I ached all over from my quick trip to London, but the pain was worth it.

Saturday. Since I got back to Plug-Inn Hostel very early (around 7:00 A.M.) from London, I went to bed after breakfast. I had to stay in bed most of the day: my feet were killing me, my back and neck were sore from being scrunched up in the coach (bus), and I simply felt achy all over. I completed the picture by walking around the hostel (what little I did) with wild hair again. I talked with staff and others about my experiences in London and drank oodles of cappuccino from the machine. Hostel staff told me the weather in Paris changed for the worse just after I left.

I also finished reading Elvis: My Best Man, and thought about what I want to do for the rest of my time here, especially tomorrow, since many attractions are free (it’s the first Sunday of the month). It’s been cold and rainy, and it looks like more of the same tomorrow.

An image of how my heart feels to be in Paris.

Still, a bad weather day in Paris beats a good weather day anywhere else, hands down. It might be raining outside, but in my heart there’s sunshine: that’s what Paris does for me.

Salut !

Images by Can Stock Photo.

Eurostar trains look similar to this. It was very, very cold inside the train.

Thursday. My travel day to London. I woke up with severe pain in my chest: it was so bad, it felt like a 2-ton cannon was on top of me. It was hard to move and even breathe. I felt like I was 90. I know full well that it isn’t a coincidence that the day I leave for London to protest at Buckingham Palace I wake up with severe pain that I have never experienced before.

I made 2 vegetable salad sandwiches for my trip, put my luggage in my new room (I have to move AGAIN!), and set off for Gare du Nord, the train station. I’m glad I got there a lot earlier than the woman at the station told me when I went to find out what to do: she said to be at the station 15 minutes before departure; had I done that, I never would have made it to my train in time. Although I had time to sit down, it took a while to go through U.K. Border Control and Security. I was given a hard time because I didn’t know where I would be staying in London. I actually thought they weren’t going to let me go. I asked the Border Patrol Officer, “Don’t people backpack through Europe all the time without knowing where they will be staying?” He told me they can always give an address where they’ll be staying in London. I find that hard to believe. Good thing I had brought my ticket (electronic) for my flight back to the States: they wanted to know when I would be leaving Europe. That information seemed to satisfy them that I wasn’t going to London for some nefarious purpose. (And no, I don’t think peacefully protesting is in any way nefarious.)

U.K. Border Control nearly didn’t let me proceed to London from Paris because I didn’t know where I would be staying in London. I was relieved when they finally stamped my passport.

I found my train car without too much trouble. I had a chat with a British woman sitting next to me, and Indian-Americans sitting across from me (from New Jersey). It wasn’t a bad trip on Eurostar – 2 ¼ hours. But the car was freezing! And I mean, really, really cold. I was so glad I wore as many layers as I did. I don’t get cold that easy, but my hands were so cold I couldn’t easily hold my phone. I will say the trip was tiring. People mostly drifted off to sleep. I’m surprised a few didn’t die of hypothermia! When I worked at night, management kept the work floor very cold in an attempt to keep employees awake; maybe the same principle was being applied here, only to an extreme.

This is about how I felt coming out of the London Underground: grey and out of focus.

At the train station in London I bought a couple of books on London and used those as my starting point to find a place to stay. I went to get on the London Underground when I saw an Underground employee milling about to help travelers; he told me the Underground is transitioning to having all travelers use an Oyster Card (similar to our SmarTrip Card in Washington, D.C.). Talk about expensive! When I mentioned this, he told me most travelers stay for a week, at least, so it doesn’t seem so much. I got on the Underground shaking my head in disbelief.

I had to walk up 8 flights of stairs similar to this with my luggage to get to my room at the Continental Hotel.

The first thing I saw when I emerged out of the Underground was that it was raining (naturally). I asked a smiling bobby how to get to the hotel I had picked out. He advised me not to go there because it was in a “rough area.” He pointed me in the general direction of better places to stay. He was nice, very helpful, and had beautiful blue eyes. I wished I could have talked to him longer, but I waved good-bye. I asked a guy with a pedicab (like a rickshaw) if he knew of a place to stay, and he told me about the Continental Hotel. I climbed into his pedicab and and we set off to find it. It took a while. He was generous with his time in helping me, and I was sorry I couldn’t give him more money (he told me I could pay him what I had on me). I felt like I was being watched over, but in a good way this time. The Continental Hotel is close to Paddington Station and looks nice from the outside, but is pretty ratty inside (first impression: the carpet needed to be replaced), but all I wanted was a roof over my head at a cheap price. I was horrified to find dead bugs on the bed, underneath the bedspread. I turned the mattress over and didn’t find any sign of bugs, so I just cleaned off the bed and let that be that. The bathroom containing the shower was clean enough, which I had noticed during a moment of rest on my way up about 8 flights of stairs to my room. (They don’t have a lift!) My bathroom in my room containing a toilet and sink was spotless, at least. I tried to read the faded notices on the back of my room’s door, and I gathered they used to be a hostel and are still transitioning to be a hotel. In my opinion, they still have a ways to go.

Victoria Station, London. There is a marked path on the floor of Victoria Station to lead you to the bus station, though it isn’t visible here.

After putting down my luggage in my room, I went to find the bus station, so I got back on the Underground to Victoria Station. When I emerged, it was dark and raining, and I thanked my good sense for not bringing my luggage with me. The traveler I had met at Plug-Inn told me the bus station was “right in” Victoria train station. Um, she exaggerated. I had A LOT more walking to do than I could have imagined. I asked an official how to get there, and he told me to follow the marked path on the floor of Victoria Station. (Inwardly I laughed: all I could think of was, “Follow the yellow brick road!”) I was led outside and followed signs there; the bus station was many blocks away on the other side of the street. I bought my ticket for my bus ride back to Paris — which was a lot more than I was told (the traveler I had met probably bought her ticket a month in advance, which I didn’t consider) — and I sighed a huge sigh of relief: one less hassle to worry about. It pays to be pro-active and get travel arrangements out of the way ahead of time. (Note: I have a specific reason for not completely planning my excursion to London ahead of time, which I’ll keep to myself.)

Americans blast McDonald’s at home for its nutritional value, but while in Europe, the Golden Arches is often a welcome sight. Besides, European McDonald’s are so classy, inside and out. This picture was taken in Milan, Italy.

I then made my way back to the hotel but decided to go to McDonald’s first and get a sandwich. They were just as busy as the McDonald’s restaurants in the States. (No surprise there.) By the time I got back to my room, I was exhausted, and my feet were killing me. I watched a few episodes of Big Bang Theory – I’ve never seen it at home – and turned out the light at about 9:30 P.M., my usual time. I’m nervous about tomorrow, so I’ll write my placards when I’m fresh in the morning.

Salut !

Image of Eurostar train by Can Stock Photo. “Isabel Ingram’s 1927 passport,” by Ken Mayer, Flickr, CCBY 2.0. Image of double decker bus by Elsa L. Fridl. “Stairs,” by martingreffe, Flickr, CCBY 2.0. Image of McDonald’s, “Restaurant Golden Arch,” by Birger Hoppe, Flickr, CCBY 2.0. “London, Victoria Station,” by fkwiatkowski, Flickr, CCBY 2.0.

I just can’t help wondering: If the British people knew how Queen Elizabeth II has sacrificed my branch of her family tree for her financial and other gain, would the British people want justice for my mother, father, his family and me, or would they side with the Queen, just because she is their monarch?

Salut !

Image of international sign by Can Stock Photo.

The Champs-Elysees at night. The Ferris Wheel at the Place de la Concorde is visible in the background.

Thursday. Thanksgiving 2014. I am very grateful to be in Paris regardless, but I am also thankful to be away from all the drama in the States. Chuck Hagel was forced to resign as Defense Secretary—I wonder what that means for my situation. (He was enlisted in the U.S. Air Force.) Seems like a lot of plot points are changing – like Connie Stinson – oh, excuse me – the REVEREND DR. Connie Stinson – resigning from the D.C. Baptist Convention before she became its president. Enquiring minds want to know!

I’ve used the day so far to plan what else I will do, making sure I make the most of free/almost free things. There is a still a lot I’d like to do, but I’m being mindful of going to London for a day or two. I’m not really looking forward to it. I love being here. I love the French people and everything about their culture…I am truly in heaven. It isn’t that I haven’t had a bad or unpleasant experience here; it’s that an unpleasant experience here is easier to tolerate.

I need to see if I can print and/or redo my CV and apply to a few places, perhaps at Sephora, and of course, to teach English. The computers at Plug-Inn Hostel will only print .pdf documents. I’m not going to plan my trip to London much, except for what I will say on my placard at Buckingham Palace.

I believe one reason French people are more physically fit than Americans is because they savor food. When you eat slow, you eat less.

Rick Steves says that American ex-pats in Paris during the holidays all tend to go to a shop named Thanksgiving to get cranberries and boxes of stuffing on Thanksgiving Day. (Nothing like a little solidarity on an American holiday.) I thought of going there just to be part of the excitement and to see other American ex-pats. I decided, instead, to have a Thanksgiving meal after all. I went to Le Basilic again (4^th time!) and had veal with green beans in mushroom sauce, a glass of Pinot Noir, coffee and chocolate mousse. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Le Basilic should be at least a 3-star restaurant, it is soooooooooo good. And who can complain about the service? They check in with me from time to time to see if I need anything else while allowing me to enjoy the experience. As Rick Steves says, once you get a table for dinner at a restaurant in Paris, it is essentially yours for the night. Tips are included in the bill, so there’s no rushing you out the door. It also makes for more relaxed servers: they know they’re getting paid. The U.S. should adopt this philosophy with servers.

I purchased a black cape similar to this one in Paris. When a woman feels elegant, she carries herself elegantly.

I decided to buy the cape I saw, since it has been a lifelong dream to buy a cape in Paris since I first saw one at Garfinckel’s so many years ago. I love it!!! I feel so feminine in it!! And my Cache pants fit! It was a magnificent night, probably around 57 degrees Fahrenheit. I LOVE the energy of Paris at night. People feel so alive: it’s in their faces and their body language. Many people are with their significant other. Love is in the air. The lights are beautiful. I didn’t want to go back to the hostel, I wanted to feel that energy from the top of my head to the tips of my toes and in my bones.

I love the energy of Paris at night.

Finally, my bones said, “Enough already! We need some sleep!” So I took the metro and went back to Plug-Inn Hostel. I crawled into bed with a huge smile on my face.

Salut !

Image of Champs-Elysees and restaurant by Can Stock Photo. Image of Vintage Black Cape by CastawayVintage, Flickr, CCBY 2.0. Image of energy of Paris at night by Elsa L. Fridl.

The Champs-Elysee is framed by the Ferris Wheel of Paris (Roue de Paris) at one end, and the Arc de Triomphe at the other. Both are beautiful by day, magnificent at night.

Sunday. I had a great day today. I came back from Gold Hotel with little trouble, put my things down, and went and had a leisurely brunch at Cafe Bruant, near Plug-Inn. While there, I met a Parisian named Emile. We talked a lot, such as about the differences between Paris and L.A. He told me liked Paris much better: like many French people I’ve met, he said Americans only seem to be interested in making money – not enjoying life and the relationships we have with others. He also told me about his father’s business making luxury sheets and other things for the bedroom. He told me he is a writer. He spoke very good English, yet apologized for it. I wondered if he was angling for us to spend some time together, when all of a sudden his demeanor changed and he said he had to go. (What did the woman sitting next to me do? Why did it seem in my peripheral vision like she shook her head ‘no’?) He gave me directions to get to a gym, and I wondered if I can follow them. Before he left, he reminded me to go to the photography exhibit today at Grand Musee.

Parisians sit outside to eat and talk regardless of the weather. Relationships are what matter, not the weather.

The exhibit was huge! I saw what I could in 2 ½ hours. I was exhausted from concentrating. I decided to go walking along the Champs-Elysees and look at the Christmas exhibits, where people sell their wares in outdoor kiosks. In French I ordered a crepe with Grand Marnier. I hate to toot my own horn, but it felt great to see the woman’s eyes light up when I was able to order in French. On the other side of the street, I talked with a Moscovite about the lacquer boxes that he was displaying. I told him about the lacquer boxes I saw while I was in Moscow. He talked to me at length about where and how they are made. He seemed to enjoy talking about his homeland. He smiled when I said “spasibo” as I parted, and as I walked away I knew if I could have a superpower it would be to speak any language at any given moment. It makes people feel so validated to speak to them in their own language.

The Grand Musee, also called the Musee du Grand Palais, where the Photography Exhibit was held.

I walked some more along Champs-Elysees. I finally took the Metro back to the hostel, and grabbed some take-away chicken and rice from a Japanese restaurant nearby that I just know I’m going to be a regular at while I’m here. I’m exhausted. I want to remember to read about dinner cruises to see if I really want to go to the one I picked out before my trip; regardless of which one, I’ll need to book it online. I also want to read over how to get to London in Rick Steves’ book.

I have to remember to be unafraid to be true to who I am here. At home, I feel pressured not to be as feminine as I feel inside; Parisians aren’t like that. They accept my best self here. I love being here. I also need to remember my prayer time in the A.M.

Salut !

All images by Can Stock Photo.