Tag: Travel

FRANCE FINIS

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We made it through Versailles on the morning of Day 9. The crowds were little better. This time we did find a much shorter audio guide line, so grabbed the little phone-type device and headed into the clump of people in the history of Versailles rooms. We quickly figured out that if you waited until the audio device recording for each room stopped and you let the crowd move on en masse, you could time your viewings of each room between the group ahead and the group behind, thus minimizing the “herd” sensation. This time I took only a couple of photos and concentrated on the history.

Somehow, almost as we were exiting, we came upon another area of rooms we had not viewed before. They seemed to be a bit off the main path and not clearly marked, so they were much less crowded. We still are unable to get past the size of the palace, and can’t keep from wondering what people DID there all day. Roam around the hundreds of rooms? Stroll the gardens? Write letters? Eat? I would have put on roller skates and gone sailing down the vast corridors, around and around until I was hopelessly lost.

With a final goodbye to the palace, we tripped down the hill and back to the hotel to collect our luggage and check out. At this point, we were headed back to Paris, to Charles Gaulles Airport where we were booked at a hotel for the evening, in hopes of boarding our 8:00 a.m. flight to Frankfurt, then home. We were a little concerned because Lufthansa had already held two days of strikes, and was planning a third for Friday. Our departure was set for Thursday, and Robert prepared me for a potential “surprise” strike day that might mean we were trapped in Paris or Frankfurt. Plus, we were using “miles” for our business class seating which meant we could be bumped to make room for someone else if they decided to evacuate before the planned strike occurred the following day.

Luck was with us, and our flight crew had a good laugh at us when Robert greeted them with a relieved, “Boy, are we glad to see you.”

“You were expecting someone else?” the male flight attendant asked.

We explained our concern and they were all too happy to assure us we would make it home today. They were going from Frankfurt on to Latvia and had plans to spend the next 24 hours there. 

Without incident, we made our way through “customs” at Frankfurt and on to our D/FW flight. Lufthansa flight attendants are the absolute best. They were friendly, helpful, friendly… they seemed to enjoy their work and took pains to make us comfortable. At one point I was feeling a bit blue, as you tend to at the end of a vacation when returning to the real world. On one hand you miss home and your family and friends, but on the other, you have had a wonderful experience and are sad to have it end.

Plus, the white wines I had been offered with my in flight “lunch” were AWFUL. I was sinking into  a pit of despair, knowing I was at the tail end of my French adventure and was now trapped for my 10 final hours with mediocre to poor wine (as far as my taste buds ran) when the flight attendant told me he happened to have a bottle of something different. (They were transitioning and often change the white wines out after a few flights, I suppose.) He poured me a glass of Chateau de Rully Premier Cru, 2007. As he passed it by Robert, my nose began a happy dance. It was exactly what the doctor ordered. Creamy, smooth, vanilla and toast… Heaven.  I must have looked absolutely transported, because when next the flight attendant passed, Robert’s overhead bag was open on the seat and my new best friend slipped a bottle into it and winked at us.

As Robert drifted in and out of sleep and I watched Hysteria, Big Bang Theory, Sex and the City,  some terrible show called Enlightened, and The Avengers, we would chat a bit about the trip. Some thoughts on France:

1. We both agreed, when sitting in the crowded brasseries or restaurants, you are in such close proximity to your table-neighbors that you can hear every word of their conversations. Sitting between two such tables of people rattling on in French gives you the feeling you’ve just been dropped into the middle of a foreign film. I kept looking for subtitles to go along with the drama or laughter I heard on either side. Whether they left first, or we did, it felt as though we were walking out in the middle of a movie, or it was walking out on us – and we would never know how it turned out.   

2. France (Paris and Versailles, at least, in my experience) is no place to be physically challenged. We stumbled up and down cobblestone hills, dusty streets with steep curbs, construction zones, narrow walkways wide enough for only single file, metro stations with stairs that I swear were put there for no reason whatsoever. We climbed monuments and up and down steps at museums. Some of these places had elevators – most of which were out-of-order. At one point I turned to Robert and said, I’m glad we did this now, because I don’t see me surviving all this if we’d waited another 10 – 15 years. If I did make it through the trip at that point, once home, I’d be bed ridden for two weeks.

3. No offense, but the wayfinding signage in France is a disaster. I don’t know how to explain it, except to say there is no reason why two adults who are somewhat intelligent cannot find their way to an airport gate or out of a metro station. An arrow pointing diagonally upward and to the right should mean you veer to the right or that you go upstairs and to the right. Such is not the case. An arrow pointing to the right at a 45 degree angle should mean turn right, not “go upstairs here.”  I felt like a mouse in a maze.

4. The euro is pretty money.

5. We debated for about five days whether we loved the European license plates or thought they were silly. We settled on silly. (We were fooled briefly because they were European, which made us assume they were cool.)  

6. I don’t understand how they can wedge their tiny cars into tinier parking spots (and I heard more than a few crunches as people’s bumpers met with others’) and yet have no dents in their vehicles. I swear there is no way you could get a car out of a space without hitting the cars both in front and in back of you. All I could picture was the scene from the  Austin Powers movie when he’s trying to turn the golf cart around.  Yet, when standing at the traffic circles, I never saw a single dented car. I see them everywhere here. Maybe there’s a government program in France that fixes dents?

I think that’s about it for the France diaries. We got home safely to a very happy dog, did laundry for three days and have since satisfied our cravings for hamburgers, Mexican food and Chinese food.  I miss my morning croissant and cheese, and have returned to being a coffee drinker, rather than enjoying a less aggressive English Breakfast tea.

Au revoir, Paris and Versailles! We’ll always have these memories. And photos.

AU CHAT AND THE CHATEAU (VERSAILLES, DAY EIGHT)

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Today was the much-anticipated visit to the Château de Versailles. We had been forewarned by Rick Steves that Versailles is a zoo on Sundays and Tuesdays, but somehow ignored him and planned for Tuesday. Rick Steves was not kidding around. I am not a big fan of the crowded tourist destination. In fact, it made me long for the abandoned castles of Wales, where photos don’t contain strange people who make me want to punch them in the face.

The hall of mirrors was elbow to elbow.

We did not take the audio tour at this point, because the line to GET an audio device was about a mile long. You’d think they were free or something.  Oh, that’s right. Audio tours ARE free.

The lack of audio led to the challenge of fighting our way through the hordes of humanity to get to the sign in each room that identifies exactly what you are looking at and why. Hopefully. Meanwhile, you are hearing the multiple languages spewing from audio devices all around you. You are also getting really annoyed and trying to determine which country has the most obnoxious tourists. I think I’ve narrowed it down to Japan and Germany. I’ll throw the U.S. in just for the sake of argument. Robert actually had to body-block one guy who was trying to cut in front of us for yet a third time. I started taking pictures with my arms extended over my head – so now I have shots of the tops of people’s heads or strange photos showing a part of a room.

As we exited the Chateau we noticed the crowd had thinned considerably in line and realized perhaps afternoon was a better time to visit the palace. We decided to give it another try tomorrow and went on to lunch. This was probably wise, as my patience was at an end. I was grumbling at people and riding an emotional roller coaster between “Oh. My. Lord. I can’t believe how beautiful this is – what is it?! When was it?! Who was here?! Wow wow wow!!! Hey! Get out of my way! I wasn’t finished! Stop shoving me or I will punch you in the face! You cannot possibly be as interested in this as I am. Who invited you anyway? Off with your head. Grrrr.”

At times like that, it’s really best to just take me somewhere and feed me and hand me a glass of wine. Or two. Which is what Robert did. Smart man. We found a brasserie right by the market called Au Chat Qui Prise where we ordered ham and cheese with cheese topping and a side of fries. This was possibly the best meal we had in France. (Okay, Jules Verne was good too.) But it was CHEESE. Robert added an egg to the top of his ham and cheese with cheese.

Feeling much more the thing, we returned to the hotel where I sat on the terrace reading Marie-Antoinette and communing with the sheep while Robert soaked in the giant tub and looked out over his kingdom. (He has composed a blog post himself about this day, which I will be including following this.)

Our dinner was scheduled at Gordon Ramsay, which was conveniently located in our hotel, so we didn’t have far to go. This was another of those restaurants Robert was looking forward to like a kid at Christmas. We were seated by the large terrace doors which were cracked open, letting in a cool breeze. The table overlooked the King’s garden, so our friends the sheep and goats were there, and from this level I was able to see horses in the pasture just beyond. We had another of those moments where we looked at each other and giggled like kids over how perfect the setting was.

We ordered aperitifs and were presented with an amuse bouche. The first round of these was divine. Some sort of cones made from squid ink (what?!) and tuna. Even the “plates” were intimidating. A second round of “amuse” arrived. Even after the waiter explained to Robert what his was (mine was a soft-boiled egg in a container that looked like a medieval mace) we still didn’t know how he was supposed to eat it. That’s what we get for just nodding at the waiter as he speaks to us in thickly accented French. It had a side shot of liquid, was in a soup bowl, and had a covering made of something edible that looked like wax paper.

The appetizer Robert ordered was undercooked. It was lobster, and he couldn’t even cut it with the steak knife he’d been given. The waiter was kind enough to delete it from the bill. I know the steak temperatures are different in France than the U.S. Perhaps that was the state in which they wanted the lobster to be?  Thus, the steak knife? Not sure, but it just didn’t seem right and was certainly not what we are used to. (Like we eat lobster on a regular basis. Ha.)

The main course was very good, but still not as mind-blowing as we expected – especially for the price. The service was impeccable though, and the view divine, so we sat back and enjoyed.

I think we broke the waiter’s heart when we turned down dessert. It was probably a slap in the face, but we couldn’t bring ourselves to eat another bite.

Our plan for the following day (our last in Versailles) was to return to the Chateau at a time that might allow us to avoid the crowds, then head back to Paris where we would stay at a hotel by the airport in order to decamp by 8:00 a.m. We’ll see how that goes.

ARTS AND CRAFTINESS (PARIS, DAY FOUR)

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Day four was on the itinerary as Museum Day. However, due to a little over-imbibing, we cut ourselves a break and did not set the alarm for quite as early as we’d originally intended. Sore from walking on cobblestones and up and down spiral staircases, tired and hungry, we grabbed a croissant each from the “courtesy lounge” and slowly made our way to the metro so we could be rejected by the turnstile once again.

I am making an effort today to SPEAK UP, as I have been informed that I have been whispering since we arrived in Paris. I’m not sure if it’s because I don’t want to be instantly recognized as a tourist, because I feel as though I’m in a museum even though I’m outside walking around city streets, or because the rhythm of the voices around me is so beautiful I feel as though I’d instantly ruin everything. Like a banjo suddenly taking part in a symphony.

First stop for today, the Louvre.

We stood in the plaza admiring the fountains and the glass pyramid; the building itself was enough to make me giddy. I had somehow forgotten that the Louvre was originally the palace until Louis XIV moved the royal residence to Versailles.

Amazingly, thanks in part to the museum passes, entrance was a breeze. So much so that we found ourselves in the Richelieu section (the French collections) without so much as a map. Retracing our steps, a map was acquired and we began again. 

I had very definite plans for the works I wanted to see. The Richelieu wing was not a priority. However, every time we turned a corner there was something else I couldn’t resist examining. I suddenly understood why people can spend DAYS here. Robert was in heaven.

I was on a mission to see the Denon and Sully wings containing Greek, Etruscan and Roman Antiquities. We found Winged Victory of Samothrace, Venus de Milo, and the Mona Lisa. Winged Victory was particularly poignant because (don’t laugh) I LOVE the scene in Funny Face when Audrey Hepburn is modeling a gown and comes floating down the steps with the statue in the background. As I stood at the bottom of the steps looking upward at Winged Victory, all I could hear was Audrey saying, “Take the picture! Take the picture!”

It was even more interesting to me because I had recently learned the statue had been missing part of one wing and ALL of the other. They made a cast of the existing wing and added it. You could see this clearly from the back of the statue, which I studied in detail, partially because it’s interesting, and partially to mess with people trying to photograph the statue by being the one weird person standing BEHIND it. A lot of people went home that day with me behind Winged Victory. Score. However, I was too distracted by my mischievous intentions to actually photograph the “patch job.” Sorry!

After four hours of wandering about – and getting somehow trapped in the medieval portion of the Louvre in the basement, we made our way to the Musee d’Orsay.

The d’Orsay is housed in a former railway station, the Gare d’Orsay. I LOVED this building. Who wouldn’t love being surrounded by some of the greatest examples of impressionist and post-impressionist paintings? It was virtually every work I had studied in Art History, only much more interesting without the constant droning of the professor as he clicked through each slide. DaVinci? Check. Lautrec? Check. Monet? Manet? Renoir? Check, check and check. 

Basically what I call a successful outing. Afterwards, we crossed the Seine hoping to locate the ever elusive, yet highly desirable metro station that simply HAD to exist somewhere at the Plaza de la Concorde. Crossing the bridge, we noted padlocks all up and down the railings. A couple sat huddled together on a bench, writing something on a newly purchased lock. Apparently, couples are encouraged (not by the Parisians, who are highly annoyed by this practice, but by the padlock vendors who line the bridge) to write their initials on the padlock, attach it to the bridge, then throw the key into the Seine to “lock up their love forever.”  How romantic. What says “I love you” more than a padlock without a key?

Anyway, we found the super secret entry to the metro at Concorde, returned to the hotel, took a hot bath and went out for pizza. Yes, pizza. I can’t really exist without it for more than a week. What I don’t understand is how someone can consider egg an appropriate topping.

DINING AND BOATS (PARIS, DAY THREE)

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Day three found us preparing for our much-anticipated lunch at the Eiffel Tower (La Tour Eiffel). Robert made reservations in advance for Le Jules Verne restaurant, which sits 125 meters high in the Tower – or about a third of the way up. Several benefits here. One, it’s a Michelin 2 star rated restaurant. Two, lunch is less expensive than dinner, and three, you can enjoy the view without waiting in line for hours, or paying the extra ticket fee.

The restaurant entrance is to one side, and private. You are escorted up the elevator by an attendant who deposits you in the lap of luxury. We were one of the first seated, and as we made our way down the line of wait staff, we were greeted by neatly dressed men and women who welcomed us with “Bon jour madame, monsieur.” I felt as though I were in a receiving line to meet the Queen. Once in the dining area we tried in vain to resist the urge to gape.

We maintained our dignity just long enough to agree to an aperitif when we couldn’t stand it a moment longer. I wanted to photograph everything. The tables, the place settings, the view… it was ridiculous. With champagne in hand I looked across the table at Robert and saw a look on his face I don’t know that I have ever seen. For a moment I thought he might well up with tears. Which of course made me well up with tears. (Perhaps we are way too affected by dining experiences and amazing views.) I think day three, at such a location, jolted us into the reality that we were in Paris. France. Finally. Again I wondered how I would ever convince Robert to return home.

Of course, we were not too intimidated by the surroundings to include the lovely Flat Marketing team.

At which point we became the giddy American tourists again.

We selected from a prix fixe menu, and each item arriving at the table was more creatively arranged than the last. It was almost a crime to destroy them by taking a bite.

This was even prettier but I had to re-create it when Robert nearly throttled me for removing a piece of the “country toast” before snapping a photo.

Afterward, we stepped out to the second level viewing area. It was getting cooler and the wind was whipping up. Security was watching so closely one came up and told me to close the flap of my purse, which I had open right in front of me (between myself and the railing) while I snapped a picture. I became instantly paranoid, which is probably a good thing.

To walk off the rich lunch, we strolled along the Seine until it began to rain and we had to seek shelter next to a food vendor’s shop. Although it didn’t last long, we were now damp and cold, so we made our way back to the metro (which was still giving us fits with the passes) and returned to the hotel to get ready for our dinner cruise with Bateaux Parisiens. This trip is all about the food, apparently.

We splurged because I was wearing ridiculously high heels and took a cab directly to the river to board the boat for an 8:00 departure. What ensued can only be described as a romantic food and drink fest. I think we had two bottles of wine. (Hey, they came with the dinner, basically. One red and one white. Plus an aperitif to start.) Champagne, anyone? Why yes, thank you.

If you go to Paris, you MUST do this cruise. The food was excellent (from what I remember), and you see beautiful sites, all lit up along the river. People dancing on the banks, other boats passing by… it was an event to remember. Unfortunately, I did have one of those directionally challenged moments while on board. If Robert had his own blog, it would no doubt focus on, nay, LAMENT my total inability to recognize anywhere I am or from where I’ve come. Seriously. Every day we took the same route to the metro, and every day on the way back to the hotel I would have SWORN we had taken a wrong turn. Nothing looked familiar.

Anyway, at one point, I excused myself to powder my nose, which involved going below deck. Upon resurfacing, I headed toward the left (port) side of the boat and got to the very bow without having seen our table, or my husband. I circled back on the starboard side, by which time, considering the small size of the boat, I had drawn attention from the wait staff. I informed the only one brave enough to ask that I had lost my husband. I am also ashamed to say I asked if there was another level to the boat, which is really sad because I had been sitting under the lovely glass top looking out all evening.

The waiter asked what side of the boat I’d been sitting on. I told him the left. He pointed and sent me on my way. Lo and behold, there was Robert sitting at a table wondering what had happened to me. I swear he ducked under the table when I passed just to mess with my head.

Regardless of my lack of an internal compass, we had a lovely evening and returned via cab to the hotel with only one near altercation. There was quite a bit of taxi cab line-crashing going on that evening and I may or may not have been quietly threatening to punch someone in the face if they stole my cab one more time when out of the blue came what appeared to be a homeless, drunk, French Santa Claus. He and Robert immediately took charge of the situation, bringing order to the chaos. Another international incident was averted, and Homeless Santa was tipped a euro as he opened the door to our chariot.

GONE FISHING

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Due to the hotels in France being a little pickier than Wales about who gets free wifi access and who gets charged, I have been on a real vacation – with no blog diaries of our adventures. Probably works out for the best as I have no idea what I’m saying half the time here anyway.  My instinct says “translate english to french,” my brain responds, “What? Since when do we speak french. Have we met??”  My mouth opens and “Uuuhhhhhh…” comes out, followed by a spontaneous and somewhat frightening “Bon jour!” After that I’ve forgotten what I wanted to ask anyway.

I am currently waiting on delivery of a bucket of ice, as the hotel doesn’t let you fetch your own. Royalty. It’s a tough life. 

Anyway, I’m keeping notes on my apparently very expensive and data draining cell phone, and will hope to upload photos of the sites and a few traveler’s tales ASAP.

A few teasers:

1. I lose Robert on a boat that is probably 20 feet across and one deck.

2. A pickpocket approaches.

3. My clothing gets a cab ride.

4. Robert does on the grounds at Versailles what many have probably wanted to do.

AU REVOIR SANITY

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Warning: this post is all over the place. The impending departure has obviously produced ADD symptoms. I stop and start more times than…something that stops and starts a lot. <Fail.>

Saturday: We leave soon for Paris! My guest bedroom is covered in clothing, suitcases and shoes. Robert is color coding our itinerary so I know what to select from this hodge-podge of a wardrobe.

Work was challenging Friday, as it always is when you prepare to go on vacation. You try to wrap up all those loose ends, but have short-timers and are completely unable to focus. The fact that well-wishing co-workers stopped by regularly to speak to me in French or advise me how to carry my purse so as to minimize the chance of it being stolen didn’t help matters.

I have received thought-provoking hand written notes on our infamous itinerary from those co-workers who frequent Paris. I appreciate their advice and comments more than I can say – for a variety of reasons. Not the least of which was the comic relief. “Seems a long way to go to smoke a “j,” noted beside one particular destination will keep me laughing for days. I believe we have crossed that off the list. (The cemetery where Jim Morrison and Oscar Wilde reside.)

I’ve been told to not bother speaking French, as it will just tick them off, but would like to at least be able to say please, thank you, you’re welcome, good day and such.  I’m having trouble with the “you’re welcome” or “no problem,” but have considered it and concluded no Parisian will be thanking me for anything anyway, most likely. Unless it’s for leaving. Perhaps a curtsy will suffice in a pinch.

Sunday: I stopped writing yesterday and went back to packing. I’m glad I did because I discovered there was NO WAY IN HELL all these clothes were going into one bag. I haven’t even started on the evening wear! Last night I borrowed a second from my in-laws and will be loading that up as well. The fact that I will still, no doubt, stand in the hotel room each morning crying, “I have nothing to wear!” should make Robert’s head explode. What’s a wife for, anyway?

<Time lapse.>

I have just spent an hour online researching cheese course etiquette. I have serious mental problems. Cheese course etiquette is now my greatest concern. Sigh.

I would like to offer a special note of thanks to my adorable marketing team (with whom I work – not who market me) for supplying a collection of scarves, cardigans and belts to take on my trip. I am not really an accessories girl, so they are responsible for pulling my whole “I’m not a tourist, I am actually French” look together. And it is a “look.” Once I open my mouth, it’s all over.

They are also to blame for my two suitcase situation, because now half my suitcase is full of scarves, cardigans and belts.

And finally, in a semi-awkward segue, say hello to the Flat Marketing team. My companions, (in addition to Robert) on this adventure. If I can fit them in the suitcase, that is.

FRANCE PLAN – IT’S IN THE BAGUETTE

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Anyone who recalls the trip I took last year to Wales with Sandy will perhaps note that there was little hostility at any point during our travels. Except toward the tour guide who sent us wandering down a path along the ocean that ended up being closed, and thus resulted in an unexpected mountain climbing expedition. As traveling companions go, Sandy and I move at similar speed and enjoy the same amount of planning and activities per day. Just enough to keep us entertained, but not so much that we keep staring at our watches lest we slip 5 minutes off schedule.

I am beginning to have concerns about the trip to France Robert and I are planning. My first clue that this was going to be a bit more intense was when Robert started shoving a Travel Guide into my hands every time I sat down. “Read this and make notes,” he says. I respond, “Vacations should not require homework.” I don’t want to be tired of France before I get there. I want to read about it while I’m soaking it all in – staring at the little note card describing “Winged Victory”- or listening to the audio tour as I wander about Versailles. Is there a test I have to take before I get into the country that I don’t know about? A pop quiz? Can’t I just be surprised?

I am not totally ignorant. After all, I’ve read “To The Scaffold,” the story of Marie Antoinette. I’ve watched a multitude of Anthony Bourdain shows in and around Paris, and I saw Les Miserables. TWICE. I’ve also read “Sex with Kings” and “Sex with Queens,” which I believe will provide those “ah ha!” moments when I hear a courtesan’s name mentioned and can say to Robert, “Madame de Pompadour! That’s the woman Louis XV was fooling around with… her maiden name was Poisson, or ‘Fish.’ Courtiers hated her. Imagine the field day they had with that name!” Then I can add in confidence, “Madame du Barry was the successor to Madame Pompadour. She was an infamous Parisian prostitute many of the courtiers had already ‘enjoyed.’ Talk about awkward dinner conversation.”

Madame de Pompadour

Madame du Barry

THAT’s my idea of intriguing French history and research. Real Housewives of the French Court.

Last week, Robert handed me an Excel sheet with each day laid out by the hour – and asked me to fill in the empty spaces in the schedule. The problem with that is I am a lazy traveler. I want to have a few things in mind, then “play it by ear.” Although Robert says he is willing to do some of the “play it by ear” thing, I believe the Excel sheet indicates something else ENTIRELY.

The truth is, it’s nice to have someone who is capable of planning and researching how we are going to get around so we’re not at the Metro freaking out.

On the other hand,  I wonder what his reaction will be when he looks at the Excel sheet and discovers my evil plotting. (As usual, I am not cooperating in the full sense of the word.) For one thing, I read enough to learn they have golf cart rentals at Versailles. The carts shut down if you try to take them off the prescribed paths. Therefore, my contributions to our schedule include:

13:00 Sunday: Versailles – Rent golf cart for the self-guided tour.

13:10 Sunday: Rig golf cart to go anywhere we want.

8:00 Monday: Assure American Embassy we will behave ourselves from now on.

10:00 Monday: Purchase disguises so we can re-enter the grounds of Versailles and enjoy the gardens on foot.

13:00 Monday: Find nearest sidewalk cafe. Sit. Order vin blanc, baguette and fromage. Relax for next 2 – 4 hours.

13:00 – Tuesday: Find nearest sidewalk cafe. Sit. Order vin blanc, baguette and fromage. Relax for next 2 -4 hours.

Wednesday: You get the idea.

THE OLYMPICS AND OTHER DIVERSIONS

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I am writing this for the moment instead of doing the work I should be doing over the weekend so my work week doesn’t kill me. But what I really want to do is watch the opening ceremony of the Olympics. I caught a glimpse every now and then last night while visiting with the Duchess and Max, and was giggly each time I was able to identify a place I had been while in London. “Look!” I’d squeal and jump up and down (carefully, so as to not spill my chardonnay) waving toward the TV, “I was THERE!” I would turn toward where the Duchess and Max were hunched over a computer screen at the kitchen bar and stare at the backs of their heads while they ignored me completely, or looked up long enough to say “What?” Then went back to what they were doing. I was not feeling the Olympic love.

The Olympics – you either love them, hate them, or feel “meh” about them. Kind of like Angelina Jolie. At my house we have a sort of Olympic war. Robert despises the Olympics. I think he actually used the word “hate.” He hates the sob stories. He hates the announcers. He hates the sports. He clicked past the ping-pong competition today and looked at me disdainfully, “Oh look! We can watch some ping-pong.” I have to admit, I felt embarrassed.

Due to his deep-seated animosity for the event, and my “meh” attitude about many of the areas of competition, I have become accustomed to skipping them. But this year is different. I am really interested in the games because… well, after visiting Wales and London last year, I now feel a sense of ownership. Or companionship. Something like that.

I recorded the ceremony that re-ran at 1:30 AM and am looking forward to popping open a bottle of champagne this evening and saying witty things to amuse myself in my empty room. This morning I went on Facebook and couldn’t believe what I’d missed. Sandy was in her usual rare form, as was her friend (and my Facebook pal because his sense of humor is unmatched), Doug.

Sandy has decided to start her own country so she can march in the parade. Watch for Sandonia in the next opening ceremony. Perhaps Sandy will let me be on the curling team, as that is the only sport I believe I could do while holding a glass of wine.

I have to say the gold medal for FB commentary goes to Doug. I can’t wait to watch and see if I agree with some of these classics: “Ukraine wins the silly hat award,” “Nicaragua is dressed as Sigma Chi fraternity, circa 1987,” and “Estonia looked like they were all dressed as Absolut Vodka.” My favorite: “Liechtenstein looks like they picked up their uniforms at Penney’s on the way to the stadium.”

Ouch. And I thought the best part of the ceremony was supposed to be all the hubbub at the beginning, with the skydiving Queen and such. Silly me. I’ve just never watched the parade portion with the right crowd before.

The right crowd being people I’ve never met in person before, but who crack me up.

I better start practicing my curling now so I’ll be ready for the Winter games.

TIPPING AND TOWERS

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Today’s plan went a bit wonky, but we easily caught the train to Caerphilly and toured the castle there. The weather is crazy gorgeous, so there were a few more folks out and about, making photography without people wearing fanny packs in the shots a bit more trying on our patience. We succeeded pretty well, so here are a few shots of Caerphilly. You may notice the giant leaning tower. I had the urge to pose either pushing it over or holding it up, but controlled the urge. (Thank you, Sandy, for giving me THAT LOOK.)

This castle was built mostly for defense, rather than as a royal holding, so it is definitely less glam than others, but it does make one wonder how anyone could get in if you didn’t want them to. Some reproductions of the war engines were also on display. I had a Monty Python moment, imagining cows being hurled at the siege army, but recovered before shouting, “Run away!!”

Instead of traipsing on to Abergavenny, we headed back to Cardiff Bay and the surrounding area for a few trinkets, then settled in for champagne and tea service. Sandy has been drooling for scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam, so she is now content.

Aside from a fit of the giggles, we carried it off with some dignity, and no injuries. Why they kept playing Gladys Knight and the Pips’ “Midnight Train to Georgia” is anyone’s guess. That, and “Me and Mrs. Jones” were on quite an impressive loop.

Also, not to be an uncouth American, BUT, we seem to be dining in France these days, as achieving the check for the meal takes longer than the meal itself. (And we are taking our time at it.)

The staff is lovely, so I do hate throwing myself in front of them to beg for the check, even though we’ve told them we have finished. Hours ago.

I believe I explained we’re only here a couple more days, so we’d like to do more in that time than stare at empty plates and glasses. They are so sweet, though, with their, “loves” and “lovies,” I forgive them immediately.

Meanwhile, despite reports of tips not being expected for cabs, pubs, etc., Sandy is single-handedly determined to tip everyone with whom we come in contact. Cabbies are stunned and grateful, bartenders are bemused, and wait staff blush discreetly. She’s told several young men to “Have one for yourself,” which has been well received. One added on a whopping 1.75 for what must be the cheapest ale in the place.

I am afraid they will all be quite downhearted to see us go.

Tomorrow we visit the coast. Gower, Swansea, Mumbles (how cute is that?) and Rhossili via See Wales Tours. (I always think “Sea Whales” when we say it.)

This is going to require that we wake up and actually get ready on time. (Which has been challenging. We like sleep.)

Since the temperature seems to be hovering near the 80s, we are definitely overdressed for the beach. Pack coats and long sleeves for the 50s, you get a warming trend. “That’s the way baseball go.”

Until tomorrow, then! Or as I like to call it, “When we finally get the check.”

FROM MAX TO MAXIMUS

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks5 Comments

Good news! We went to bed an hour earlier last night.

Bad news! We got up an hour earlier to get in a cab from the hotel to the station, to catch the train to Newport, to catch the bus to Raglan. Once in Raglan, we walked and walked, and found the dirt road that led to the castle. And some cows. Say hello to my little friends.

The “incident”of the day, in which we are reminded we sound like hicks, occurred just after this picture. A car pulled up and a woman with a lilting British accent asked if we were locals. Sandy answered, “Unfortunately, not, no.” The woman’s eyes got big and she exclaimed, “Oh, no…no…” as if it had been made abundantly clear with those few words. They drove on. Sandy turned to me and said, “Really?”

“Nails on a chalkboard to them.” I said. “Definitely lacking in sing-songy quality. Although I, for one, adore you.”

Our excitement returned as we approached our destination. Sandy is attached to this particular castle due to her love of the show, Merlin. Apparently they shoot at Raglan on occasion.

Here’s the view upon arrival.

Now, THAT’s a castle. Once inside, we were speaking in hushed tones as we wandered about snapping pictures. The silence was suddenly broken by a little boy with a sense of the dramatic as we heard him call out in his best Gandolf voice, “YOU. SHALL. NOT. PASS!”

Max was his name. We know this because his mother called it repeatedly – perhaps several dozen times, trying to slow him down, or locate him. I believe Max made it up and down the first spiral staircase about four times by the time we’d made it up once.

We were snapping more photos from the top of a tower when we heard him explaining, “If you fell from here, you’d go SPLAT.”

Thank you, Max. I never would have thought of that.

From Raglan, we walked back to the bus to head toward our base camp in Cardiff, but stopped at Caerleon to see the Roman ruins. We visited the museum, the baths, then the amphitheater and barracks.

We actually ate today, which was novel, and had great fun with all our various bus drivers, who were extremely helpful.

Also, we were the youngest people on the bus by at least 30 years, which made us feel quite jaunty.

Tomorrow, Caerphilly and possibly Carmarthen or Abergavenny, again, on our own. Thursday is the official tour day, so all we have to do is make it to the bus and let others worry about getting us where we are supposed to be.

The good thing about going around at this time of year, and without a group, has been the lack of others at the sites. Castle and ruin pictures look so much better without tourists rambling about in them.

Cheers! (See, I’m getting this lingo business down.)

Say goodnight, Max.

“YOU SHALL NOT PASS!”

Shut up, Max.