It is in Neustadt or “new town.” It was once abandoned, dilapidated, with trees coming up from the foundation and growing out the roof above—just three or four years ago. The house next door is still in that shape, so I hope to get a picture of it later.

The still dilapidated villa next to my friend's apartment building in Neustadt, Dresden, Germany. My friend's building used to look like this a few years before.

After World War II, the communists left the city district of Neustadt to crumble on its own. Cheaper, nondescript apartment buildings were built to create new, cinder block cities. The revitalization of Neustadt is slow, but happening with wonderful results: shiny supermarkets (Markthalle) and luxury apartments and homes. The river paths have been there for centuries, and now the biergartens and wine gardens are re-opened and bustling, and drawing tourists. It may not be the most popular spot to visit in Germany, but it should be one of them. (Editor's Note: Since I first wrote this, Dresden has become one of the most visited cities in Dresden. See Wikipedia.)

Altstadt or “old town” is the city center dating from the 16th and 17th centuries. In Altstadt after the war, the communists left the destruction and rubble to make a point—here's what the capitalists have done to your city. Seeing the original cross from the top of the Frauenkirche now resting beside the rebuilt altar was wrenching for me. Blackened, the edges and the metal curled into a surrealistic art piece. Within it the clutch of despair. I understand better where these art movements come from now. The surrealism. The dystopian vision. My generation in the U.S., in its current position of relative peace and wealth, does not have the impetus to create dark matter such as this. But the movement has come to us from Europe and other war torn places. American GIs returning from WWII had it by the edge. It opened our Baby Boomer eyes.

The original cross from the top of the Freuenkirch after it had been melted by incindiary bombs dropped by the U.S. and Britain during World War II. By Wilhelmy (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Frauenkirche is beautifully restored to its exquisite baroque beauty—even if some of the marble is faux marble, it doesn't matter. It represents a past that the German people value and should be proud of--certainly should remember. But it did cost millions of euro to do it. The Zwinger – the pleasure palace of Augustus the Strong–is HUGE. The grounds, the buildings—multiple buildings, fountains, carvings on every balustrade and column and roof. Statuary all along the top walkway. Construction here and there. I was so moved, amazed. I wanted to stay outside and see the big picture, not go into the tiny exhibits. I did climb up to the top of the Dome of the church, then I sat at the cafe and had lunch: beef goulash and noodles—yum! I'll try going to the rose garden first this morning and see if the cafe is open. If not, I'll walk over to the “black market” cafe Lisa talked about. I'll get oriented with the maps she so kindly made for me. I'll write more about the details of my stay in Dresden at a later time.

Construction on the top of one of the walls of the Zwinger Palace, Dresden, Germany.

Later that morning

Sitting in the Rose Garden Cafe. I had a fruit and caprese salad with endive, lettuce, tomato, buffalo mozzarella, yellow onions, red pepper, carrots, corn, radishes, raspberries, strawberries, blueberries. The dressing was the classic combination of extra virgin olive oil, balsamic vinegar and fresh ground pepper. Now, do I stay here awhile and write, go on my merry way to another cafe, or go back to my friend's apartment? I think I will attempt to catch up with my blog. And write about my experiences with the mobile phone. (Editor's note: See blog entry, Dany.) Although I should have time on the train tomorrow to type up a bunch of stuff. Hmm. If I write here I'll have to retype it later. How easy will that be on the train? I'll do a bit of both. I still may end up back at the apartment fairly early.

My salad at the Rose Cafe, Dresden, Germany.

Meanwhile, I'll sketch out the rest of my train itinerary for France, with a list of the tickets I must purchase, in order, when I get back to Paris:

June 2 Thursday
Paris to Auxerre Train TGV6711 11:24am

June 6 Monday
Auxerre to Caen Noon?

June 8 Wednesday
Caen to Bayeaux 2:00ish

June 10 Wednesday
Bayeaux to Saumur after 3pm

June 14 Tuesday
Saumur to Angers morning

June 17 Friday
Angers to Le Mans morning

June 20 Monday
Le Mans to Poitier? noon-2pm

June 26 Sunday
Poitier to Zaragoza morning

Eight-Week Eruope Solo Travel: The Eleanor Vase! Geek Out!

Wednesday, 05/25/2011, Afternoon, Paris.

I arrived at the Louvre and went straight to the information desk to ask where the Eleanor Vase was. I wasn't going to fool around trying to find it and wind up looking at some other ancient relic or medieval craftsmanship and waste my precious time. I had a mission and I wanted to get in and out with minimal people interaction. I needed all my energy for the Eleanor of Aquitaine experience.

I asked the gentleman at the desk where Eleanor of Aquitaine's vase was. "What?" he said looking completely bewildered, and then mumbled something to his compatriot. I pronounced it as the English do. Was that not also how the French pronounce it? I knew that in French, Eleanor was “Alienor,” but I hadn't thought to find out how to pronounce “Aquitaine.” And being a self-centered American, I assumed even the French would know her by her English name. These assumptions suddenly seemed like a major failure on my part.

I rattled off a few more names: Henry the Second, her husband. Richard the Lionheart and King John, her sons. "Ah!" he said. "Ah! Alienor d'Aquitaine!" He pronounced the last part "ock-i-tane." OK. Let me write that down.

He pointed me to the Objets d'Art hall of the Richelieu arm of the museum. He even circled the exact case on the diagram that held the vase. Perfect. "Merci," I said and headed upstairs to the first floor (in Europe, as you may know, the street level is usually floor 0; the next floor up is the main floor).

I walked in.

Me at the Louvre examining the Eleanor Vase. I was lucky to get another museum visitor to take my picture.

I am now here, seeing the Eleanor Vase -- beautiful. She is just sitting there sharing a case with three other pieces as if they were of equivalent antiquity: A porcelain-like vase with platinum "wings." (Like that will impress me.) And an ornate silver tea pot like a press pot. (How pedestrian!)

A small charm hangs off the neck of the Eleanor vase. The gilded silver filigree and metal work are at odds with the simple honeycomb pattern of the crystal vase. The naked glass vase was the original gift given to Eleanor's grandfather, Duke William IX of Aquitaine, by the Berber ruler of Saragossa, a city state now in the Spanish region of Aragon, for helping defend the city from a new Berber invasion. On their wedding day in 1137 Eleanor gifted King Louis VII of France the samesimple crystal vase . The metalwork was added by Abott Sugar after Louis gave him the vase and he added it to his collection at St. Denis about 15 years later.

The back side of the vase has been smashed and sheared off, creating a new irregular glacial face. A small fissure appears at the top of the glass, like the tip of the iceberg, but it does not go completely through the material. The stones and jewels on the outside of the base are lovely -- amethyst, coral -- all about 1/4 inch by 1/2 inch. Then a pair of tiny pearls set in gold filigree stand one on top of the other. The writing at the bottom is square and Roman, some letters larger than others. And there is a flower pattern similar to the Fleur-de-lis.

One of the jewels is missing on the back side -- the same side of the crystal vase that is sheared off and glacial-looking -- the rest appear to be in place. This is where the vase must have hit the floor in the 18th century, damaging it for the first time. It seems someone lined up the damage to the vase to appear at the back, away from the viewer's first sighting. Around the space where the jewel had been is a pattern like a fine gilded rope woven around the shape of the missing jewel.

In the metal sleeve covering the neck there is a ring of stones. Above this is a space filled with ovals -- four of them, each with four Fleur-de-lis painted in gold over a blue stone in the center of the oval -- possibly lapis lazuli -- above this series of ovals is a circlet of small semi-precious stones & pearls.

Gorgeous. The vase shape itself is almost completely symmetrical. Incredible. The top of the vase – what I can see from under the metal collar, comes down at almost vertical, then rolls out into a curved arc, then curves back in smoothly into the base. The divots in the crystal—made by a master craftsman—are almost completely even. They meander up on just one side.

The inside of the metal at the lip of the neck shows the tiny indentations left by the hammer used to mold it. It reflects back the light in the case in blues and burnt orange and bronze and black.

Upon closer inspection, I find an additional mark like a backwards Zorro “Z” slash on the front of the vase. It doesn't appear to be a fissure in the crystal. If it is, someone did a tremendous mending job. Although they should have taken better care of this precious artifact in the first place. It is all we have left from the life of Eleanor.

The card reads, “Cristal. Iran(?) Unknown Origin.”

As I stare at the vase and scribble notes, it occurs to me to imagine what my novel's main character, Aihne, saw when she looked at this same vase in the fictional future of the story. There must be an odd mark at the base of the original crystal, almost invisible and obscured by the metal base. A thread that was not a crack. A groove that only Aihne's expert eyes could make out. No one else had noticed. And the kicker was that there was a matching groove on the other side! She is the first to discover that the vase in the story is an imposter and points it out to the guard. What did it mean? Aihne's purpose on traveling to the 12th century is to find out!

I am glad the vase I saw was the real deal.

A version of this blog entry appeared on electricrider.net on June 5, 2011.

Eight-Week Europe Solo Travel 2011: Paris. Where to Pee? In Subway, at Louvre, or Directly on EurRail Pass?

Wednesday, 05/25/2011

I had a wonderful breakfast of muesli, yogurt and fruit, and a croissant with coffee—very rich dark, wonderful coffee—and armed with subway directions from the owner of the hotel, I headed to Gare d'Austerlitz, which was the closest train station. I first entered the subway just two short blocks from the hotel and bought a Paris Visite' pass at the subway window. The woman behind the counter spoke little English, but she was able to confirm that the subway train that I needed to travel to Gare d'Austerlitz was number 10.

What a bright subway compared to NYC! White walls and broad platforms. I didn't feel like I was underground. It was just five quick minutes to the Gare d'Austerlitz station, but it took me another 5 minutes to find the ticket window. “Billets!” said one sign. “Grand Journeys!” said another. The “Billets!” sign led to a ticket window that advertised local Paris and other French destinations. Dresden was not listed. Aha! I thought. Maybe “Grand Journeys” means tickets for trains to other countries. After a moment, I discovered the tickets for Grand Journeys in a separate area set back from the rest. It didn't say "billets" until you got inside. Once there, though, the woman was very helpful.

At least, that's what I thought.

Gare d'Austerlitz subway station by Vincent BABILOTTE (Own work) [GFDL, CC-BY-SA-3.0 or CC BY 2.5], via Wikimedia Commons

I asked her for a reservation to the Dresden-Neustadt station for the following day. She told me I couldn't use my EurRail pass for the first part of the journey, from Paris to Frankfurt. I was dumbfounded. But I was so eager to check off the task of making my reservation for the next day from my long list of tasks that I Rambo'd through it. It didn't occur to me until later that I was just making a reservation so that I shouldn't have been purchasing a ticket at all. My EurRail pass was the ticket. Pushing down my confusion and just making it happen, I paid for the ticket, even thanking the woman. To be fair to myself, I did guess that I might have missed some fine print, or that I did not make my reservation in time to use the EuroRail pass.

It all made sense later. Sort of.

I handed the woman my credit card. It didn't work. It had just worked earlier that day, so I was again surprised. What else could go wrong here? I put that card back in my wallet , and pulled up my shirt to get to my money belt. I hoped no one would think I was stripping. I pulled out my back-up card. The woman's eyes got big. "Wow!" she said. I made some sounds of apology and she said, “No! Is good!” I assume she was referring to how careful I was being with my money and credit cards by keeping backups underneath my clothes.

Voila! The second card worked. (I later found out it was just a setting on the first credit card and hubby fixed it for me long distance—what a guy!)

Gare d'Austerlitz Paris Train Station by ignis (Own work) [GFDL, CC-BY-SA-3.0 or CC BY-SA 2.5-2.0-1.0], via Wikimedia Commons

Several days later, I did manage to finish reading the EurRail Pass Traveler's Guide (which I should have done already). Guess what? If you don't get a reservation fairly early on, you may not get one of the seats set aside for EurRail Pass holders. If they run out of those, you have to buy another ticket or reserve a seat on another train. They recommend that you make your reservations even before you enter Europe through your travel agent! Something my travel agent did not tell me. So, when next I am at the train station, I will try to make my reservations for the remainder of the journey -- especially if I can find a EurRail office at one of the train stations, Better yet, I'll email my travel agent and have her do it!

So the lady at Gare d'Austerlitz was correct: I had to buy an additional ticket because I had waited too long to make a reservation for that specific train. All the reservations for EurRail seats on that specific train had been filled already.  My conclusion is that a EurRail pass is not worth the money unless you are really flexible. I am glad I did it this time, because it is nice to have some expense out of the way, and now I know how to make better use of it. But, you are paying a premium for train tickets with it. I have been told by two separate sources (one is a friend who lives in Europe and the other is the guy at www.seat61.com) that Americans pay more for train tickets than anyone else. Even direct purchases from the in-country train web sites. So, live and learn. Now that I know my way around a bit better, I think next time, I will just get the tickets either directly through the rail company web sites or when I get here. I also will be more flexible on when I travel. I now realize that if I had picked a later train to Dresden, I could probably have gotten on it without paying an extra fee. But I wanted to get on that specific train because I had told my friends I was coming at that specific time. If I had changed it, I would have had to communicate back to my friends about the change. It seemed like too much trouble when I was already overwhelmed with my first day in Paris.

My EurRail Pass from Spring 2011 all filled in.

Even though it was a rude awakening to discover that my EurRail Pass was not going to always work smoothly, I was happy that I had made a connection with this woman at the train station. It is the small things. And I had accomplished my goal of securing a ticket to Dresden.

The rest of the day was a blur. At this point, I really had to pee. I found the bathroom, but I needed a .50 euro coin to use it, which I did not have. I wonder how many Americans finally find the bathroom and then just pee their pants right there in front of the sign that says, “.05 euro, please!” because they don't have any change.

I found my way to the metro, wondering if I could just hold it until I got to the Louvre, but a fashion boutique caught my eye. Perhaps I could get change for the toilette there. I examined the goods and decided on a bright orange India print shawl. It would go well with the orange, red and aqua dragon print dress. After explaining to the proprietress that I needed change for the toilette, and after she conferred with a friend who was chatting with her when I walked up, she handed me several coins including a couple .50 euro pieces in change. I thanked her, then headed back to the toilette emporium. I put my coin into the machine, but the gate would not let me through to the toilettes. I could see the sinks from where I was stuck in the gate and I knew that the commodes were nearby, but I could not get to them. The woman tending the bathrooms said something like "not enough," and put another coin in. "Merci," I said and continued on through the gate. What a relief! I must have put in a .20 coin instead of a .50. They looked alike to me. They were both gold, and the .20 was the size of a U.S. quarter. The .50 was even bigger.

What a hectic morning! I returned to the platform and asked directions to the Louvre. The poor woman at the window was struggling to find the words in English and did a good job getting the essentials in there so I understood. I'd ask someone else if I didn't quite get it. I thanked her and went on my merry way catching the 1st train, number 10 again, to travel back one stop along the route I had taken to Gare d'Austerlitz, and then I switched to train 1. I thought I had to switch again at the next stop, but it turns out that I was already there at the Louvre!

Well, kind of.

Before I entered I went in search of the elusive Museum Pass. Two sources said that you purchase it under the Louvre, in the train station. I saw a couple of signs that looked like they said, "To the Louvre," but I couldn't get through. I went back the way I had come and watched the next load of people come off the train, and followed them. I found a ticket booth. I asked the man. "No, no,” he said. "Not here." I gave up at that point. I was spending so much time running around trying to make all the things happen that my travel agent said I needed to make happen, but there was a disconnect with reality. I had asked everyone about the Museum Pass, from the hotel clerk to the subway booth cashier. Everyone sent me somewhere else, and that somewhere else turned out to be NOWHERE.

When I finally got to the Louvre, I referred to the Lonely Planet country guide on my kindle. It said that if you came through a certain entrance you could buy a pass and not wait. Oh, well. I saw a line in front of me that came all around the glass pyramid entrance to the lower level, so I stood there checking with the couple in front of me that I was in the right line. They were American, but not very talkative. But they were also traveling together. I'm told, and I think it is true given my own experiences, that when you travel with other people, you only talk with them and not with strangers you meet along the way. Alone, I am constantly talking with strangers who sometimes become acquaintances, Even friends. More about that later.

TO BE CONTINUED.

Based on a blog post originally published on electricrider.net on May 31, 2011.

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

Dany

A version of this blog entry appeared on electricrider.net on June 12, 2011

A hotel on the Left Bank, Paris, France, 2011.

I first met Dany after I had bought a disposable French phone. It was the first step in my plan to stay connected with my friends in Dresden, Germany, as well as to contact hotels, taxis, restaurants, or my tour company and insurance company if there were problems.

I had been asking everywhere near the train stations for a disposable phone. I didn't have the right language. Was it a "mobile" as it is in the UK? Or a "telefono" as in Spain or Italy. "Disposable" seemed to be a word no one understood. But I finally found one at the trains station at a REPLAY shop and promptly bought it.

When I got it back to my hotel, I realized that the instructions were all in French. Still, I was able to understand what needed to be done. I must send my application and a copy of my identification to an address and in seven days the phone would be activated. But, then what? All the menus and the messages were in French! It was not ideal, but it was better than nothing. And what return address would I use? I asked at the concierge at my hotel. The owner was presiding. She said she didn't think I should use her address. I would be back there in 7 days if a reply was returned by post. But she suggested I try at the post office to get help. At the time, I thought it was a strange suggestion. But I had been inundated with strangeness. So, what the heck?

The post office was just across the way so no problem. I walked in and bought some stamps for the post cards from a tiny man wearing a t-shirt and jeans. He had huge blue eyes and a expressive face. I hesitated. He shooed me away. "That's all," he insisted.

"Well, I replied. "I need something else that is a little more complicated."

The man's eyes brightened and he led me over to a table. "Let's come over here so we can talk." He reminded my of a small, French version of Hugh Laurie. You know, House M.D.? This man was tiny, but he had all of Hugh's expressions. Snapping out retorts with a languor that was all House. Rolling his eyes theatrically that was reminiscent of Bertie Wooster. But the man came to about my chin (I'm five-foot-six-inches).

"You speak very good English," I said.

"I speak American!" he said. He looked indignant.

"Ah! That explains why I can understand you so well."

He shrugged dramatically and laughed. "Yes. I lived for two years in New York City. I've been to 38 states."

"That's more than I've been to!"

He laughed again, and then got down to business. I explained what I had. "Ah! You bought my rival's phone!"

I apologized.

He shook his head derisively, but then looked through the paperwork I brought with me. "It's no problem. I can help you."

I sunk with relief onto the table (well, my upper body did anyway--there were no chairs to sink into). "Thank you!" I said. As he was reading through the instructions and dialing numbers into the phone, I looked around. Mobile phones hung from the walls and signs indicated "rechargement here." This was serious business here. The French post office was way into rechargeable, disposable cell phones. How weird.

The little man wrote a number down on my paper work. "This is your number." He gestured me over to his computer. "Voice or messaging?"

Huh. It's one or the other? If I had a choice between only those two options... "Messaging" I said. I have no idea why that came out.

"Messaging," he said and continued to punch numbers into the phone.

I immediately felt a crisis. What if that was the wrong thing to do? I had to contact my friends in Dresden while on my way the next day by train, so they would know I was on it and could meet me. I s'pose messaging would work as long as I got their phone numbers and let them know that's what I would be doing.

There were more decisions to make. "How much money to you want to put on your phone?"

Huh. I had no idea. What was the rate? It was such a jumble in my brain. "25 euro?" I suggested.

He nodded and typed it in.

"OK. I will change the menu to English for you," he said.

"Wow! Fantastic!" I said, "You are amazing."

"I know," he said without blinking. "There you go." He handed me the phone.

"Thank you soooo much," I gushed. "What is your name."

"Dany. With one 'n.'"

"Thank you, Dany with one 'n.'"

I wondered if I would see him again on my return to Paris after visiting my friends in Dresden. I did. I needed to recharge my phone, so I went back looking for him upon my return to Paris. He was nowhere in sight. I asked the beautiful black woman at the counter if Dany was available to help me with my phone. "Yes," she replied and gestured with her head to the door behind her.

Dany burst out of the swinging glass door in black trousers and a blue oxford shirt with black tie all the while talking earnestly to another young man. Then he approached a couple who had been waiting patiently by the door. He seemed all growed up from the Dany I had seen before. I could see he was the experienced one in the shop. Perhaps even the manager. He was very busy with these two, so I wandered off waiting and hopeful that there would be a break in his business.

There wasn't. But the beautiful young woman who had first waited on me was quite competent herself with setting up the phone. She added 35 euro for me and changed it from just messaging to both voice and messaging.

Dany, you were special, but our meeting was fleet, and not to be repeated. I will always remember how you got me connected in Europe. Au revoir!